Whispers of the Forest

Ever since the Pamalayu Expedition was launched by Singhasari in 1275, the grip of Javanese power over the Malay lands had tightened like an iron noose.

Its reach extended far beyond Dharmasraya. Within just six years, every small kingdom in the region—including Dharmapuri—had fallen under its administrative control.

Singhasari banners fluttered from garrison posts in every village, and the laws of Java were enforced without compromise. Yet beneath this forced submission, the spirit of resistance had never truly died.

Deep within the dense forests and hidden valleys, the masters of Silek Harimau—the Tiger Style martial art—moved like hungry phantoms.

They raised no banners.

They struck from the thick undergrowth.

Their curved kerambit blades lashed out, tearing through flesh and sinew with savage precision.

Several small Singhasari patrols vanished without a trace, leaving only blood to be absorbed by the earth. This forced the kingdom’s soldiers to change their tactics.

No longer did they travel in pairs. Now they moved in large, fully armed squads, given a single, unyielding order: capture or kill anyone who dared to resist.

Amidst this rising tension…

Hattori—now living as Sena Sanjaya—had withdrawn into seclusion.

More than three months atop Harau Summit had transformed him completely. His body, once gaunt and marked by the scars of forced labor, was now tough and resilient, like seasoned rattan soaked in oil.

His muscles did not bulge excessively, but they were firm and strong exactly where they needed to be. His skin had darkened from the sun and mountain winds.

But it was his eyes—those eyes—that had lost all trace of a village boy’s innocence, replaced by the sharp, unwavering gaze of a Jonin. Hattori had finally achieved full harmony with his new body.

Early the next morning, his stomach gave a low rumble—a signal he could no longer ignore. His supply of tubers and forest fruits was running low.

It was time to test a technique he had practiced only in theory until now: Shinobi Iri, the art of moving without leaving a trace or arousing awareness in one’s target—a more advanced form of Shinobi Aruki.

Sena lowered his center of gravity, letting his body follow the natural contours of the ground. His full weight rested on the outer edges of his feet, while his toes gripped the earth like roots.

Not far ahead, a forest rabbit lapped dew from fern leaves. Its ears stood erect, twitching at every faint disturbance in the air.

Sena froze, motionless, his eyes locked on his prey without blinking.

“TOH,” he commanded within his mind.

He formed the Seal of Harmony, his fingers moving with a precision that now felt natural, pressing the nerve points on his hands with the lightest possible pressure.

Slowly, his body’s rhythm began to slow. His breathing grew so shallow it was nearly undetectable, and his heartbeat dropped to the lowest threshold a human could reach without losing consciousness.

To the senses of the natural world, Sena was no longer a living being. He was merely a mound of earth, or perhaps just a stone.

The rabbit relaxed, deceived by the false stillness.

Sena shifted to the RETSU seal. His fingers pressed against different nerve points; his pupils narrowed, his vision sharpened, and his perception intensified dramatically. The world seemed to resolve into lines of angle and trajectory.

He calculated the distance, the slope of the ground, the direction of the wind, and even the possible path his prey might take. He predicted the rabbit’s next move.

The moment the rabbit shifted its weight—just a fraction of a second, its instincts already screaming to flee—

Tap—!

In a single, almost invisible burst of motion, Sena was already in position. His hand shot out, seizing the rabbit by the scruff of its neck with exact, controlled pressure.

The animal struggled briefly, then went limp. There was no cry, no unnecessary suffering.

“Success,” he murmured, a faint smile touching his lips—though his head throbbed slightly for a moment.

But that small sense of victory vanished instantly. His sharp hearing picked up an unfamiliar sound—not the rustle of leaves in the wind, but the careless snap of dry twigs underfoot. Human footsteps.

Sena immediately dropped low, concealing himself behind tall bushes.

Down the hidden path below, three figures emerged from the thin mist. Balun walked at the front, his burly frame now seeming smaller with fear. His face was pale, his eyes sunken. Behind him came his two constant companions, Jagu and Danta. They gripped machetes and hacked away at branches blocking their way.

