The Gate of Dwiwana Academy loomed as high as shattered dreams once dared to climb—wrought from black stone veined with the memories of millennia. Each groove etched upon its surface was a shard of time, traced faintly with the pulsing glow of Éra, like veins carrying breath through a living sentinel. It watched, weighed, and whispered judgment: who was worthy to pass, and who would be cast aside into silence.
Above the threshold, an ancient creed shimmered in carved script:
"Ngèlmu iku kawruh kang pinanggih dening kawani lan kasetyan."
"Knowledge is wisdom forged through courage and loyalty."
The sky above Dwiwana brooded, clouds hanging heavy like a threat yet unspoken. The wind carried the scent of Éra's iron tang and the sweat of youth—anxious, hopeful, untested. In the vast courtyard, carved from ancient bronze stone, thousands had gathered. Young men and women from all corners of Maheswara stood in stiff anticipation. Their eyes met the gate—some with resolve, some with fear.
The Ardhian stood apart in silent formation—tall, slender, graceful as forgotten paintings. Their skin shimmered with a subtle luminescence, wrapped in Éra-woven fabrics that clung to their forms like morning dew. Their features neared perfection, yet cold as the old gods' statues in crumbling temples. They spoke little, but their eyes judged all who strayed too close.
By contrast, the Manusa Wisesa arrived in warmer hues—brown-skinned, hair bound in cloths adorned with ancestral motifs. Some wore necklaces of raw Éra stone; others clutched heirloom staffs. They seemed more alive, but more anxious—for among them, few carried names of legacy.
And then, the outliers. Not quite human, not quite beast. Some bore horns, others feathers, wings of beasts, or limbs wrapped in translucent membrane. One walked on birdlike legs; another blinked with dim green eyes that seemed to drink in fear. Neither spirits nor typical races, they were known as Manusa Siyung—a reminder that Maheswara had never restricted life to a single mold.
Amid them all, two figures walked steadily: Laras, and Raka at her side.
Laras wore plain clothes—not from lack of means, but from not yet knowing how the world expected her to appear. Her face was stern, but her eyes held wounds long since dried. She moved through the crowd in a straight line, yet the stares clung like thorns, sharp and unrelenting.
Some of the Ardhian turned. One among them—a silver-eyed girl—wrinkled her nose as if smelling carrion in mixed blood.
"That one?" she whispered to her companion. "An Ardhakala brat. No noble blood. Probably feral."
"Tch. No Éra sigil on her garment. She must be here to beg."
Laras did not respond.
But Raka, beside her, clenched his fists. He knew this world had never been kind to those born nameless. He knew how many doors slammed shut simply because one had no history to wield as shield.
They reached the registration table—long, carved from Éra-tempered teak, manned by officers in dusk-gray uniforms. One of them, a man with a blade-like stare, raised a brow.
"Name and recommender," he snapped.
"You'll need a valid endorsement to even be considered."
Laras stepped forward. Calmly, she drew a weathered book from her sling pack—creased, battle-worn, burdened with travel. She laid it on the table like a warrior laying down an heirloom blade.
"This is my recommender," she said.
A beat of silence. Then laughter burst from the officials.
"You think a dead thing can speak for you?"
"Ha! This is Dwiwana, girl. Not some roadside relic shop!"
"Even a talking goat would make a better case!"
The jeers spilled across the courtyard. A few other candidates turned, drawn by the scent of weakness like wolves to a bleeding deer.
But then—
From the stone stairs that overlooked the main gate, a figure descended. Tall, with silver eyes and pointed ears—an Ardhian. He wore a white-silver turban that trailed with quiet majesty. His robe was simple, but lined with Éra sigils that glowed with gentle light. His posture was calm, proud without arrogance. His gaze was as still and sharp as the surface of a lake hiding storms beneath.
He walked slowly. Each step struck like a drumbeat of fate. Laughter faltered. Mockery withered like mist before dawn.
He stopped before Laras. Their eyes met—his, old and knowing, hers, young and alight with a fire still unnamed.
The book trembled. Faintly—but enough to lift dust into the air. The Éra seals wound around it began to unfurl, recognizing a field long awaited. One page turned itself, unfolding in light. Ancient Maheswaran script glowed, each letter alive with invocation—a language only readable to those who had stared back at the world's face and endured.
The silver-eyed man studied the page. For a moment—just a breath—his expression shifted. As if encountering a lost fragment of fate.
A smile tugged at his lips—thin, nearly invisible. Not a smile of triumph. Not warmth. Something stranger. A blend of reverence, caution... and unspoken sorrow.
"So you've finally arrived," he murmured.
Then he spoke, clear and calm—but his voice rang across the whole courtyard:
"I am Satyadharma Ardhacandra, will be her recommender."
Silence. The world held its breath. Even the wind forgot to move.
"By my name," he continued, "she has the right to be here."
One sentence shook the crowd. The officials straightened. The Ardhian exchanged wide-eyed glances. Others stared at Laras as though she had suddenly transformed into a mythical creature.
Raka, who had remained quiet, looked at her—and for the first time, a small smile touched his lips. Not of relief, but awe.
The world might not yet know who they were laughing at.
But it would.
Soon.
And beyond the Gate of Dwiwana, something ancient had begun to stir.
The Gate of the Worldburners had opened.