The rain had not stopped in two days.
It fell in a steady curtain over the village of Kampung Teratai, turning the earth into dark, glistening mud and drawing mist from the surrounding forest like breath from an old dragon's mouth. At the edge of the village, beside a crooked wooden hut that leaned against a banyan tree for support, a boy stood barefoot, soaked to the bone, repeating a single movement again and again.
Left palm out. Right hand in a sweeping arc. Step. Turn. Breathe.
"Form is your blade," he muttered to himself. "Precision is your shield. Spirit... your fire."
His name was Aman, a boy of fifteen with wiry limbs and eyes too sharp for someone his age. He had no father, no proper master, and no fame—but he had a dream stitched into the fabric of his soul like a sacred vow:
To become the greatest silat pendekar the continent had ever known.
But dreams were not enough.
A sharp clap echoed through the air as his foot slipped in the mud and he fell hard, landing on his shoulder. Pain pulsed through his arm, but he gritted his teeth and pushed himself up again.
"Again," he whispered, voice lost in the downpour.
---
Inside the hut, an old woman watched from a cracked window. Her name was Mak Bidah, the village healer, and the only one who knew just how dangerous Aman's dream was. She had seen that fire in his father's eyes once—before he vanished into the southern jungles chasing glory and was never seen again.
"Foolish boy," she murmured, shaking her head. "You don't even know what stirs in the lands beyond this village."
But Aman did know—or at least, he believed he did. He had read all the old stories inscribed on palm leaves and whispered from mouth to mouth: the Shadow Blades of the Eastern Isles, the Tiger Spirits of Bukit Naga, and the legendary Silat Masters of Gunung Hantu, said to live beyond the mist and guard a sacred art only the worthy could see.
And tonight, Aman had made a decision. He would leave the village by dawn.
---
That night, thunder cracked the sky like a whip, and in its wake, Aman sat in silence, facing the altar of his ancestors. A rusted keris blade lay before him, the only thing left by the man he barely remembered as his father.
He reached for the blade with reverent hands. As his fingers closed around the hilt, a pulse echoed in his chest—not a sound, but a feeling, deep and ancient.
Then he heard it—a whisper, not in his ears, but in his mind.
> "The path is blood. The path is shadow. Will you walk it, anak harimau?"
Aman's breath caught in his throat. Was this just his imagination? Or was it the first touch of the old world—the hidden realm of spirits and warriors that danced between the folds of reality?
His heart said it didn't matter. The world had spoken.
And he would answer.
---
At the break of dawn, with the mist still clinging to the earth, Aman stood at the village's edge, a small satchel over his shoulder, the keris wrapped in cloth.
Mak Bidah waited for him there, holding a bundle of herbs and smoked fish.
"You won't listen to an old woman," she said, her voice gruff but her eyes wet. "So I'll say this instead: when you reach the forest of whispers, do not stray from the path unless the wind calls your name. And if you find the mountain... bow to it."
Aman nodded. "I will return stronger."
She snorted. "Return alive, first."
With that, he stepped into the unknown—toward jungles that moved like beasts, toward masters who struck faster than sight, and toward a fate that would test not just his fists, but his spirit.
And far above, hidden behind layers of cloud, something ancient stirred.
Watching.
Waiting.