Satria Kusuma Wijaya was, by all appearances, an ordinary man. He wasn't famous, nor was he feared. He didn't change the world—but he did try to understand it. A quiet mind in a loud world, Satria had built his life around code, logic, and data. He was a developer with a deep love for artificial intelligence—an AI architect who spent years building tools that could think, learn, and even, sometimes, empathize.
By day, he designed neural networks for a rising tech company in Jakarta. By night, he lent his skills to grassroots initiatives—open-source education platforms, AI-powered tools for those who didn't have access to, and code audits for transparency watchdogs. His projects often flew under the radar, but his contributions were impactful. He believed technology should serve people, not control them.
It was this belief that got him in trouble.
A friend had passed him documents—internal files that revealed how a sitting politician was using a government-sanctioned AI surveillance system to monitor political opponents, activists, and even journalists. It was illegal. Immoral. And dangerous.
Satria helped expose it.
He had scrubbed metadata, verified signatures, and handed the cleaned documents to a local anti-corruption NGO. They made headlines. Investigations began. There were protests. The public roared.
And someone decided Satria needed to be silenced.
He didn't realize he was being followed. He didn't think he needed to look over his shoulder.
Then one night, on his usual route home, it happened.
The streets were mostly empty—just him and his motorcycle weaving through traffic lights. He remembered the quiet hum of the engine, the distant buzz of a billboard.
Then a truck.
No warning. No headlights.
Just a metal scream.
The impact flung him off the bike like a rag doll. The world spun. Asphalt tore at his skin. Bones cracked. His arms—he remembered the pain vividly—twisted, crushed.
Darkness swallowed everything.
**
Satria opened his eyes to stillness.
For a moment, he just lay there, staring at the dim ceiling overhead. A strange, musty scent filled his nose—like old wood and dried herbs. He blinked a few times, trying to shake off the haze clouding his mind.
Where was he?
Slowly, he sat up.
The floor beneath him creaked. It was wooden, rough, and worn, like it hadn't been polished in years. His surroundings were alien. Thick stone walls boxed the room in, each brick stacked with care but weathered with time. The ceiling was low, wooden beams running across its surface. Shadows clung to the corners.
No lights. No windows. Just a heavy-looking door across the room.
'This… isn't my home.'
He rubbed at his clothes, brushing off dust that coated his shirt and pants. His hands moved without resistance—smoothly, naturally. He didn't think twice. He clapped the dust from his palms and stood.
Stretching his limbs, he rolled his shoulders. Flexed his fingers.
Everything felt… fine.
He stomped on the floor experimentally. The echo was dull, almost like the sound was swallowed by the room itself. He turned his neck, bent down to touch his toes, then straightened up.
His body responded like it always had.
But something in the back of his mind whispered unease.
'Why can't I remember how I got here?'
His last memory… was blurred. He remembered riding his motorcycle. The road. Lights. Noise.
Then—
Nothing.
Then, as if drawn by instinct, he turned toward the door. It was oddly crafted—made from dark wood, denser than any he'd ever seen. The grain shimmered faintly in the gloom, almost metallic. Its handle was simple, no lock, no visible screws. It looked grown, not built.
Satria's fingers curled around the handle. It was cold, and for a second, he hesitated.
His instincts tensed, like something deep in his subconscious knew this wasn't just a door.
But curiosity won.
He pulled.
The door creaked open with a sound like metal shrieking.
And beyond it— a blinding light.
Satria flinched and raised a hand to shield his eyes. The brilliance poured in, soft and white, yet overwhelming. It wasn't the sterile light of bulbs or LEDs—this light was… natural, but stronger, purer. It carried warmth and a whisper of something divine.
As his vision adjusted, the world before him bloomed into view.
A garden. But not like any garden he had ever seen.
Flowers of impossible colors swayed gently in the breeze, glowing faintly under the sunless sky. Trees with golden leaves and pink bark rustled overhead, their branches curving like art sculptures. A cobbled stone path stretched from his feet into a lush, endless field. Birds danced in the air—blue ones with wings like silk, red ones whose feathers shimmered like rubies.
Satria stepped out.
The wooden floor behind him creaked as his weight left it. He turned around, drawn by an odd feeling—like something was watching him. The room he had awoken in now stood drenched in light, no longer cloaked in shadows.
And there—etched into the floor—was a large, perfect circle.
It was faintly glowing because of the light. Lines within the circle formed intricate symbols and strange runes. They curved and spiraled like living things. At the very center was a spot just large enough to lie in… exactly where he had opened his eyes.
Satria's brows furrowed. "What the fuck…?"
BAAAMMM!!
