At ten years old, Jaka's routine wasn't like other children's. Each day was a grind—not for refinement, but for something hidden: stats.
Grinding is the life of a gamer, baby!
Morning light found him helping his father repair tools, tighten cart wheels, or oil rusted hinges. His father, Wirajaya, rarely spoke, but when he did, it mattered.
"He's not like other boys," Sekar said one morning as she watched Jaka carry two heavy sacks to the storage shed.
Wirajaya glanced up from the half-fixed plow. "He's strong."
"He's serious. Too serious," Sekar sighed, brushing flour off her hands. "Most boys sneak snacks. He tightens door hinges. Most chase chickens. He's chasing something else."
Wirajaya didn't answer immediately. He hammered in silence for a moment. "He reminds me of someone."
Sekar gave him a look.
Wirajaya coughed. "Okay. He reminds me of you when we were younger."
Sekar laughed, shaking her head. "I just worry. He helps you with the forge, helps me in the fields, carries the harvest to the market, trains in the woods, fishes in the river. When does he play? At this rate, he wouldn't have a friend."
Wirajaya didn't answer. He didn't have to. They both knew the truth—Jaka didn't play. He trained.
Still, the river offered a small freedom. After much begging—and a solemn vow—Jaka was allowed to go spearfishing on his own.
"Only in shallow water," Wirajaya had said, sternly.
Sekar clutched his wrist tightly before he stepped out. "And don't you dare go too far into the river. You know the rules."
Jaka nodded. "Yes, Mom."
"And if you do," she added with the cold authority of someone who had seen things, "I'll know."
Jaka blinked. "How—?"
"I always know," she said cryptically, narrowing her eyes. "Let's say… the power of motherhood's sight."
She turned, pulled something long and sinister from behind the door—bound in red thread and sunlight-worn rattan: a bamboo broom.
Jaka's breath hitched.
Not because it looked particularly painful. No, the fear came from somewhere deeper.
Oh no. Not again. Not in this life too…
In his past world, his mother had wielded the dreaded Slipper Guided Missile—lightning-quick, heat-seeking, and dead-on accurate from across the room.
But in this world?
She has upgraded.
This wasn't just a broom. This was the legendary Broom of Justice. Blessed by ancestors. Swift like wind. Hits like karma. The sacred relic of the Typical Asian Mom arsenal: Version 2.0.
And Jaka? But a mortal child.
He nodded quickly, backing toward the door. "I'll stay in the shallows! Promise!"
Sekar raised the broom with a casual flourish, then smiled sweetly. "Good boy. Go have fun."
Like fun and fear can exist together…
In the river.
The river glistened under the morning sun. Jaka stood knee-deep in the cool water, scanning the surface. His homemade spear, carved from bamboo and sharpened with patience, glinted. His breath slowed. His eyes narrowed.
A rock shifted.
A ripple danced.
He raised his spear—
"JA-KA!"
He flinched, nearly slipping. His spear wobbled mid-throw. The fish darted away with a flick of mockery.
Jaka turned around, scowling. "Laksita…"
She grinned from the riverbank, cupping her hands like a loudspeaker. "You look like a statue! I thought you died standing up!"
"I was focusing," he muttered, annoyed.
She hopped closer, feet bare, plopping onto a warm rock nearby. "I brought guava! You get one if you tell me a story."
"I'm trying to catch fish."
"You can fish and tell stories. Your brain has two halves, right? Use them both!"
He sighed, but his lips twitched. "You're irritating."
"I'm fun," she corrected proudly, holding out a guava like a hostage negotiator. "One story. About that river spirit again."
Jaka stabbed his spear into the muddy bed, sat down beside her. "Fine. But if the fish swim away again, it's your fault."
"Deal."
He began the tale of the Spirit of the River, who was actually a sleeping dragon dreaming of koi and bamboo. Laksita gasped and giggled in all the right places. She leaned in, eyes wide, as Jaka described how the dragon's dreams shaped the currents and guided lost travelers.
"You're lying," she said when he finished.
"Am not."
She poked his forehead. "Are too."
He chuckled. "You wouldn't know truth if it danced on your nose."
