Chapter 19: Duel Beneath the Crimson Dusk

The sun had long shifted toward the western horizon. Its blinding, scorching light had now dimmed into a reddish-golden hue, as if it could no longer resist being seized by the arrival of dusk—dusk that would soon be conquered by twilight, and twilight that would kneel before the coming of night.

The path the young man tread grew increasingly difficult—winding and climbing. On both sides, white limestone cliffs loomed, unchanging in their ancient hardness. Suddenly, from atop a rocky peak to the east, a strange, piercing whistle rang out, stabbing into the young man’s eardrums.

Alert, the youth turned and looked up. The rock towered twenty-five spear-lengths high—steep and sheer, almost impossible to climb. But his sharp eyes caught sight of small grooves carved into the slope from bottom to top—makeshift footholds forming a treacherous ladder. Still, no ordinary person would dare use it; one slip would send them plummeting onto a bed of jagged rocks below.

That strange whistle sounded again, louder and shriller than before. The youth’s gaze shot back up, and his eyes widened in surprise. At the summit stood an old man with a bearded face—his right leg and right arm were missing, replaced with wooden limbs. On the end of the wooden arm, a gleaming sickle-shaped blade glinted in the last rays of sunlight.

In his left hand, he held a solid-blue iron staff. The rocky cliff was so high that the youth couldn’t clearly make out the man’s features—his face was obscured by a thick beard—but he could tell the old man had a fierce and intimidating presence.

Seeing the beard that covered most of the man’s face, the young warrior was sure he was close to his destination—perhaps even at the very gates. As he stared up intently, the bearded man stared right back, his eyes sharp and piercing, yet still he said nothing. The youth, growing impatient, waved his hand and bowed slightly.

“Old man, I have a question. Is this the way to Sanggreng Cave?!”

The bearded elder furrowed his brow. “Shaggy brat, are you the one they call the Warrior of the Deadly Fire Dragon Axe… 212?!”

The youth at the foot of the cliff stiffened in surprise. Who was this fierce old man? Could he be the master or senior of Bergola Wungu—the very man who challenged him to come to Sanggreng Cave?

“I don’t believe anyone gave me that title, old man…” replied the youth—none other than Wiro Sableng.

The bearded man continued to glare. It was hard to believe this young man could be the same Warrior 212, whose name had once shaken the martial world two decades ago. But the physical descriptions his student had given matched perfectly. Finally, the bearded elder whistled again. This time, the whistle was different.

Moments later, a figure in black emerged—also bearded—and Wiro immediately recognized him. It was Bergola Wungu, the man who had challenged him! Now Wiro was certain this one-legged man had a deep connection to Bergola Wungu. From below, he watched the two speak, with the elder occasionally pointing his blue staff in Wiro’s direction.

Suddenly, the one-legged man burst into loud laughter. His voice seemed to tear across the surrounding cliffs. While laughing, he tapped his staff on the stone—where it struck, the rock shook and crumbled into sand! Then, his eyes once again shot down to Wiro Sableng.

“If you’re not some fake 212 Warrior, then you’re definitely that crazy Sinto Gendeng’s student…! Just like the rest of the snot-nosed brats. Just like your master—stupid and delusional!”

“Watch your tongue, old man!” Wiro snapped, furious at the insult to his teacher. Still, he couldn’t help but wonder how this stranger knew his master’s name. Judging by his age, he might have been a contemporary of his master.

The old bearded man laughed again and tapped his staff repeatedly. “My student, Bergola Wungu, spoke so highly of you. But seeing you in person, you’re all fluff and no steel! When I heard that three of my students had died, I wanted to fight their killer—crush his skull with this pure iron staff! But it turns out he’s just a pitiful child—probably still sucking on his mother’s milk! Can’t even dress himself properly! A so-called warrior like you—I could knock you out cold with a single swing!”

Wiro Sableng’s blood boiled. His youthful temper surged.

“Old man!” he shouted. “Your mouth is too arrogant! Do you not know that even an ant can bring down an elephant? Or that a man can trip over a single mossy stone?!”

The one-legged elder snorted coldly. “Maybe you don’t know the flip side of your own words, boy! An elephant can squash an ant with a single step—flattened into the dirt! And a pebble—when kicked—flies uselessly into the air!”

Wiro let out a derisive snort. “Sometimes clever people talk in circles like you do!” he said. “But fine… I’m not here to argue with you. I came to speak to Bergola Wungu!”

The old man cackled. “Don’t say you’ve got no business here, you fool! My three disciples are dead—”

“I didn’t kill them—!”

“But you’re still responsible!” interrupted Bergola Wungu.

“Bullshit!” barked Wiro. “You’ve got the guts to talk big in front of your teacher, Bergola? I’m here to answer your challenge!”

Bergola Wungu laughed mockingly. “This isn’t Sanggreng Cave, Wiro! Your death doesn’t belong here—yet!”

“You’re real brave now, Bergola! People forget where they came from real quick. You used to be a farting nobody from Jatiwalu village! Got yourself a few martial tricks and now you’re a bandit leader! And yet you run crying to your master when you challenge me?! If I were you, I’d leap off that cliff and end it all right now!”

Bergola Wungu’s face turned crimson—ears and neck flushed. His jaw locked tight, teeth grinding—but he gave no reply. The old bearded man then spoke.

“Boy 212, if you talk that boldly, you must have some skills worth testing. I, though old, would love to exchange techniques!”

Wiro burst into laughter. “You’re the arrogant one, old man! Aren’t you too ancient to be picking fights? But if you’re that eager for a little ‘exchange of experience,’ I won’t back down…” He rubbed his palms together. “But first, I want your name. Who are you?”

The old man laughed, and the cliffs seemed to tremble at the sound. “I am the guardian of Sanggreng Cave, a man who has roamed the martial world for forty years! Hear that, boy? And if you must know my name—it is I, Bladra Wikuyana, the Whirlwind from the West!”

Wiro Sableng was taken aback. He had heard of this man from his teacher. The Whirlwind from the West—Bladra Wikuyana—was a powerful figure who led a martial school in West Java, a respected name yet rumored to be tied to the black path of evil. Still, Wiro showed no fear. Instead, he laughed loudly.

“Nice title, old man! But last I checked, wind is just empty air—and stinks when it comes out of someone’s rear!”

Bladra Wikuyana whistled in fury. “You impudent little demon! How dare you insult the Whirlwind from the West! Take this…!”

WUUUUUUTTT!

His blue staff swept downward!

A blast of wind as powerful as a hurricane surged toward the 212 Warrior.

Wiro countered with a swing of his arm, sending up a spiraling whirlwind of his own! Then—an extraordinary thing happened. The two howling wind strikes collided in midair, creating a deafening explosion that shattered the silence of the cliffside.