The wooden sword made a satisfying thunk as it struck the bark of an old banyan tree. Jaka's breath came in steady rhythm, sweat dripping into the soil beneath his feet. With each motion, the wooden blade whispered through the air—each swing a prayer, each strike a promise. The tree bore the marks of hundreds of strikes, bark chipped and scarred by his relentless training.
Tied tightly to the hilt of the sword was a red headband.
He never liked wearing it. Said it made him look silly. His mother had laughed and said he looked like a warrior already.
Now, the cloth lived on the blade's handle, a reminder with every clash that he was never alone. Their love was always with him—woven into the fibers of that headband, sewn into the seams of the training clothes, carved into the bow and arrows his father crafted by hand.
"You'll need them," his father had said. "The world is wide, Jaka. Walk it with strength."
"And kindness," his mother had added, tying the headband on his head for the first and only time.
They gave their blessing that day. Not just for his training, but for his journey—wherever it might take him. A blessing not just of words, but of legacy.
Jaka cared for those gifts as if they were parts of his own body. The sword was his spine. The bow, his breath. The clothes, his skin. They weren't just tools or garments—they were anchors. Memory forged into matter.
But something burned deeper in his chest than even their love.
A nightmare in code, always looping back.
The destruction of Kalentang Village had, at first, been dismissed in the game as a simple bandit raid. Disposable. Background noise. But Jaka had called that lazy.
"Too cheap," he'd said to the team. "Too shallow."
He wanted better. Demanded weight, history, consequence.
So he rewrote it.
Kalentang didn't fall to mere brigands. No, it was politics. Rebellion. The smoke of a hidden war. Rebels—not masked thugs, but real insurgents—had struck a royal convoy passing through. Their goal: assassinate a key figure and frame it as a random attack, erasing all traces of political motive.
Among the convoy was a girl. Thirteen years old with sharp mind as a blade. Princess Iswari—Dyah Netarja.
She wasn't just another royal name. She was the future.
Her journey to Kalentang wasn't ceremonial. It was part of her education. She was learning to rule—not from a throne, but from the earth. The markets, the laborers, the tensions simmering beneath Majapahit's glittering surface.
It wasn't a grand war. But it was a spark.
And someone had wanted that spark extinguished.
Jaka had written all this. Or most of it. Some names he hadn't finalized. Some threads he left loose, half-formed in design docs and lore notes.
He was the architect, but not the god. The world had continued without him—morphing, evolving, as if it had agency. As if it was telling a story even he couldn't fully predict.
Maybe that's why his Philosopher stat hadn't maxed out yet.
He hadn't uncovered every thread. Not even the ones he'd seeded.
Was this the main story? He wasn't sure.
But it mattered. Because this village mattered. His family mattered. Laksita mattered.
And so, he trained for three relentless months.
He had no master but himself. No teacher but memory and pain.
He struck the banyan tree thousands of times, each blow refining his form, improving his speed, his control, his strength. When the tree wasn't enough, he turned to movement—shadow sparring, footwork drills, dodging falling branches and lunging through thick underbrush.
His polearm practice was based on memory—on the feel of longer sticks, of balance and reach. He sharpened it with precision, slowly shifting from instinct to mastery.
But his hardest training was with the bow.
Jaka had designed this forest. Every bush. Every hidden rock. Every animal spawn point, even if they were just part of the background details. He knew where the birds would roost. Where the rabbits would dash. Where squirrels chattered high in the canopy.
But knowing the layout didn't make hunting easier.
He had never hunted before.
His first week was a blur of failure. Arrows stuck in trees. Missed shots. Startled prey vanishing into the brush.
He didn't like killing animals. He hated it.
They were part of the world he helped build. Peaceful, innocent parts. Some were created just for ambiance, for sound design, for visual immersion. They weren't meant to be harmed.
But now…
Now, he needed them.
Not out of malice. Not for sport. But for growth.
The only way to become stronger was to test himself against life. To survive, to track, to kill—not for pleasure, but for necessity.
It twisted something inside him. After each successful hunt, he offered a silent apology. He buried what he could. He thanked the creatures for their sacrifice.
This, too, became part of his training.
To grow, he had to sacrifice. Not only his time and sweat—but his morals. His comfort. His safety.
By the end of the first month, he had gained a solid grasp of the hunter's path. His accuracy with the bow improved. He learned to breathe with the wind, to listen with his skin. His arrows began to fly with purpose.
At the same time, his mind sharpened. Strategy, analysis, tracking—these small acts built his Intellect, piece by painful piece.
He trained in silence. He trained in rain. He trained even as loneliness crept into his bones.
And through it all, he remembered why.
Kalentang Village must not fall.
Profile:
Name: Jaka Adiwasesa
Level: 1
Age: 10
Caste: Waisya
Familiar: None
Title: None
Core Attributes:
Strength: E (87/100)
Agility: D (12/100)
Dexterity: D (19/100)
Intellect: A (21/100)
Endurance: E (4/100)
Charisma: G (90/100)
Weapon Proficiency:
Blunt: F (10/100)
Blade: F (130/100)
Polearm: H (103/100)
Throwing: F (66/100)
Bow: F (112/100)
Job Proficiency:
Spoon Warrior: D (67/100)
Philosopher: A (37/100)
Fisherman: G (55/100)
Jaka knew—at these levels, growth would only get harder. Every point would cost more. Every gain would slow.
But he was ready for that.
The fire in his heart was not for vengeance, but for protection. For love.
Let the world shift. Let the story twist.
He would shape it back with his own hands.
One strike. One arrow. One truth at a time.