The Spider’s Web

Hattori Zen—now living anew within Sena’s body—had never believed in something called luck.

In his homeland, luck was merely a polite term for a death delayed. A Jonin did not wait for enemies to come knocking at his door; he dictated how, where, and at which exact second his foes would draw their last breath.

After frightening Balun, Jagu, and Danta into a panicked retreat, their faces ashen with terror, Sena knew that Harau Summit was no longer merely a training ground or hiding place.

It had transformed into a fortress without walls—a labyrinth of death that answered only to his command.

With a terrifying calm, Sena began to survey and map the area within a hundred paces of his simple shelter: a structure with a leaf roof and walls woven from branches.

In his mind, the forest was no longer just a collection of trees and undergrowth. It had been broken down into levers, snares, gaps, and blind spots.

Bushes became concealing curtains; the towering branches of the meranti trees became his pathways; and the black mud and thick moss served as his cloak of concealment.

His first step was to gather materials. If he were in Iga, he might have scattered Tetsubishi—iron caltrops—or strung steel wire as fine as a hair. But here, in the heart of Sumatra’s wild jungle, he had to adapt to what the earth provided.

Sena climbed the wild rattan vines hanging from the edges of the granite cliffs. He cut the thorny tendrils and soaked them in the stream that fed the waterfall. When wet, rattan became extremely flexible and tough—yet impossible to break with bare hands.

With nimble fingers, he wove the fibers into fine cords, then camouflaged them with moss and soil.

“In Iga, this is called Kekkai—a barrier,” he whispered into the heavy silence. “A simple obstacle, but here, it is the line between life and death.”

He then set about constructing a deadly bamboo spring trap, a modified version of the Take-Otoshi. Sena chose aged yellow bamboo, its fibers hardened yet still possessing incredible elasticity.

Tick… Tick… Tick…

He pulled the bamboo until it curved to its limit, groaning softly under the tension, then secured it with a trigger peg connected to a fine rattan cord strung just above ankle height.

To the end of the bamboo, he bound five sharpened stakes, their tips hardened by fire over hot coals. This process crystallized the bamboo’s cellulose, making it as hard as steel.

If anyone severed the rattan cord, the sharpened stakes would shoot forward with the speed of an arrow—capable of piercing even the leather armor worn by Singhasari soldiers.

Not satisfied with just one type of trap, Sena moved to a narrower passage: a natural corridor between two towering granite walls. There, he prepared a Toshiana—a pitfall trap. But this was no ordinary shallow hole.

He dug deep, lining the bottom with sharpened bamboo stakes angled upward at a slant, creating a design that made it nearly impossible for a foot to be pulled free without tearing muscle and tendon.

The trap’s true cleverness lay in its cover: a fragile lattice of branches sprinkled with granite dust matching the color of the surrounding soil. From a distance, it appeared to be solid, safe ground.

A Jonin’s instincts taught him that war was not only about destroying the body, but also breaking the mind. He gathered several bleached monkey skulls, tying them with black sugar palm fiber to serve as hair.

He hung them in such a way that they swayed gently and emitted a strange rustling sound whenever the valley wind blew.

Combined with their silhouettes, which resembled small, hovering figures, these apparitions would poison the courage of any soldier already haunted by the myth of the Siampa—long before a blade was even drawn.

“Preparation is half the victory,” he thought, wiping cold sweat from his brow.

Sena then moved to the highest point, perched on the branch of an ancient meranti tree overlooking the village far below.

From this height, he could smell cooking smoke and spot small movements at the foot of the hill. He sharpened the machete that had belonged to his father—the only metal weapon he possessed. But his main focus now turned to the pile of bamboo blades he had just crafted.

He called them Sembilu Maut—Death Darts. Sena split mature betung bamboo into flat strips, each two fingers wide and about a handspan long.

These were no ordinary pieces of wood. He honed the edges until they were as sharp as a razor, while leaving the center thick enough to provide weight and strength.

The tips were sharpened at a precise angle so they would fly straight when thrown, or slide easily between bones when thrust. The Sembilu Maut was a simple modification of the Kunai.

Their advantages were many: they did not reflect moonlight, could be carried in large numbers, and left no metal trace that could be tracked.

In the hands of a Jonin of Hattori’s caliber, these flat, two-finger-wide blades were designed for one specific purpose: to slice through the carotid artery and sever the vocal cords in a single, one-second motion.

Sena sat cross-legged on the high branch, looking over the masterpiece of a battlefield he had constructed. Then he formed the ZAI hand seal, pressing nerve points that directly stimulated the fine nerves of his eyes.

