On a quiet, dimly lit highway—illuminated only by streetlights spaced far apart—a convoy of luxury cars and armored vehicles moved slowly but steadily. The faint sound of tires rubbing against asphalt blended with the silence of the night, as if the darkness itself was holding its breath. Their destination was clear: a middle-class residential area on the outskirts of Tirtanegara City.
But they were not alone.
Within the shadows of the thick night, a figure moved swiftly. Their breath was steady, their footsteps nearly silent, merging seamlessly with the flow of the night air. This figure was a member of the noble Atmadewa family, sent to tail the movements of the Darmasena group.
"Looks like they're heading toward a third-tier family," he murmured, his voice nearly lost in the rustle of the wind. His eyes narrowed sharply, focused on the cars ahead. "As I thought… they're planning to threaten the lower-ranked families cooperating with us. Hmph… filthy scheme."
His hand slowly reached into his belt, pulling out a small, spike-shaped object that looked ordinary—except for its aura—reddish, like a flicker of fire dancing on a needle's tip. The aura pulsed subtly but sharply, sending tremors through the air around it.
With swift and practiced movements, he threw the spike toward the convoy. It shot forward in a deliberately aimed arc—not meant to injure, but to deliver a warning.
And sure enough, several vehicles in the middle and rear of the convoy suddenly came to a halt, the sound of hissing tires puncturing the night. The guards inside quickly jumped out. Clad in light combat gear, some immediately took defensive stances, while others scanned the surroundings with wary eyes.
The leader of the group, a broad-shouldered man with a sharp gaze, stepped to the front of his vehicle. His brows furrowed, lips tightening.
"Hmm... looks like we've been spotted," he said, his voice deep and alert. "Quick! Replace the punctured tires!"
His subordinates moved swiftly, but remained on high alert.
Meanwhile, the leader closed his eyes briefly, then reopened them—his pupils now altered, a clear sign that he was using spiritual awareness to scan the area. The atmosphere turned still, as if the air itself had frozen. But not a single trace of an enemy could be found.
"Show yourself! Don't be a coward if you dare!" he shouted—not with an ordinary voice, but with a wave of spiritual sound that extended far beyond the limits of normal hearing.
And in that instant, the air seemed to shudder.
The hidden figure released a sliver of their Jagat Jiwa aura—not fully, but just enough to display their tier of power. It came like a gentle pressure crushing the chest, making one's hair stand on end. In the distance, the wind ceased, and the world seemed to freeze in a single held breath.
The leader's face turned pale at once. His eyes widened, and a cold sweat trickled down his temple.
"Damn… that's a Jagat Jiwa realm!" he muttered, his voice tight with dread. He spun toward his men. "We need to return to the Darmasena family estate—now!"
Without waiting for a second order, his followers turned back immediately, abandoning the vehicles that hadn't been repaired. They withdrew in silence and fear, realizing their movements had been watched by a force far greater than they had anticipated.
And thus... the beginning of the conflict between two great factions was not marked by open warfare, but by silent, cunning, and calculated attacks.
The Jayakarta Nobility carefully deceived the lesser powers beneath them, creating hidden routes, infiltrating their influence, and destabilizing the foundations of families allied with the opposing side. On the other hand, the Tirta Negara Nobility cut off all aid and supply lines from Jayakarta meant to be sent from the capital to the Tirta Negara region. Roads were guarded, ports locked down, and even air shipments were inspected by their shadow sentinels.
A conflict like this would not be resolved quickly.
There were old agreements still binding, national laws jointly upheld by the noble families, martial sects, and even the government itself. They all knew that if this conflict exploded and destroyed a major city, the government would intervene directly, along with neutral noble families and great sects that safeguarded the nation's balance.
Even though the power between the government, noble families, and sects was relatively balanced, if these two major factions were besieged by a united coalition, they wouldn't last long. They would have no choice but to submit... or be annihilated along with all their glory.
That's why the attacks were done in secret. A shadow war behind the curtains. Tactics of manipulation and sabotage. No declarations of war—yet death and destruction moved in silence.
But all of that would only last until patience broke. And when that moment came, a great war would become inevitable. Anywhere. Anytime. Without warning. Vengeance had become a flame burning in their chests.
Especially in this era... the earth's vitality was abundant, and spiritual energy could easily merge with human will. Desire turned into power, and revenge could become a weapon of immeasurable destruction.
---
Meanwhile… in the middle of a city slowly gripped by tension and conflict, among whispers of strategy and the march of conspiracies, in a secluded and silent meditation chamber… Baskara remained calm.
He sat cross-legged in stillness. In the room, only the faint light of the jagat candle, the gentle swirl of incense smoke rising to the ceiling, and the voices of ancestors guiding his thoughts remained.
Before him, secret techniques, ancestral wisdom, and inherited martial arts slowly unfolded—like the universe revealing itself to a tranquil soul. The world might fall into chaos… but the universe within him must remain balanced.
