The rain had stopped. The night sky of Maheswara was different—streaked with constellations and faint purple hues, beautiful in a way. But to him, it all still felt… empty.
In a cheap inn on the western edge of Dwara Kendaga City, Raka sat leaning against the window frame. His cloak was half-dry, yet the cold seeped deep into his bones. On the table, only a plate of boiled yams and a cup of sour milk.
He stared at the sky in silence. Then whispered softly—to himself.
"Not much different… this world is just as filthy."
His voice was flat. But his eyes… held something fragile and cold, both at once.
"In the Origin World, we kill each other through systems. Through power. Here? We do it with bare hands—for food, for status, for survival."
His hands clenched. His gaze empty. His breathing heavy.
"Adventurers, guilds, missions, class systems, strange and terrifying monsters, caves and ancient temples like dungeons—it all sounds like fantasy. But this isn't a game. There's no respawn, no leveling up. No system to save you."
He glanced at the burn on his hand. Still healing. A mark left by resisting the aura of the Jakulangkung—etched like a tattoo of death.
"In this world, if you die… you really die."
"Tameng Gedi? Without a Pangreksa, it's just a support role who doesn't know how to heal their tank—turns into a corpse in two seconds. Panic-casting mage? Your spell fails and backfires. Game over. Sword-users, cursecasters, mantra-weavers—they're just fancy titles if you don't have guts."
He stood, opened the window.
The night wind struck his face. Cold. Quiet. The city below was still alive—the Éra-lamps flickering faintly. But Raka felt like the only sane man in a world gone mad.
"I didn't come to this world because of fate… but because of a choice."
His eyes narrowed.
"Or… maybe a trap."
"Jagat Maheswara… a realm built from spells, powered by Éra, ruled by strength. Tch… Éra—like mana in some Western fantasy flick. But that's just the surface. What hides beneath is filthier than the corrupt systems back in the Origin World."
A lightning flash tore through the distant clouds. He didn't blink.
"In my old world, I was a loser. Marked as a failure. Betrayed by the system. Here, I'm a nobody. But among all the living corpses who worship power and status… at least there's still one thing I can choose—"
"To not become like them."
Click.
A soft chime came from his old leather bag—a faint glow from a red stone within.
Raka turned slowly, reaching for it.
A jet-black book. Strange glowing script adorned its cover.
Serat Dwijagat.
"You're the one who brought me here, aren't you?" he whispered, placing it down gently.
The book opened on its own.
Blank pages… then slowly, Éra-ink began to shape into lines of text. Words that only one person in all worlds could read—Raditya Mahesra.
His other self. From the world he left behind.