Chapter 4: The Cry of a Child

“You insolent cur! Today, I’ll send you straight to your grave!”
Mahesa Birawa roared as he raised his left arm to block his opponent’s strike.

A thunderous clap echoed as their arms collided. Ranaweleng was flung backward while Mahesa Birawa only staggered a few steps. A red welt bloomed on Ranaweleng’s arm where the clash occurred, and he gritted his teeth to contain the pain. He knew it now—his inner strength was no match for his opponent’s. Despite mastering the pinnacle of lightness arts, he was still outclassed by Mahesa Birawa.

From the veranda, a woman’s cries pierced the air.
“Suranyali! Stop this fight! Please stop it!”
Suci had no idea that Suranyali had taken on a new name—Mahesa Birawa.
“You two aren’t even enemies! Why are you fighting like this?”

“Go back inside, Suci!” Ranaweleng barked at his wife as he twisted through the air, barely evading a deadly blow.

Mahesa Birawa, of course, had no intention of ending the duel. Suci’s pleas only fed his bloodlust—he was determined to end Ranaweleng’s life that very day!

In the blink of an eye, they had exchanged eight furious moves. It was clear Ranaweleng was being pushed to the brink. Mahesa Birawa’s bare-handed strikes came from all directions like a storm. With a growl and burst of speed, Ranaweleng tried to break free using his body-lightening technique—but it was useless.

Mahesa Birawa’s form blurred like a phantom, his movements impossibly fast. On the tenth move, his left elbow struck with brutal precision, smashing into Ranaweleng’s right ribs.

A stifled moan escaped Ranaweleng’s lips. His face paled, tinged with a bluish hue. At least two ribs had shattered, and internal injuries now wracked his body. Dazed, he stood swaying, vision swimming with stars.

Mahesa Birawa laughed, a deep, cruel laugh.
“Not much longer now, Ranaweleng. Say your last prayers before I send you to hell!”

Ranaweleng’s lips moved in a silent incantation. His jaw clenched. Arms outstretched before him, he readied a deadly counterstrike.

Across from him, Mahesa Birawa stood like a statue, his feet sinking an inch into the earth as he channeled all his inner energy throughout his body, preparing to face the incoming attack.

Then suddenly—
A howling scream tore from Ranaweleng’s throat, louder than a whirlwind. His arms moved in rapid succession, unleashing a roaring wave of Scorching Wind Palm toward Mahesa Birawa.

The enemy shouted and soared three spears’ length into the sky. The blazing heat tore through the air beneath his feet, incinerating trees behind him. Then Mahesa Birawa dove like a hunting eagle.

Ranaweleng’s ultimate technique required immense concentration. For precious seconds after releasing the blast, his mind and body were still caught in that meditative trance—leaving him wide open.

It was all Mahesa Birawa needed.

He struck again.

Ranaweleng was hurled across the ground. Barely conscious, he twisted into a roll just in time—if not, Mahesa Birawa’s kick would’ve shattered his spine.

Staggering upright, Ranaweleng realized he couldn’t face this monster barehanded. With a cry, he unsheathed his sacred Seven-Curve Kris from his waist!

But he froze.

Across from him, Mahesa Birawa stood firm, legs wide apart. His left arm extended forward. His right arm was raised high behind his head—and it shimmered with a sickly green hue.

It was the infamous Green Centipede Strike—a technique laced with deadly venom! The one that killed the old man.

Suci screamed. She had witnessed the horror of that technique before.
“Sura! No! Stop! Please, stop this madness!”

Mahesa Birawa—once Suranyali—smirked with lethal amusement.
“Bring out ten weapons if you have them, Ranaweleng! It won’t matter!” he sneered.

Ranaweleng’s heart pounded. Cold sweat soaked his body. He knew—just like Jarot Karsa before him—he couldn’t withstand the Green Centipede Strike.

But run? Never. Not for Ranaweleng.
He was a man. A warrior. A soul of honor.

Better to die on his feet than live crawling like a coward.

He lunged forward, kris in hand, in one final, desperate strike!

Too slow.

Even before he landed the leap, Mahesa Birawa’s right hand shot out.

Suci screamed.

Ranaweleng’s body was flung like a rag doll, landing lifelessly on the scorched ground. Even the sacred kris in his grip turned green from the venom that had now seeped through every inch of his body.

Suci cried out and rushed toward her husband. But Mahesa Birawa moved first. He seized her wrist mid-lunge.

If she touched him, the poison would flow into her too. In mere seconds, she would die the same horrible death.

“Let me go! You cursed demon! Monster!” Suci shrieked.

“One touch and you’ll share his fate, Suci,” Mahesa Birawa warned.

“I don’t care! I want to die with him!”

“You’re far too young for that…”

With a flick of his fingers, Mahesa Birawa struck a major pressure point at the base of her neck. Suci went limp, frozen in place. Slinging her over his shoulder, Mahesa Birawa strode toward his horse.

To his men—Kalingundil, Krocoweti, and Majineng—he barked an order:
“Burn the house!”

The three obeyed at once. Flames roared up, devouring the grand home of the Head of Jatiwalu Village. Mahesa Birawa’s grin widened with satisfaction.

But then—
A sharp, desperate cry cut through the flames.

A baby’s cry.

“The baby! The baby’s still inside!” shouted someone from the crowd gathered outside.

“Raden Rana’s child… oh no, poor thing!”

“If no one helps, it’ll die in there!”

But no one dared move. No one had the courage to charge into that inferno.

The baby’s cries grew weaker. Choked. Raspy. The flames reached the bedroom where the infant lay.

Then, just when hope had withered—
A shadow flickered.

From nowhere, a black figure darted through the flames and into the burning house!

Moments later, that same figure emerged again—cradling the baby—and vanished into the eastern woods.

No one saw the figure’s face. No one could say if it was man or woman, human or spirit. Only the black robes were glimpsed, and only for a second. Then, as the roof caved in and fire soared skyward, the mysterious rescuer disappeared.

But everyone there knew one thing:
The baby had been saved—and taken east.

Later that night, Mahesa Birawa laid Suci down in a chamber. He turned—and froze.

There, scrawled deep into the hard teak wall—carved with nothing but a fingertip—were the ominous words:

WHAT YOU HAVE DONE TODAY… WILL RETURN TO YOU SEVENTEEN YEARS FROM NOW!

There was no name. No trace of who had left the message.

But Mahesa Birawa understood one thing:

Whoever wrote it had inner strength beyond mortal comprehension.

And they were watching.