Laras rose.
Not for family.
Not for justice.
Not even for revenge buried in the cracks of old wounds.
She rose for the only reason that had never left her mind — herself.
This world had never offered justice. She had realized that far earlier than most. Since childhood, she had watched truth buried alive by power, and loyalty repaid with betrayal. She knew justice wasn't a birthright — it was something to be seized, defended with blood, and upheld through strength. In a world choked with hatred and deaf to suffering, justice was nothing more than a prize for those strong enough to claim it.
"What doesn't kill me, makes me stronger."
That sentence — as sharp as a dagger and as bitter as old liquor — was carved into the foundation of her soul, echoing in the silence of every night she endured alone. She didn't just believe it; she lived by it. It wasn't a quote — it was her scripture.
In a forgotten hut, lost to time, in a quiet corner of Sanggar Srawung where the morning mist coiled like a dragon's breath, Laras opened the only relic of her past: a Book of Spells, a legacy from her mother. It was an ancient Ardhian manuscript, wrapped in rare bark leather and bound with golden thread now dulled by age. There was no title on its cover — only a mysterious symbol that pulsed faintly at her touch, as if alive.
She never questioned whether she was worthy of reading it. Questions like that, she thought, belonged to those who still had the luxury of hope. Laras no longer did. In the emptiness that clung to her like a second skin, only one thing remained — the will to exist, even in a world that refused to acknowledge her.
Every day, she read.
Every night, she tried to understand.
Every moment, she failed.
And from that failure, a sharper will was born.
Hundreds of chants she recited.
Thousands of symbols she memorized.
Her body trembled the first time Éra flowed through her — wild, blazing, searing her veins. She collapsed. She shook. She vomited blood.
But she stood back up. Again. And again.
Her wounds were countless, but from each one bloomed something unseen — strength.
"Man is something that must be overcome,"
whispered the world in silence. And Laras understood.
She was not an ordinary human. She was not a creation meant to obey.
She was will, honed through pain — something even the gods dared not touch.
To Laras, strength was not a goal.
It was a form of existence.
Mockery? It had become part of her daily life.
Insults? Nothing more than passing winds.
Betrayal? She had bled it into her bones.
What remained was the faint whisper of a primal will within her:
Endure. Evolve. Transcend. Become.
With each small achievement — mastering a new spell, stabilizing the Éra within her, enduring pain until she no longer cried — she saw a layer of limitation peel away. And she knew, true strength was in defying that limit again and again, until it vanished beneath her stride.
That day, the morning mist greeted her with its cold breath.
In the distance, the rattling wheels of a horse-drawn carriage shattered the valley's silence.
She looked ahead — toward Dwiwana Academy.
To many, it was home. A place of learning, of growth, a sanctuary.
To Laras? It was a battlefield.
A new forge to burn away what weakness remained.
An anvil to shape her into something even this world would learn to fear.
She looked down at the ground, then lifted her eyes to the sky.
"I will become strong," she whispered, low but cutting.
"Not to protect. Not to destroy. But because this life values nothing but strength itself."
She carried no hope.
No prayers.
Only the raw will to endure. To transcend.
To become more than just human.
The scar on her forehead, still unhealed, would bear witness —
That from the deepest void, a being could rise… one even the gods would flinch to behold.
But her dark thoughts, wrapped in mist and will, were suddenly shattered.
Someone stood before her.
That gaze... calm, unassuming, yet holding a storm of sorrow that could not be voiced.
A young man, perhaps her age, stared at her in silence. No hatred. No affection.
Just... stillness.
And for the first time, Laras felt she was being seen — not physically, but spiritually.
"What is he seeing in me...?"
The thought flashed by, jarring her to the core.
She shook her head, furious, and shouted:
"HEYYYY!!!!"
Her voice cracked unnaturally, overwhelmed by discomfort at being seen by a stranger. She hastily covered herself with her cloth and belongings.
"WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU LOOKING AT, YOU DAMN PERVERT!!!"
Her face flushed — embarrassed, angry, annoyed — all in a chaotic blend.
And yet… something stirred in her chest.
Not fear. Not anxiety.
Maybe… maybe something that could distract her from the past that smothered her.
"If you wanna die, then keep staring at me!!"
She hoped the man would look away.
But he didn't. His gaze remained unchanged.
"WHY ARE YOU STILL LOOKING!?"
Laras's voice cracked again.
She didn't know why he wouldn't leave. But one thing was clear —
In that silence, there was something that disturbed her.
Not out of fear.
But because in that silence, she was being seen.
Not her body.
Her soul.
And for someone who had never once been seen as a soul,
It was terrifying.
The carriage wheels resumed their rhythm, leaving behind the gates of Kutharaja Indrakarta — a modest town nestled against the slopes of Mount Wisesapada.
Cobblestone roads split across rice fields stretching like green carpets.
A small river wound like the earth's pulse, its waters crossed by an old bamboo bridge — a crossing between time.
The forest welcomed them.
Ancient trees towered above, cloaked in moss and delicate mist that danced in the breeze.
Birds sang, occasionally harmonizing with the wind rustling the leaves.
Twilight crept in. The sky ignited in hues of golden orange.
From a hilltop camp, the twin peaks of Mount Wisesapada and Ardhakesuma stood like eternal sentinels of Maheswara.
Night fell like a black silk curtain. Stars peeked through, shyly blinking.
Laras sat by the fire, staring into the dancing embers.
In the distance, that man — still nameless — sat apart, yet not too far.
There was distance, but not separation.
And that night, in silence, they shared their solitude —
Without words, without promises.
On the second morning, the road widened and hardened beneath their steps, a sign they were approaching the heart of the kingdom.
Small villages dotted the way.
Street markets bustled with farmers and traders.
The banners of Indrabumi fluttered from stone pillars, marking the land they now entered.
By late afternoon, from the peak of a hill, it finally came into view —
Madya Nagara, the grand capital of the Indrabumi Kingdom, sprawled magnificently between three sacred rivers.
A perfect circle of white sandstone walls embraced the city like a divine cradle.
Temple towers rose high, their roofs gleaming beneath the setting sun.
And there, they would begin a new chapter.
In the city where fate would be challenged.
A place that promised no safety —
Only opportunity.
And to Laras, opportunity was the one thing she would never let slip —
Even if she had to burn herself alive to grasp it.