Chapter 17 – Vengeance and the Number 212

From afar, the sound of clashing steel and furious shouts echoed through the night. Wiro Sableng quickened his steps. When he reached the dimly lit courtyard of the large house, he saw that it had transformed into a chaotic battlefield. Six men, paired off, clashed in fierce and frenzied combat.

At the top of the house steps stood Nilamsuri, her blue robe fluttering gently. Below her, arms crossed and gaze steady, stood a tall, lean man. Though Wiro had never seen him before, he knew instantly—this was Kalingundil.

On the far side of the courtyard, Bergola Wungu stood silently, eyes locked on the skirmish. The three men fighting under Kalingundil—Saksoko, Majineng, and Krocoweti—were no novices. Their machetes danced through the air with deadly speed.

But Bergola Wungu’s men—Ketut Ireng, Seta Inging, and Pitala Kuning—were faster, deadlier.

In just nine moves, Krocoweti fell—his chest crushed by Pitala Kuning’s spiked mace. Blood bubbled from his mouth as his body collapsed.

Three strokes later, Majineng followed. Seta Inging’s heavy cleaver nearly took his head off.

Only Saksoko remained. Stocky and square-shaped, he held his ground against Ketut Ireng. For a time, the two appeared evenly matched. But with the morale boost from his allies’ victories, Ketut Ireng surged forward, and five strikes later, his machete sliced through Saksoko’s gut. The man’s innards spilled grotesquely onto the earth.

Kalingundil’s jaw tightened like a steel vice. No one noticed—perhaps due to the darkness—how his arms had begun to turn black, down to his very fingertips.

Then came a thunderous roar.

With a terrifying battle cry that shook the earth, Kalingundil hurled himself into the courtyard. His famed Iron Arms—feared since seventeen years ago—were more deadly than ever.

Three screams tore through the night.

Ketut Ireng, Seta Inging, and Pitala Kuning were flung back five to six spears’ lengths. When they landed, they didn’t rise again.

Bergola Wungu watched the brutal deaths of his men, his body trembling with fury.

“Kalingundil!” he shouted. “What are you waiting for? If vengeance is what you seek, come at me now!”

Bergola Wungu, though burning with rage, replied calmly, “Don’t get ahead of yourself, dog! I’ve spared your life till morning out of mercy! Meet me at sunrise, at the graveyard of Jatiwalu. I’ll send your soul to hell in front of my parents’ graves!”

He turned to leave.

But Kalingundil lunged forward, Iron Arms outstretched.

Bergola Wungu, well aware of the deadly power in those arms, dodged aside and waved his hand—sending a blast of internal energy hurtling toward Kalingundil’s chest.

Kalingundil sidestepped and swung both arms in retaliation. Bergola Wungu evaded again. The two dueled briefly—three moves exchanged like lightning.

Then, a mocking voice rang out from beneath the mango tree.

“Crazy old bastard! He’s already agreed to a duel tomorrow and still wants to fight now? That’s mad!”

Kalingundil snarled and hurled his Iron Arm strike toward the sound.

“Enough mouthing off, coward! Show yourself!”

The force of the strike uprooted the tree—but the speaker had already vanished.

When Kalingundil turned back, Bergola Wungu had disappeared as well.

Nilamsuri, recognizing the voice, gave chase without hesitation. At the edge of the village, by the rice paddies, the pursued sensed her presence. He leapt to a tree branch and waited. When the girl in blue arrived, he dropped down silently.

“We meet again, Nilamsuri,” said Wiro Sableng.

“Eh? How do you know my name?” she asked, startled.

Wiro laughed. “Too many mouths with too much to say. Why did you chase me?”

“Why did you meddle in my father’s affairs?” she shot back.

Wiro stepped forward, his intense gaze making her heart race. She backed away—only to find herself pressed against a tree trunk.

“Your father is Kalingundil, isn’t he?” Wiro whispered.

She nodded.

Wiro grinned, placing a hand on her shoulder. She tried to shrug it off, but stopped when he bent forward and kissed her lips. Heat surged through her as his hand stroked her cheek, then slowly slid down her neck.

“Wiro… you talk too much,” she whispered, voice trembling.

“Then why follow me?”

“Because… I like you, Wiro.”

Wiro asked no more. He scooped her into his arms and carried her into the rice fields. In a secluded hut, they gave themselves to the night. Though the wind was cold, their bodies burned with unfamiliar heat, discovering a world neither had known before.

---

Dawn.

Golden rays bathed the Jatiwalu cemetery, but none of the three figures present felt the morning’s freshness. Bergola Wungu. Kalingundil. And Nilamsuri, her face pale.

Bergola Wungu stopped several paces from his nemesis.

“Draw your weapon, Kalingundil.”

Kalingundil spat on the ground. “I won’t need one to send you to hell!”

He murmured a chant—and his arms turned black once more.

