Deep in the forest, on a high cliff where a waterfall plunged freely into the valley, a young man sat cross-legged. His eyes were closed, his body calm, fully attuned to nature. The roar of the water was the only sound that filled the day, as if the world itself was holding its breath.
The young man wore all-black clothing, with a white sash tied around his waist. A plain headband wrapped neatly around his head, holding back his long, flowing hair. His face was youthful, but his body was sturdy—honed through years of relentless training.
He was Wira. A young man from Mount Tarakan. For as long as he could remember, he had lived far from the world, far from the chaos of the martial realm.
Around his body, the air shimmered subtly. From his pores radiated faint streaks of bluish-silver light—Sura, a pure energy that could only be gained through long years of practice and communion with nature.
From below the cliff, an old man watched the unnatural aura. The Sura surrounding Wira pulsed with an intensity the old man had never seen before.
Without a word, he leapt up to the cliff and launched a strike straight at Wira's head—who remained in meditation with eyes still closed. The attack was full of force, targeting a lethal point without hesitation.
But at the last second, Wira caught the strike with one hand, still seated in meditation. His eyes remained shut. His body only tilted slightly—the strike didn't land, but its force still echoed.
"DUARRR!"
A burst of energy slammed into the ground behind Wira, producing a thunderous boom and a cloud of dust—though the blow had never actually touched the ground.
Before the dust could settle, the old man launched a second attack. His left hand shot upward, aiming directly for Wira's chin. A swift and precise strike.
But in a blink, Wira leapt backward, evading the attack. His movement was light but practiced, as though his body already knew the direction of the strike before his eyes even opened.
Now they stood facing each other. Without hesitation, Wira darted forward to counter. Streaks of energy wrapped around both of them, colliding mid-air like lightning strikes crashing together.
The earth scattered. Small branches were shredded. Birds flapped away in panic, fleeing the strange vibrations pulsing from the duel.
In a split second, the old man's solid kick landed square on Wira's chest. Wira's body was hurled backward, slamming into a large tree. The trunk trembled violently.
"BUKK!"
Leaves fell. The ground quivered.
Then they both burst into laughter, as if nothing had happened. The tension melted away, as though the fight had just been part of their routine.
Wira darted toward the old man again. But as he got close—
"BUUK!"
A palm struck his head hard.
His grandfather had hit him with an open palm—not using inner force, but hard enough that Wira's head dipped slightly.
"You," muttered the old man, shaking his head, "are never serious when you train."
"Hehehe… How'd you know I wasn't serious, Gramps?" Wira rubbed his head, grinning.
The old man gave him a side glance and a thin smirk.
"You little rascal…" he said. "Trying to trick your own grandfather?"
"That's not it, Gramps! I'd never dare trick you!" Wira said, puffing out his chest and swinging his arms as if showing off.
"If I used my full power and you died, who'd I live with?"
"BUUK!"
Another smack landed on Wira's head.
"Ungrateful grandson!" the old man grumbled, though his lips curled into an amused smile.
He dusted off his clothes, then looked at Wira with a gaze more serious than before.
"I think you're ready to leave the mountain, Wira."
Wira, who had just been laughing, suddenly fell quiet.
"Leave the mountain?" he repeated softly.
His smile disappeared, replaced by a hesitant expression.
The old man gazed deeply at his grandson. The midday breeze gently blew Wira's long hair.
"Yes, leave the mountain," he said quietly.
"It's time you saw the outside world… and maybe found yourself a beautiful bride."
Wira frowned, staring at his grandfather, half confused and half disbelieving.
"A bride? Wait… what's a bride, Gramps?"
The old man let out a long sigh.
Once again, his powerful grandson proved utterly clueless about the world.
"Sigh… you fool of a boy!"
"You seriously don't know what a bride is?"
Wira scratched his head, dead serious.
"A bride… is that a new martial technique, Gramps?"
The old man turned away, walking off while shaking his head.
"Dear heavens… I've failed you."
He exhaled deeply and stared blankly at the tips of swaying bamboo trees.
Only now did he realize…
All this time he'd been focused on teaching Sura, breathing, survival—and completely forgot to teach his grandson about the actual world.
Has he even seen a woman before...?
He turned back to Wira, who still stood there with a blank look, clearly waiting for an explanation about "bride."
"Wira…" he said more softly.