"I know truth smells like wet fish and burnt rice," she said, tossing him a guava.
He caught it, biting in. "Then it smells like your failed attempt at cooking."
"HEY!"
The two laughed, their voices echoing across the water.
And with a faint chime in the back of his mind:
Charisma +5
[System Message: You have successfully impressed your audience with storytelling. Laksita is in awe. Conversations with her will now yield better rapport.]
Jaka smiled to himself.
That was another reason he kept her around. Not just because she was the only kid who didn't think he was weird. Not just because she didn't whisper behind his back.
But because being around Laksita… helped.
He grinded stats—Charisma, the most under feet stats he had, whenever she challenged his stories—but more than that, he learned how to connect. Joke. Tease. Laugh.
Things he never really got to do in his last life.
Thanks for overwork and lack of vacation.
That evening...
As the sky blushed orange and the village quieted, Jaka returned home with a few fish in his sack. His father waited by the forge.
Wirajaya handed him something wrapped in white cloth.
Inside: a wooden sword, sturdy and balanced. The grip was wrapped with dried grass twine. A small bow and a bundle of hand-carved arrows sat beside it.
Jaka blinked. His father gave him the rarest of gifts: a nod and a quiet, proud smile.
"Use these for your training," Wirajaya said. "You'll need them. The world outside… is cruel."
Then he turned back to the anvil, as if he hadn't just given his son a small piece of armor for the soul.
Later that night, Jaka found another bundle near his mat.
Training clothes. Sleeveless. Flexible. Sewn with care. Not new—his parents didn't have the luxury for that—but clean and stitched with steady hands. Folded beside it was a headband embroidered with simple thread.
He picked them up, confused, and turned.
Sekar stood at the doorway, arms crossed.
"You keep tearing your shirts," she said, voice soft. "These won't."
Jaka held the fabric close. "Thanks, Mom."
She didn't answer. Just stepped into the room, sat beside him.
"You're different," she said quietly. "You always have been."
He didn't speak. Neither did she—for a long moment.
Then she asked, "Do you remember what you told your father last week?"
He blinked. "About… traveling?"
She stay silent. Her face's showing worry even if the voice didn't tremble, her fingers tightened slightly on her knees.
Jaka looked down. "I didn't mean—"
"You did," she interrupted, gently. "And it's alright."
She took a deep breath.
"I knew from the moment you learned to walk faster than you spoke. From the way you looked at the stars. From how you asked questions that didn't belong to children. You're more mature than your age."
She smiled—small, tired.
"Your path won't end here, Jaka."
He opened his mouth, then closed it. What could he say? He hadn't been the kind of person who worried like a parent. Not really. Not in the way she had.
But… maybe he'd been something close.
Jaka had created so many characters. Too many, maybe. Farmers who grumbled when it rained. Soldiers who missed home. Healers who sat beside empty beds long after battles ended. Each one stitched together from logic and emotion, code and instinct.
He hadn't meant for them to be reflections. But looking back, he saw them differently now. The quiet ones who waited by doors. The ones who offered warnings—not out of doubt, but out of care. The ones who stayed, even when the player didn't notice.
He hadn't grown up knowing how to name those feelings. Worry had felt like control. Silence, like distance. Love… like something meant for other people, something he couldn't quite reach.
And yet, when he was designing AI routines—sculpting lines of dialogue meant to comfort, to protect, to forgive—he understood it in his own way. He understood what it meant to stay up late, adjusting every possible outcome just to make sure a player never felt alone.
It was only now, sitting beside his mother, hearing her soft words, that the connection clicked.
All this time, he'd been learning what love looked like through code.
Not through poetry. Not through hugs. But through the endless choices and sacrifices his characters made. Through their patience. Their presence. Their quiet, relentless care—even when it wasn't deserved.
He looked at her again—older now, smaller somehow, yet still holding that same steady light.
"Just promise me something," she said gently.
"Anything."
"When it's time for you to go…" Her voice faltered for just a second. "Don't forget where you started."
"I won't," he said, the words burning with certainty. "I promise, Mother."
She nodded, eyes shining. She pulled him close and held him longer than usual.
And Jaka, for the first time in both his worlds, finally understood what it meant to be someone's son.