The door slammed shut behind him with a violent crack, the sound echoing like thunder across the garden.
He spun, startled. His heart leapt into his throat. No wind. No visible force.
The door simply… closed. Hard.
He tried to laugh it off. "Old wood. Probably broken…"
Still, he didn't reach for it again.
Instead, he turned his gaze back to the garden. The air smelled of honey and something ancient. The path seemed to call to him, pulling his attention forward.
He took a step, the soft crunch of gravel beneath his feet breaking the stillness. The garden didn't react—but it felt like it did, as if the trees leaned in ever so slightly, listening. A gentle breeze stirred the leaves.
The birds overhead trilled.
TWIRP~ CHIRR~ WHISTLE~
Their melody was soft… welcoming.
Like the beginning of a strange new dream.
As Satria walked down the stone path, the garden came alive.
The trees shimmered with iridescent leaves. The wind brushed past like soft breath, carrying the scent of blooming flowers—some familiar, others unlike anything from Earth. Each step echoed faintly on the stone underfoot, the world around him whispering secrets in rustling branches and rustling grass.
A pair of red-feathered birds fluttered past, cooing softly as they shared a fruit on a tree branch.
He looked up, marveling. "This can't be real…"
Then, the music began. No, it's more like a symphony, a song.
TWIRR~ CHIRP~ WHISTLE~ TRILL~
From the treetops, a symphony of birdsong filled the air. Dozens—no, hundreds—of birds soared into view, bursting into colorful patterns. Yellow, blue, violet, orange—they painted the sky with their wings. Their chirps weren't just noise—they followed a rhythm. A tune. A melody that resonated in his chest.
It sounded like joy. Like spring. Like… home, somehow.
Satria slowed his steps, his breath catching in wonder.
The birds formed lines, loops, spirals in the air. Some landed atop the gate ahead—an arc formed from living trees, covered in budding flowers that bloomed as he approached. Others danced in mid-air, flapping their wings in sync, feet tapping gently on branches and vines. The garden wasn't just watching him. It was greeting him.
A soft smile crept across his face. "Are you… welcoming me?"
The birds chirped back in a chorus that almost sounded like a yes.
Then the music changed.
The melody turned slower. Simpler. It thinned into something wistful—a harmony of farewell and beginning. The air felt heavier, as if the garden itself was exhaling an old memory.
Satria closed his eyes. He stood still, letting the bittersweet sound soak into his skin. The loneliness of an unfamiliar place… wrapped in the warmth of a welcome.
The birds began to rise, one by one, wings lifting them into the sky. A kaleidoscope of feathers fluttered above him, moving toward the horizon in a synchronized wave.
All except one.
A single bird—small, silvery white—circled back.
It fluttered around his head, curious, chirping quietly. Its feathers shimmered under the light like polished pearl or stardust. Then, gently, it landed on his shoulder.
Satria blinked, then let out a small laugh. "Hey, you sticking around?"
The bird tilted its head. Chirp Chirp~
It nodded.
The small white bird chirped again, its voice soft, like a whisper in the breeze. It fluffed its feathers, then tilted its head to nuzzle gently against Satria's jaw.
He chuckled. "You're not shy, are you?"
The bird gave a cheerful hop onto his head, balancing easily on his hair. Satria sighed and tilted his head back, half amused, half annoyed.
"Really? On my head?"
CHIRP. It pecked playfully.
"Okay, okay," he laughed, reaching up with both hands—then paused.
No.
He looked down at his arms, moved them, flexed his fingers. They were there. Working fine.
'Weird,' he thought. 'Why did I...'
The thought vanished as quickly as it came, like a cloud blown away.
The bird flitted off his head and landed on his hand instead, eyes wide and bright. It bowed its head forward, lightly brushing against his fingers—asking to be petted.
Satria couldn't help but smile. "Alright, alright. You win."
He stroked its tiny head gently. The feathers were impossibly soft, like silk woven from moonlight. The bird leaned into his hand, humming with delight, its tiny claws barely pressing against his skin.
Then, with a tiny hop, it took off again and hovered in front of him. Its wings barely made a sound—only a soft flutter like wind through petals.
"Where are you going now?" he asked.
Flutter~ Flutter~
The bird swooped forward, then circled back, chirping loudly.
It wanted him to follow.
He took a breath and looked ahead. The garden stretched into the distance, its paths winding between glowing flowers and tall, strange trees. The stone trail continued through flower fields and groves, shimmering in the warm light.
"Alright, lead the way," he said.
They walked—well, he walked; the bird danced through the air in small arcs ahead of him. With each step, Satria took in more of the landscape.
