Chapter 8: The Phantom Duel

The man who had appeared was indeed the Hawk of Jalatunda. The youth cursed relentlessly as he finally caught up to Agung Sedayu’s horse—only to find it riderless.

“Damn it!” he growled. “Where are you hiding, you slippery rabbit?”

With eyes burning with fury, he spun his horse around. In his calculation, Sedayu could not have gone far—surely, he was still lurking nearby. As the Hawk retraced his steps, his heart pounded harder when he spotted a horse standing quietly in the path. A rider was nearby. His fists clenched.

“Whoever that is… if they’re hiding my prey, I’ll sever their head and toss it into Sangkal Putung as a warning.”

The thundering hooves drew closer. Agung Sedayu, still trembling, could only watch helplessly. But the masked man—Kiai Gringsing—remained unmoved, calm as a still pond under moonlight.

“I’ve only just heard his name,” he murmured. “But if I die at the hands of the Hawk of Jalatunda, it will be your fault.”

Agung Sedayu couldn’t reply. His throat was dry, his thoughts a whirlwind. If this mysterious man fell in battle, Sedayu knew his own death would surely follow.

“Please… don’t lose,” he whispered, not even sure the words reached Kiai Gringsing.

But the old man chuckled, a deep, amused laugh.

“No one wishes to lose a duel. Yet none can say for sure they will win—not even against the weakest opponent. One’s fate lies beyond the reach of certainty, even if one must always try.”

Before Sedayu could respond, the Hawk of Jalatunda appeared—his horse rearing before halting a mere few steps away from Kiai Gringsing.

Under the silvery light of the moon, the Hawk spotted a masked figure standing on the embankment—and another, trembling figure in the ditch below.

“Hah!” he cried. “So it’s you!”

Sedayu froze, heart thundering. Blood rushed hot and fast through his veins.

The Hawk studied the masked man from head to toe. “Are you a traveling dancer? A jester playing games?”

The figure replied calmly, “Correct. I am the hero in every tale.”

The Hawk sneered. “Enough jokes. You stand before the Hawk of Jalatunda.”

“I know who you are,” the man said easily.

“How?”

“From the young man over there,” he said, gesturing toward Sedayu.

“What is he to you? Your brother?”

“Nothing of the sort. I had just finished dueling him. We agreed: the loser must face the Hawk of Jalatunda. I lost. Thus, here I stand.”

The Hawk’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Why wear a mask? Tell me your name so I can measure your worth.”

“My name is Kiai Gringsing,” came the calm reply.

“Never heard of you. Why mock me?”

“I speak truth.”

“Then tell me—why would the loser face the Hawk of Jalatunda? Do you think yourselves invincible sages?”

“Not at all,” Kiai Gringsing said. “I had no desire to cross swords with you. But as I passed, the young man sprang from the ditch and demanded I halt. He mistook me for you and grew furious when I wasn’t. We argued. He declared: if I lost our duel, I must present you to him, dead or alive.”

“Enough!” the Hawk roared. His voice echoed like thunder, shaking Sedayu to his core. Yet in his fear, something strange stirred within the boy—a sliver of pride at how the masked man had spoken of him.

“You wear that mask with intent,” the Hawk growled. “You think I won’t find out who you are? I’ll tear it—and the skin beneath—off your face if I must.”

Kiai Gringsing shook his head. “You cannot remove it. It has fused to my very skin.”

“Then I’ll carve it off,” the Hawk spat. Still, a flicker of unease passed through him. Two people now had claimed this boy unworthy of his blade. Even Untara had once implied it. Could this masked figure be Untara himself, laying a trap? No, he reasoned—Untara was wounded.

“Be warned,” Kiai Gringsing said lightly. “If you peel my face off, children will weep at the sight.”

“Enough talk!” the Hawk snarled, drawing his sword with a flash. “You or the boy—it matters not. I’ll slay you both. Prepare yourself!”

“I will face you,” said Kiai Gringsing. “Give me a moment to fetch my weapon.”

Without waiting for permission, he calmly stepped toward his horse. “Do you intend to fight on horseback?”

“I can fight anywhere,” the Hawk growled. “Choose your ground.”

“I’ll fight on foot,” Kiai Gringsing replied.

The Hawk leapt from his saddle, landing with a warrior’s grace.

Agung Sedayu watched as if in a dream. It had been a night of horrors—surely this too was just another nightmare. But the gleaming edge of the Hawk’s blade proved otherwise. Death was real, and it drew ever closer.

Kiai Gringsing returned with his weapon—a simple horsewhip.

The Hawk scoffed. “A joke! You think this is a game? If you fall to my first strike, don’t cry for justice. In war, there is no law.”

“You’re right,” Kiai Gringsing nodded. “But even in war, men must not forget their humanity.”

“Spare me your speech!” the Hawk roared and lunged.

His sword flashed toward Kiai Gringsing’s chest—but the old man didn’t even seem to move. Yet the blade missed.

“Impossible!” the Hawk hissed.

With growing fury, he attacked again, his sword spinning like a storm. Kiai Gringsing matched him, not with brute force, but grace. Time and again, the whip snapped out and met the sword, sending tremors up the Hawk’s arm. He had expected it to snap like a twig—but the whip held fast, elusive and deadly.

Their duel became a blur of movement, circling and striking, sword against whip. Yet the masked man remained untouchable, his whip a serpent in the moonlight.

The Hawk grew more savage, but Kiai Gringsing remained calm.

Then, through the slit of his mask, he looked up. The moon had reached its zenith. “Nearly dawn,” he thought. His gaze flicked to Sedayu, still frozen.

“This must end.”

With that, his style changed. He no longer danced away—now he pressed forward.

“Sedayu!” he called. “While you still can—ride on. Dawn approaches!”

But Sedayu could not move. He was trapped by awe and terror.

Kiai Gringsing shook his head. He must finish this quickly.

The Hawk staggered under the shifting tide. This wasn’t just skill—this was mastery. The man before him was unlike any foe he’d faced. Could he truly be Untara in disguise? No—the style was too relaxed, too playful. Only now, at the climax, did his true power show.

Again and again, the whip struck. Hot pain bloomed across the Hawk’s arms and chest.

He faltered.

“Damn Plasa Ireng,” he growled. “Let him face this demon in a mask.”

The Hawk of Jalatunda had no choice—he must flee.

With a final howl, he lunged once more—but it was a feint. Spinning mid-leap, he sprinted for his horse and vaulted onto the saddle in one fluid motion. His horse, well-trained, sprang into a gallop, vanishing like a shadow in the night.

Kiai Gringsing did not pursue. He turned slowly toward the ditch.

“Well,” he called. “Did I win?”

Agung Sedayu exhaled—his fear dissipating like mist under the morning sun. Life had returned to him.

“Kiai Gringsing,” the man said. “Now that you’ve seen me fight… can you name me?”

Agung Sedayu shook his head. “I still don’t know, Kiai.”

The old man smiled beneath his mask.

“Pity,” he muttered. But then he said aloud, “Sedayu, isn’t Sangkal Putung still your destination?”