Seeing this, Bergola Wungu tensed. Still, he smiled. “All the better. I’ll kill you faster this way.”

He drew his long machete and pointed toward two graves on the hill.

“See those graves, Kalingundil? My mother and father rest there. And they’ll rejoice to see your head rolling before them!”

“Enough talk! Taste my Iron Arms!”

Kalingundil charged.

Bergola Wungu countered with a slash—only to find his blade bent and useless against the iron-hard limbs! He immediately unleashed his deadliest technique: Tearing the Sky, and bathed Kalingundil in a dazzling aura of steel.

Pressed hard, Kalingundil retaliated with a flurry of crushing blows. Bergola Wungu dodged gracefully, refusing to let his weapon clash directly.

“Say your prayers, dog!” taunted Bergola Wungu. “Your head’s next!”

“Let’s see who dies first, you flea-bitten ape!” Kalingundil roared. “Take this—my hidden weapon!”

He unleashed a barrage of black needles!

But with a single spin of his blade, Bergola Wungu knocked every needle from the air.

“Well done!” came a voice from the west.

A blur streaked across the landscape—covering a hundred yards in the blink of an eye.

“Impressive, Bergola Wungu,” said the newcomer. “But that man belongs to me.”

Both fighters leapt from the circle, Kalingundil grateful for the brief reprieve.

The man under the tree was none other than Wiro Sableng.

“Kalingundil,” he called, “no need to squint at me like that. Tell me—where is Mahesa Birawa?!”

“Who the hell are you?” Kalingundil barked.

“Questions, questions! Idiot!” Wiro snapped. “Seventeen years ago, you and Mahesa Birawa murdered Ranaweleng—my father! And my mother! And Jarot Karsa! Remember?!”

Kalingundil’s heart sank. Another enemy seeking vengeance. And this one had a fearsome presence.

“What do you want from me?!”

“What do I want?” Wiro laughed loudly.

Nilamsuri stepped forward, desperate to intervene. “Wiro… he’s my father!”

“I know, sweet girl,” Wiro smiled, still laughing—remembering the tenderness they’d shared the night before. “That’s why I’ve come with a generous offer—I’ll just take his right arm!”

“Wiro!” Nilamsuri cried in horror.

Bergola Wungu knew Wiro was no braggart. He had seen what this long-haired youth could do.

But Kalingundil laughed mockingly. “You should be suckling your mother’s breast, boy!”

Wiro grinned. “I like people with a sense of humor, Kalingundil.”

He stepped forward.

Nilamsuri leapt to block him—but just then, Bergola Wungu, unable to restrain his fury, swung his blade!

Nilamsuri screamed.

The girl collapsed—her chest slashed wide open, blood gushing.

Seeing his chance gone, Bergola Wungu shouted, “Wiro Sableng! We’re not finished! If you’ve the guts, meet me at Goa Sanggreng!”

He fled toward the cemetery slope.

“Damned bastard!” Wiro shouted, unleashing a palm strike.

A gale blasted the hillside. Tombstones shattered. Trees toppled. But Bergola Wungu had vanished behind the ridge.

When Wiro turned back—he cursed again.

Kalingundil was fleeing.

“You can run, but leave your arm behind!”

With a leap, he caught up.

Kalingundil spun and stabbed with his kris in a blind panic.

He missed.

Wiro’s right hand shot out—

CRACK!

Kalingundil screamed.

His right arm tore from his shoulder, bones and tendons spraying blood. Like a crazed boar, he staggered, tried to flee.

“Not so fast, Kalingundil! Here’s a souvenir!”

Wiro slammed his palm into the man’s forehead.

A burning imprint appeared—a handprint, five fingers, and at its heart, the number 212.

Kalingundil howled and ran again.

Wiro laughed wickedly and spun the severed arm. With a flick, he hurled it—like a spear—into Kalingundil’s back!

The villain fell flat on his face. Then crawled. Then ran again.

Wiro finally stopped laughing.

He heard a faint groan.

Nilamsuri.

He rushed to her side, knelt by her broken body. Blood soaked her robe.

There was no saving her.

He carried her to the shade and laid her down.

“Wiro…” she whispered. “Hold me…”

He embraced her.

“Kiss me… Wiro…”

He kissed her cheek. Her lips.

But they were cold now—no longer warm like the night before.

“My time with you… ends here, Wiro,” she breathed.

“I’ll heal you, Nilam. You’ll be alright.”

She smiled—and with that final smile, her spirit slipped away.

Wiro exhaled. His heart felt numb.

Just last night, her warmth had been his.

Now… there was nothing.

He parted the torn fabric on her chest.

On the unbroken skin above her left breast, he traced three numbers with his fingertip:

212

He leaned her lifeless body gently against a tree.

Then turned and walked away.

As if none of it had happened—as if the deaths, the tears, the night, and the blood had vanished from memory—he began to whistle a tune.

A wild, wandering tune with no name.