There were trees with bark like glass, their leaves glittering like gold foil. A row of bushes glowed faintly from within, humming a soft tone like a lullaby. And between the vines and tall grass, he saw faint glimmers—lights flitting like fireflies, though it wasn't night.
The whole garden pulsed with a quiet magic.
"Who built this place?" he muttered aloud. "Is this some kind of… resort? Paradise? Or…"
He didn't say the word, but it echoed in his head.
Afterlife?
No. That didn't feel right. He didn't feel dead.
Still, there was something off—like a question half-formed at the edge of his memory.
As they continued down the trail, he noticed another thing: there were no people. No gardeners, no caretakers, no guards. Everything was thriving and pristine, as if tended to by invisible hands. A single leaf floated down in front of him and landed gently on the path—perfect in shape, perfectly timed.
Satria stopped.
Up ahead was a clearing—circular, paved in patterned stones. In the center stood a statue.
Tall. Regal. Alone.
And something about it instantly unsettled him.
Satria stepped slowly into the clearing, eyes locked on the figure of stone standing at its center.
It was tall—at least three meters—and carved from smooth, pale rock with veins of silver running through it. A man cloaked in long robes stood immortalized in time, one hand holding an open book, the other raising a staff to the sky. His expression was stoic yet kind, the eyes downcast as if watching over all who entered this sacred space.
"Some kind of wizard? He looks like Gandalf." Satria whispered.
Indeed, the figure bore all the tropes of fantasy mages he'd seen in stories and movies—the tall hat with a curled brim, intricate robes lined with arcane motifs, the staff etched with runes. But the craftsmanship was beyond anything he had ever seen. It felt… alive, somehow. The texture of the stone was too perfect, the folds of the robes too natural, as if the statue might breathe at any moment.
The white bird landed quietly on the paved stone nearby. It didn't approach the statue. In fact, none of the animals he had seen in the garden seemed willing to enter this space.
A squirrel sat at the edge of the clearing, perched on a branch, casually munching on something held tightly between its tiny hands. It paused only once to glance toward the statue—then quickly turned away, tail flicking, as if to pretend it hadn't seen anything at all.
Satria glanced around, a creeping realization settling in. The others—the trees, the flowers, even the wildlife—were all keeping their distance. Not out of fear, exactly, but something quieter, deeper. Respect. Caution. Reverence.
'Weird… this place doesn't feel dead,' Satria thought. 'Just… empty.'
He knelt down, running his fingers across the floor. The sandstone had a slightly coarse texture, like fine sand pressed tight over centuries.
Scratch, scratch. His nails traced the edge of a tile. He leaned closer.
In the center, right before the statue's base, a small stone tablet stood propped up. It was no larger than a piece of paper and looked ancient—weathered, cracked, and inscribed with a language he didn't recognize.
Curious, Satria rose and walked up to it. The writing was deeply carved, looping and curling like vines or waves. It was beautiful, but utterly alien. Still, his eyes caught on a single shape near the bottom—an emblem he had seen before.
It was part of the circle etched on the floor of the room where he'd awoken. That strange summoning-like pattern. This particular symbol matched one of the many symbols drawn inside the stone room where his body had been earlier.
He narrowed his eyes.
"What does this mean?"
He reached out—almost instinctively—to touch the plaque. But just as his fingers neared the cold stone, a sudden instinct made him pull back.
He stepped back from the statue, still staring at the symbol. The connection was undeniable now. This statue—this place—was part of whatever had happened to him.
'This isn't just a dream,' he thought. 'I was… brought here.'
He turned his eyes upward, examining the statue's face. There was a gentleness in the stone man's gaze. Not a warning. A welcome? A farewell?
He wasn't sure.
FLIT.
The bird jumped up, fluttering above him impatiently. It chirped once, then darted away along another path.
Satria looked at it, then back at the statue. He sighed.
"Right. No answers yet. Let's just follow the bird for now."
As he turned away, the breeze suddenly shifted. A faint scent of burning incense touched his nose. Familiar and strange all at once.
He stopped.
For a moment, just a breath in time, he remembered lying in a hospital bed. A white room. Cold air. Pain. Machines beeping slowly.
But the memory slipped from him as quickly as it came.
Satria shook his head. "What was that…"
The white bird chirped again, louder this time.
"Alright, alright, I'm coming!"
He walked quickly after the bird, leaving the statue behind—but he couldn't shake the feeling that it was watching him. His mind still tangled in thoughts about the statue, he barely noticed the bird shifting its attention toward him.