Instantly, his vision sharpened. He felt connected to every rattan cord he had strung, every trigger peg he had planted.

In his mind, the summit of Harau now appeared as a glowing map; he knew the exact location of every trap down to the last millimeter. He was the giant spider waiting in the center of his own web.

After memorizing every Killing Zone, he mapped out the “rat paths”—narrow gaps that could only be traversed with acrobatic skill, reserved for his own mobility later. Even in his obsessive preparation, he took the time to locate a wild beehive—not to use immediately, but as a contingency plan should he need to trigger total chaos.

Sena did not know exactly when the Singhasari soldiers would arrive, or if they would dare to climb all the way to the summit.

Yet Balun’s terrified retreat had proven to be a double-edged sword. Instead of deterring them, reports of the “Siampa Ghost” at Harau Summit had only sparked the curiosity of Purwa Wangsa, the ambitious Singhasari commander. To a seasoned warrior, no ghost was more frightening than a rebel who had mastered the terrain.

The sun began to dip toward the western horizon, painting the clouds above Harau in shades of fiery orange and red, heavy with mystery.

In the distance, as the valley began to darken, the flicker of torches appeared. Not just one or two—more than ten lights moved in a circle.

Purwa’s men were not merely passing through; they were setting up tents and establishing a temporary base at the foot of the hill. They clearly intended to lay siege.

Night gave way to the call of jungle fowl as dawn broke the following day. Sena opened his eyes, his gaze sweeping across the thin mist covering the ground.

Accompanied by the rhythmic song of insects, he descended slightly toward the main climbing path. There, he began to play his role as the “ghost.”

He deliberately created a misleading trail, breaking branches at specific angles and leaving clear footprints in the mud—all designed to suggest he had moved in that direction.

His goal was clear: to drain their stamina and lower their guard even before they caught sight of his shadow.

Two days passed in nerve-wracking waiting.

Sena observed repeatedly from the cliffs, wondering why there had been no movement. Yet he remained calm, using the time to craft more Sembilu Maut, tucking them into the folds of his waistband.

He patrolled the area, double-checking his snares and traps, and re-memorizing the rat paths through his soon-to-be battlefield.

Finally, as the sun began to lean toward the west on the third day, five soldiers started their ascent.

Sena stood slowly atop a high branch, letting his tattered cloak flutter in the cool mountain wind. His cold eyes glinted like those of an eagle.

“Five men,” he said flatly. “Purwa has only sent a scouting party.”

Then he vanished behind the thick meranti leaves, allowing the forest of Harau to take over its symphony of death. He lowered his presence to absolute zero, becoming one with the trees.

From above, he saw Balun—his face already swollen and bruised—being led by a rope around his neck like a tracking dog, forced to show the way.

The leader of the scouting party, Daka, a man with a thin mustache, suddenly halted when the soldier at the front raised his hand to stop.

“What is it?” Daka hissed roughly.

“There is a new path to the left, sir,” the soldier replied. The leader crouched, examining the broken branches and footprints.

“Heh… he’s careless. Only one set of footprints. It must be him!” Daka smiled with disdain, certain his prey was within reach.

Balun, already drained of all spirit, whimpered softly, “Sir Daka, that is not the way—we are halfway along the correct path…”

“Silence! What do you know about tracking?” Daka snapped, cutting him off.

Sena, lying flat on a large branch directly above their heads, watched as his enemies entered the false trail he had laid. A faint smile—so subtle it was almost invisible—touched his lips.

This path would lead them in circles through a maze of thorn bushes, ensuring they would be exhausted by nightfall.

They wandered throughout the afternoon until, as dusk approached, the scouting party finally emerged into an open clearing that appeared to be a hiding place. There were still-warm embers and a shelter made of leaves.

Collapsing from exhaustion, they leaned against tree trunks—unaware that the man they sought was resting directly above them.

“What now? Night is coming soon; we cannot search in the dark,” one soldier complained, wiping sweat from his brow.

As the team leader, Daka had to make a quick decision. He stood at the cliff’s edge, sighing and saying, “Lord Purwa made it clear—we do not return without the boy. Build a fire at the cliff’s edge! Send a signal so the main force can advance immediately. The location is secured.”

Meanwhile, far below by the river at the edge of the darkening Harau Valley, the firelight at the cliff’s edge flickered like a falling star summoning disaster.

Purwa Wangsa, watching from below, smiled with satisfaction. “Jeliteng! Bring nine of your best men. I do not care how—by tonight, the boy must stand before me. Alive or dead!”

“It shall be done, sir,” Jeliteng replied, his voice as heavy as mountain stone as he began to march upward into Harau’s darkness.

The true war had only just begun.

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