It had been three long days since Rangga had begun tracking his target. He'd combed through alleys, city outskirts, and watched surveillance from various street corners and public venues. Every lead seemed to dissolve into nothing. A few times, he had thought he'd found the target, only to end up chasing low-level thugs no more than petty jumping squirrels, scurrying about in the shadows of the real threat.
Now, taking a break from his relentless search, Rangga wandered around the poolside of the luxurious hotel where he was staying. The morning sun bathed the pool deck in warmth, and the gentle breeze carried with it a salty tinge of the nearby sea. He stretched his muscles, letting the tension of the past few days slip away.
Settling into a woven rattan lounge chair, Rangga signaled to a waiter. "Breakfast, please. Something hearty," he said, with a faint smile.
As he waited, he looked out over the pool. Children played and splashed in the water, their giggles rising and falling like waves. His gaze moved to one end of the pool, where a man swam laps. At first, it seemed like nothing unusual, but something caught Rangga's attention.
There was foam where there shouldn't have been—bubbles that hissed faintly as they dissipated, and a curious white smoke rising subtly from the swimmer's path. It wasn't chlorine. It was something else. Something unnatural.
"Hmph... That's not ordinary," Rangga muttered, leaning forward slightly.
He continued observing. The man finished his swim and calmly climbed out of the pool, toweling off with deliberate slowness. He then disappeared into one of the suites. Rangga, with well-practiced patience, followed discreetly. Hours passed, but the man never left his room. Nothing suspicious happened. At least, not yet.
When dusk fell, Rangga left the hotel, deciding to follow the next clue in the trail. Driving through a quieter part of the city, Rangga was startled when a motorcycle darted out, nearly colliding with his vehicle.
"Woah!" he hissed, slamming the brakes.
The motorcyclist sped off, weaving through the empty streets with surprising agility. A few seconds later, several other motorcycles roared past, clearly in pursuit.
Curiosity piqued, Rangga followed. He kept a safe distance—about three hundred meters behind—using the shadows and the quiet streets to his advantage. Eventually, the chase led to an isolated stretch of road bordered by tall trees and unfinished construction.
There, the group cornered the original motorcyclist. Five against one.
Rangga parked discreetly and observed.
The lone rider dismounted and removed his helmet. Rangga's eyes narrowed.
"It's him," he whispered. "The man from the pool."
No words were exchanged between the six men. Instead, the five attackers spread out, flanking the lone rider like wolves circling prey.
Two of them lunged first—one aiming a kick to the head, the other throwing a punch to the gut. From their size and build, they were clearly experienced fighters.
But the lone man reacted with an eerie calm. He ducked, spun, and with a swift, spiraling kick, knocked both attackers off balance and onto the pavement.
The remaining three didn't wait. Two launched simultaneous flying kicks. The third drew a weapon from beneath his jacket—short, metallic, deadly.
But the lone man, again, defied expectations. He caught both airborne assailants by their legs mid-flight, twisted them midair, and slammed them into the ground. The weapon-wielder slashed forward—but the man sidestepped, caught the attacker's wrist, twisted it backward until the man screamed, and disarmed him. Then, with a sharp kick to the stomach, he sent him sprawling.
Rangga's eyes widened. "That's... incredible."
The weapon—a collapsible baton—was now in the lone man's hands. He held it out with both arms, straight and threatening. But then, in a move that stunned everyone, he shattered the weapon across his thigh with one clean strike. The fragments clattered to the asphalt.
The five attackers froze. Then, almost in unison, they stepped back, bowed their heads, and clenched their fists in a gesture of martial respect.
One of them approached, picked up a duffel bag from a nearby motorcycle, placed it at the man's feet, and stepped back. Another deep bow. Then, without a word, they mounted their bikes and disappeared into the night.
Silence returned.
Rangga, frozen in awe, barely noticed as the man turned and jogged toward his car. It was only when he raised a hand and gestured for Rangga to step out that he fully returned to his senses.
With cautious respect, Rangga got out of the vehicle, wearing a polite, guarded smile.
"Looks like you've been looking for me for three days now," the man said, his voice calm but sharp.
Rangga's eyes widened. "How...?" he muttered internally. He knew? Even though I've been so careful?
The man took a casual stance, but there was a quiet challenge in his eyes.
"Go ahead. Test me if you'd like."
Rangga felt a rush of adrenaline surge through his veins. He grinned. "I was hoping you'd say that."
They moved to an open clearing beside the road. The atmosphere shifted. The wind hushed. The stars seemed to hold their breath.
Rangga launched first. His form—sharp, precise, Taekwondo-based—cut through the air with brutal elegance. He favored close combat, the feel of fist against bone, the thrill of real-time strategy over flashy powers.
But the man countered easily. His moves were slower, more fluid—Tai Chi with a twist of Chinese internal martial arts, balancing power and breath.
Each strike collided mid-air, canceling the other out. Punch met parry. Kick met block. Sweat glistened on their brows.
The tempo shifted.
Now it was the man's turn. His style shifted again—more aggressive, grounded. Rangga responded by mixing in Muay Thai elbow strikes and Ninjutsu footwork. Their fight became a dance of pain and precision.
Rangga narrowed his eyes. He unleashed his signature—Lion-Stealing Claws. He lunged, hands curled like talons, aiming to slash at the man's face.
But the man ducked at the last second, grabbed Rangga's wrist, and threw him upwards. Midair, Rangga twisted, trying to launch a counter-kick—but the man had anticipated it.
Boom!
A kick landed in Rangga's gut, sending him sprawling backward into the dirt. Groaning, Rangga rolled, got up, and laughed—a wild, exhilarated laugh.
"Finally, someone worth fighting!"
He launched himself again, doubling his speed. In a flash, he was behind the man. His fingers clamped around his opponent's neck.
Rangga let out a roaring scream, summoning the power that had crushed lesser foes. His grip tightened—until...
Nothing.
The man turned slowly, unfazed. With a calm expression, he clasped Rangga's wrists, broke the hold, and locked eyes with him.
Then Rangga noticed it.
The smell.
Pandan.
A thick, almost divine aroma.
His strength faltered. His body weakened. The scent overwhelmed him.
"What... is this?" he choked.
But before he could finish the thought, the man's body emitted a radiant blue light, the kind Rangga had only heard of in myth and legend. His aura—a burning yellow—clashed with it for a moment.
Then—darkness.
Rangga collapsed.
Fainted.
The last thing he saw was the man's silhouette walking toward him, bending slightly, and whispering:
"You still have much to learn, Rapid Lion."
—
Purnomo opened his eyes slowly and realized he was slumped over the dashboard of his car. A sharp pain pulsed through his temple. Groaning, he tried to sit up.
"Are you okay?!" A voice broke through the ringing in his ears. A hand reached out to help steady him.
Rangga winced, managing a faint smile as he straightened himself. His pride stung more than his injuries.
"I'm alright," he mumbled, his voice tinged with embarrassment.
The man who'd helped him nodded knowingly. "No need to feel disappointed or bitter. That was just one lesson. Your time hasn't come yet."
Rangga remained quiet, humbled and uncertain. He glanced at the man in front of him, sensing something deeper beneath the calm demeanor.
"So, what exactly are you looking for?" the man asked, folding his arms.