“I’m certain I saw a wisp of smoke coming from this direction last night,” Jagu whispered.

Balun wiped cold sweat from his brow. His eyes scanned the surroundings, a mix of greed and dread in his gaze. “Search carefully. If we can deliver Sena to Lord Purwa, we’ll be free from tribute for the next month. Understood?”

Jagu and Danta nodded. They continued climbing, Balun moving directly toward the area where Sena had been training. He pushed aside the last clump of bushes, and his eyes went wide.

There lay the remains of a still-warm campfire. Footprints were clearly visible in the dirt. He looked up, toward the towering ancient meranti trees.

“Sena… where are you? Come out…” His voice trembled slightly.

High above them, perched motionless on an old meranti branch, Sena crouched. His eyes locked onto Balun’s throat, coldly calculating distance and angle.

Balun took a hesitant step forward, his foot touching the warm ash. “Sena! Show yourself! …Don’t be a coward!” he shouted loudly—though it was more to steady his own nerves.

Sena formed the SHA seal. His control over his motor nerves and vocal cords sharpened. In the eyes of Hattori Zen, these three were no threat at all. They were merely an opportunity to test his skills.

“This place… feels wrong,” Danta muttered. “The trail… why does it just end here?”

Creak…

A branch shifted to their right. All three turned sharply, raising their machetes. But there was nothing there.

Then a soft, faint laughter echoed from directly behind them.

“Kik kik… kik kik… kik kik…”

“Who’s there?!” Balun spun around instinctively. The mist of Harau began to creep higher around them.

Sena shifted position, moving from branch to branch almost silently. The hollow trunks and rocky cliffs acted as natural amplifiers, deepening the already eerie atmosphere.

“Leave… this… place…” The deep voice seemed to resonate from beneath their very feet.

“W-Who… who is it?!” Jagu’s lips trembled as he stammered.

“It must be… the guardian spirit of the forest!” Danta cried out. His chest heaved, his breathing growing shallow and rapid, crushing their resolve further.

Sena flicked a hard seed into the bushes to their left.

Srek…

“There!” Balun pointed, waving his machete unsteadily.

As they turned their heads, Sena had already leaped to another branch and dropped a clump of damp earth onto Balun’s shoulder.

Balun yelped in alarm. The cold mud felt like the touch of a corpse’s hand.

“Sacrificeee… neeedsss… a sacrifiiiceee…” Once again, Sena used his voice technique to shatter their psychological composure.

“AAAAAH! IT’S A GHOST!”

“SIAMPA…!”

Balun turned and fled in panic. His two friends followed close behind, stumbling and crashing through thorn bushes, heedless of the cuts and scratches on their bodies.

Eventually, their screams and the sound of their frantic footsteps faded away down the hillside.

An eerie silence settled once more over Harau Summit. The mist seemed to close its curtain again, hiding what had just taken place.

Sena descended from the tree, landing firmly and making almost no sound at all. He stood tall, gazing down the now-empty path.

His breathing returned to normal, his heartbeat settling back to a natural rhythm.

“Sometimes, fear is a weapon far sharper and more efficient than any blade,” Sena said flatly.

He retrieved the rabbit he had set aside in the bushes. But his expression quickly hardened again. His eyes turned toward the village far below.

Balun now knew someone was hiding atop Harau. If he reported the place was merely “haunted,” perhaps the superstitious villagers would stay away, giving Sena more time to train.

But Sena was no fool. What if soldiers of Singhasari—led by skeptical, bloodthirsty men like Purwa Wangsa—heard tales of a ghost? Would they simply avoid the area?

It seemed unlikely. Far more probably, they would send a squad of enforcers to burn the forest to the ground.

“Purwa…” Sena whispered the name in his mind like poison. His hands clenched into fists until his knuckles turned white. The killing intent he had long suppressed surged forth, spreading like a wave of heat through his veins.

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