Chapter 5: Seventeen Years Till Vengeance

It was almost unbelievable. At the blistering peak of Mount Gede—a place thought to be lifeless and abandoned—echoed the peals of human laughter. Sharp, shrill bursts rang through the air, sometimes replaced by fierce scolding, then again by a wild, loud and boisterous laugh.

Clearly, two people were atop the mountain that scorching noon—locked in a duel of terrifying power.

A duel… of laughter?

One of them was a shriveled, black-skinned old woman in all-black robes. Her skin clung to her bones, her face sunken so deeply that her eyes glowed like two cursed stars. Strangely, while her skin and clothes were pitch-black, her sparse hair and brows were stark white—what little of it clung to her nearly bald scalp, shining in the sun.

But even more bizarre—five hairpins jabbed straight into her bare scalp. With barely any hair to hold them, the pins pierced directly into her head!

Her name? Eyang Sinto Gendeng. The Mad Grandmaster. A martial legend who vanished from the world of warriors twenty years ago. Before her disappearance, she had ruled the western regions of Java—crushing evil wherever it dared to crawl. Her one solution to wickedness? Kill it.

Her real name was Sinto Weni. But because of her bizarre habits, her unpredictable moods, and a general air of delightful lunacy, the martial world had long dubbed her Sinto Gendeng—Mad Sinto.

But who was the youth who faced her now in battle? He was only seventeen—broad-shouldered, handsome, with sun-kissed skin as soft as a maiden’s. His shoulder-length hair was unkempt, and his roguish smile could pass for a child’s mischief.

He was no enemy.

He was her disciple—Wiro Saksana.

Just like his master, Wiro had inherited not only wild power, but a ridiculous sense of humor. They laughed, they shouted, they trained with deadly seriousness—yet it all looked like a play.

Leaves flew, dust swirled, bushes shook and trees bent from the force of their blows. Sinto Gendeng held a dry twig in one hand; Wiro gripped his signature weapon—a seven-curved kris.

“Come on, Wiro! Hit me with the move ‘Madman Swatting Flies’! If you’re too slow, I’ll fart on your face!”

Wiro burst into a loud cackle, scratching his scalp wildly, making his hair even more chaotic. Then—

“CIAAAATTT!!!”

With a shout that shook the mountain, Wiro vanished. His kris blurred, slicing through the air in zigzags too fast for the eye. This was ‘Madman Swatting Flies’—a chaotic, unpredictable style that looked like drunken stumbling, but formed a deadly net of steel. Sinto Gendeng was surrounded!

And yet, the old woman just giggled. Twirling her twig, she darted left and right with mocking grace. Had it been anyone else facing Wiro’s technique, they’d be diced to ribbons!

“Too slow, Wiro! Too slow!” Sinto Gendeng taunted.

Wiro growled in his heart.

“Oho, you’re cursing me now?!” Sinto snapped. “Watch your armpit!”

Her twig flashed.

“BREEET!!”

Wiro’s white tunic tore wide open at the right armpit.

“Buset! Lucky that was just my armpit!” Wiro shouted, lunging forward.

“Try this, Eyang—‘Monkey Hurls the Fruit’!”

“Hah! That dumb move again? Who’s scared of a monkey?!”

Wiro jabbed his hand out, fingers spread. A burst of wind—solid as stone—roared toward Sinto Gendeng’s throat!

She giggled again, then spat. It looked like a casual glob of spit—but imbued with inner force, it was a deadly weapon against flesh and eyes!

Wiro dodged sideways, countering with a sweeping palm to strengthen his attack. But Sinto was already laughing.

With a piercing screech, she flipped backward, landing atop a guava tree. The ‘Monkey Hurls the Fruit’ gust tore into a tree trunk behind her—splitting it clean through!

“Crazy, seriously!” Wiro muttered, glaring up.

“Of course! That’s my name!” cackled Sinto. “Want a guava, Wiro?!”

Before he could answer, she spit twenty-one guava seeds at him—each aimed at his vital points!

“Just the seeds?! No thanks!”

Wiro blew air from his lungs and waved his hands. The seeds fell—seven even reversed course toward Sinto. But she simply twitched her toe, and they flew harmlessly away!

“No seeds? Fine! Take this twig instead!”

She hurled her dry twig like an arrow—it shrieked through the air, aimed straight at Wiro’s skull!

Wiro chuckled. With a flick of his kris, he split the twig in two before it hit.

“Eyang, maybe come down from that tree,” Wiro called. “Or else…”

“Or else what, brat?” she snapped.

“Catch this kris—with your forehead!”

Wiro let out a wild laugh and hurled his weapon. It vanished mid-air.

But seconds later, Sinto’s fingers snapped shut. The kris hung between her index and middle fingers.

“Here’s my return gift, Wiro!” she said gleefully, yanking two of her hairpins from her scalp. With a whistle of wind, she flung them—one at Wiro’s head, the other at his belly!

Wiro knew better than to block with inner force. With a roar, he leapt into the air. The pins missed him and embedded themselves deep in the earth!

“Good! You didn’t try to block those! Even the greatest inner force wouldn’t stop my hairpins!” she called.

Then, switching tones completely—

“Now go get me water! I’m thirsty!”

“Lick your own sweat if you’re thirsty!” Wiro grinned.

Sinto just laughed even louder.

But suddenly her laughter stopped.

“Water, Wiro. Now!” she barked.

Wiro jogged toward a nearby hut, dipping a ladle into a clay jug of cool spring water behind it.

As he returned, he heard her singing—off-key, but eerily poetic. The words made him pause.

JAVANESE

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Pitulas taun wus katilar,
Pucuking Gunung Gede isih panggah kaya biyen mulo,
Langit isih tetep biru,
Wulan lan suryo isih tetep mandeng lan kangen,

Pitulas taun agawe kang tua tambah tua.
Pitulas taun ndadekake bayi abang dadi pemuda kang gagah,
Pitulas taun wektu perjanjian,
Pitulas taun wiwitane perpisahan,
Pitulas taun wekdaling pamales….

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Seventeen years have passed.
The peak of Mount Gede remains unchanged.
The sky still blue,
The sun and moon still gazing longingly from afar.

Seventeen years have made the old older.
Seventeen years turned a red-faced baby into a handsome youth.
Seventeen years since a pact was made.
Seventeen years since a parting began.
Seventeen years—the time for vengeance.

Wiro stood frozen.

What did it mean?
Whose vengeance?
And who was the baby?

He didn’t yet know.

But fate had already started to stir.