Satria walked forward, still holding his head as the persistent white bird pecked lightly, almost playfully, at his hair. He swatted gently, trying to fend it off, but the bird was relentless. Its tiny eyes gleamed with a strange intelligence, and Satria couldn't help but feel there was a purpose behind its behavior.
As he continued, the trees gave way, and before him lay a beautiful lake. The water was crystal clear—so transparent that he could see smooth stones and aquatic plants beneath the surface. Though the lake wasn't very large, the way the sunlight danced and shimmered on the water's surface made it appear vast, almost endless.
Stretching across the lake was a wooden bridge, it's dark planks worn but sturdy. Satria's eyes narrowed in recognition. The wood looked strikingly familiar—like the heavy, dark wood of the door in the empty room where he had first awakened. The contrast between the rich, almost black wood and the sparkling lake water was stark, yet oddly harmonious.
Curiosity pulled him forward. He stepped onto the bridge, the planks creaking softly beneath his feet. The air smelled faintly of damp earth and fresh water, mingled with the subtle scent of pine from the surrounding forest.
At the far end of the bridge, nestled just above the lake, stood a gazebo—simple in design but undeniably elegant. Its white pillars rose gracefully, supporting a peaked roof, and delicate latticework framed the open sides. The structure seemed almost to glow in the sunlight, peaceful and inviting.
The white bird flitted ahead, chirping sharply. It swooped in tight circles, darted up and down, even performed a small flip midair. Then, as if growing serious, it hovered in place and lifted one wing, pointing decisively toward the gazebo.
Satria met its gaze and understood. The bird wanted him to go there.
With a deep breath, he moved toward the gazebo, heart pounding with anticipation. What awaited him there? Why had the bird brought him here?
Satria trailed behind the white bird as it fluttered ahead, each step bringing him closer to the wooden gazebo at the heart of the lake. The air grew warmer here, touched with the delicate fragrance of unseen blossoms. The sun shimmered above like liquid gold, casting a soft glow across the bridge and water.
The lake beneath him was no ordinary lake.
It was clear—crystal clear—so pristine it felt more like polished glass than liquid. Within it swam dozens of fish, their movements slow and elegant. Their fins flowed like silk in the water, trailing behind them like cloaks of spun moonlight. No two were the same—some bore brilliant shades of sapphire and emerald, while others glowed with warm hues of crimson, gold, and ivory. Their tails unfurled like butterfly wings, glimmering in the sun as they danced in silence.
Satria stopped in the middle of the bridge, gripping the railing as he leaned forward to watch them. His breath caught in his throat.
It wasn't just the beauty. It was the stillness. Not a silence of absence, but one filled with purpose—like the world was holding its breath, waiting.
His heart thudded softly in his chest. He felt small. Yet not in fear—just… humbled.
The bird chirped once, perched at the edge of the gazebo.
Satria stepped off the bridge.
Then he saw her.
A woman stood beneath the shade of the gazebo. She was draped in a white robe that caught the wind, flowing gently around her like a whisper. Her long black hair cascaded down her back and shoulders, swaying softly with the breeze. A wide-brimmed white hat shaded her eyes, but it couldn't hide the gentle curve of her lips or the serene, knowing look on her face.
Their eyes met.
And Satria froze.
She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
Not in the exaggerated way people describe in stories—but in the quiet, unshakable way that left him breathless. Her presence wasn't loud or overbearing. It was elegant. Timeless. The kind of beauty you didn't just see, but felt. Her skin glowed softly in the light, and her black eyes looked straight through him.
For a moment, everything stopped. The breeze. The birds. Even the lake seemed to still.
She raised her teacup, took a final sip, and smiled at him. A small, delicate smile that made Satria's heart skip a beat.
Then she spoke, her voice soft as a breeze through leaves.
"Welcome to the Garden of Avalon."
Satria blinked. He had been staring. He felt heat rise to his face.
Her voice was… melodic. Not hypnotic or unnatural. Just perfect. Warm, inviting, calm. The kind of voice that wrapped around you like a gentle touch and made you want to listen.
She set her teacup down on a small table beside her and stepped forward. The white bird chirped from her shoulder, fluttering once but staying close.
"My name is Viviane," she said, folding her hands together in front of her. "I've been waiting for you."
Satria opened his mouth, then closed it again.
He didn't know what to say. The words refused to come. Was it the suddenness? Her beauty? Or maybe something more?
"You're… waiting for me?" he finally asked, unsure if his voice sounded as uncertain as he felt.
Viviane smiled again. "Yes. For quite some time, in fact."
The air around them seemed to shimmer faintly as she took a slow step closer. There was no threat in her movements, no pressure—only presence. Her gaze never left his.
"I have a proposition for you, Satria Kusuma Wijaya."