"Do you… know what a woman looks like?"
Wira squinted, looked left and right, then pointed to a female deer drinking by the stream.
"Like that one?" he asked innocently.
The old man covered his face with both hands.
"Oh dear… my grandson is ruined."
Wira stayed serious.
"She's smaller than the male, moves more gracefully… and when I was little, you said women are gentle like deer."
"That was a metaphor, Wira! A ME-TAA-PHOR!" shouted the old man, smacking his own thigh.
"Dear Lord, this boy needs a proper teacher…"
Wira looked at him, puzzled.
"So not that one?"
"NO!"
They fell silent for a moment.
Then the old man chuckled, defeated by his grandson's genuine stupidity.
"Enough… The longer you stay on this mountain, the worse it'll get. Before you fall in love with a tree or a rock, it's best you go down and see the world for yourself."
He took a deep breath and sat on a large boulder. His eyes turned to the sky, which had started to turn orange with the approach of dusk.
"Listen carefully, Wira…" he said gently.
"Women aren't techniques, opponents, or training targets."
Wira sat in front of him, his face serious—like he was learning a secret art.
"Women are gentle," the old man continued,
"but don't mistake that for weakness. If they're silent, it doesn't always mean they agree. If they smile, it doesn't always mean they're happy."
Wira nodded solemnly. But his eyes were already following a passing bird.
The old man sighed and tapped his head.
"Are you even listening?"
"I am, Gramps. So… women are like traps, right?"
"Good heavens…"
The old man looked up, as if begging an ancestor to intervene.
He sighed, then said more softly,
"They're not traps. But if you're careless, you might fall too deep. So remember, Wira… don't make empty promises. Don't get close recklessly. And most importantly…"
He pointed to Wira's chest.
"…never use inner force to approach a woman. This isn't a duel. It's a matter of the heart."
Wira blinked.
"So… I should use the tongue technique, then?"
The old man shot to his feet, smacking his forehead.
"Remember this, Wira…" he said, turning to him,
"If you fall in love, be careful. The more beautiful she is…"
"…the more dangerous."
Wira stared blankly, still not fully grasping it.
"So… what should I do, Gramps?"
The old man paused. He closed his eyes, as if recalling painful lessons of youth.
Then he opened them slowly, looking at Wira with deep seriousness and affection.
"It's simple," he said.
"If your heart starts racing, make sure it's love—not just curiosity.
If you want to take a step forward, make sure you're ready to take responsibility."
Wira nodded, though he seemed to be deep in thought.
"And most importantly…" the old man added, placing a hand on his shoulder,
"Don't break a woman's heart. Wounds from fists can heal…
…but wounds of the heart can turn into lifelong grudges."
Wira nodded slowly, still wearing a serious face.
"Okay, Gramps… So if a woman isn't a technique, isn't a trap, isn't an opponent…"
He raised his fingers, counting.
"…and can be dangerous too, then I should… run away if I see one?"
The old man shot up, face red, veins popping.
"GOOD LORD, WIRA!!"
"THAT'S NOT THE POINT!!"
Wira flinched.
"But you said she's dangerous and I shouldn't approach carelessly… So doesn't that mean I should avoid her?"
"Dear heavens, this child…"
The old man tore at his hair, ready to explode.
"I've taught you inner force since you were five, taught you meditation, breathing, combat, even how to roast cassava without burning it…"
"…but when it comes to women, your brain turns into a river rock!"
Wira scratched his head and grinned.
"Well… there were no women here on the mountain, Gramps. I thought they were mythical creatures."
The old man closed his eyes for a long time.
Then let out a deep breath.
"Fine…" he said finally, his voice calmer.
"If you meet a woman down there, just smile first. But don't propose. Don't challenge her to a duel."
Wira mentally noted it down like a sacred technique.
"Got it, Gramps. Smile first… no dueling."
"And one more thing…"
The old man looked at him sharply.
"If something makes your heart beat faster, don't start meditating. That's not an energy imbalance—it's falling in love!"
Wira simply nodded, as if he had just discovered a new hidden technique.
They walked back to their hut, the mountain path already veiled in evening mist.
The old man rubbed his face slowly, his steps heavy—not from age, but from despair.
His face was on the verge of tears.
Not from sorrow…
But from the realization that his grandson…
…might not survive the real world.