First, Baskara began to comprehend the technique of his ancestral heirloom: The Heart-Piercing Thrust.
Of course, this was not just a mere stab to the heart—not that simple. This thrust was an attack on the center of awareness, the core of the soul, and if successful… the struck soul would not only be torn but could also be passively absorbed into the domain of the dagger itself.
This technique struck two realms simultaneously: body and soul.
But… that wasn't the most terrifying part. What made this technique truly feared was the fact that victims were unaware their soul had been wounded. They could still walk, talk, even fight—but at some point, their soul would gradually vanish, like being carried away by the wind.
One thrust. One path of no return.
Naturally, mastering such a technique was incredibly difficult for most people. Many couldn't even grasp the first step: distinguishing the physical heart from the soul's heart. Some were even consumed by the technique itself while trying to understand it.
But what about Baskara?
He sat still, eyes closed, the Kala Niskala dagger resting in his lap.
The energy from the dagger pulsed softly—not wild, but waiting. As if… testing whether its master was truly worthy.
And with a single breath—Baskara dove in.
He followed the energy flow from the tip of the blade to the hidden dimension that was the dagger's core. In that silence, he found a technique not shaped by motion, but by sensation. A subtle, invisible impulse that could pierce one's soul with nothing but focused intent.
No clashes. No struggles. No difficulty.
To him, the technique flowed like water finding its path. He didn't force understanding… for it seemed the technique had been waiting for him all along.
One attempt.
And Baskara succeeded.
Once he mastered the technique, silence once again enveloped his meditation chamber. But that peace didn't last long—a voice echoed gently in his mind, not loud, but soul-shaking:
> "Sharp at the tip, curved in its path, firm at the base, and beautiful in pattern — like a true human: decisive in purpose, adaptive in journey, strong in principles, and graceful in soul."
The voice had no form, no direction. Baskara opened his eyes, glancing around. But before him, there was only stone walls, meditative stillness, and the dagger, still faintly glowing in his embrace.
No one was there.
Yet the voice… felt real. As if it didn't just enter his ears, but pierced deep into his heart. There was a deeper meaning beyond the poetic words.
He closed his eyes again. He contemplated each line.
"Sharp at the tip…" He envisioned decisiveness in choosing his path.
"Curved in its path…" He saw himself adapting through various circumstances without losing direction.
"Firm at the base…" A symbol of an unshakable soul foundation.
"Beautiful in pattern…" A message about inner beauty, not just strength.
And as his reflection reached its peak—suddenly, like a dam breaking, a flood of information rushed into his mind. Unstoppable.
Symbols. Techniques. Images. Energy pathways. The deepest secrets of the Kala Niskala dagger.
His eyes trembled. Sweat trickled down his brow. Yet his body remained seated, still in meditation. Baskara did not resist. He opened himself to it.
He knew… this was more than a technique.
It was a soul's legacy.
A heritage from ancestors who had once merged with both void and light. A legacy not passed down through words, but through spiritual understanding.
And when it all ended, Baskara exhaled slowly… and smiled faintly.
> "I understand… this is not just a technique… it is a way of life."
"A way of life…?"
That question echoed within Baskara for days. His gaze was blank, his body still in meditation, but his soul drifted through a sea of unanswered questions.
> Is a way of life the same as fate? Or is it a choice? Does everyone have a different path? Is its purpose merely strength… or is it to reach immortality?
Days passed in silence. No movement from his body, his breathing so calm he seemed lifeless. But his mind… raced through an endless labyrinth of reflection.
One week… two weeks…
Until finally, his eyes blinked slowly. His breath deepened. He awakened—without finding the answer.
"I don't know…," he whispered. Yet in that uncertainty, a new resolve formed. For not every question needs an immediate answer. Perhaps… the way of life is not to be understood, but to be lived.
He turned slowly. The soft glows of spiritual stones around him had gone completely dim. Not a single one remained.
> "More than two weeks," he thought. "The spiritual stones didn't just dim… they've become nothingness."
That is indeed their nature. When used to light meditation chambers, they emit natural light but slowly fade and vanish. Especially if absorbed during deep meditation, their essence is entirely extinguished.
Baskara stood slowly. His body still stiff, yet calm. He gripped the Kala Niskala dagger in his hand. Still warm—as if reminding him that his journey had yet to begin, but the path was now clear.
His first step wasn't to fight. But to see… his father and mother.
> "Father… must be involved in this conflict. As one of the family's elites, he couldn't possibly remain passive."
And his mother. A skilled alchemist, known as the right hand of many elders in refining medicine, antidotes, and spiritual poisons.
> "They must be busy… and perhaps also… in danger."
Baskara stepped out of the meditation chamber. The morning light greeted his face—free of doubt, yet filled with deep reflection. The sky looked calm… but he knew, a storm was coming.