He stood at the prow of the Welenreng, a ship born from a cosmic tree that once reached for the sky and burrowed deep into the earth. Salt-laden wind pinched his face as distant islands unraveled, sharing their secrets with each roll of the horizon. The sea hissed and muttered, its voice mingling warnings with invitations. Behind him, Luwu faded, and each step away made his heart heavier than the ship itself. He was chasing answers, the kind that wouldn't stay buried no matter how hard he tried.
Elders had told him, "You must wait for a sign. Something sacred. Something whispered by your ancestors." Sawerigading just grinned and whispered, "Tabe', nakke tau. Tande' laengku." (Excuse me, I am only human. My sign is longing.) He knew the world didn't dance for signs; it moved on longing. And longing pulled him through the unknown.
Love pushed him on, not gentle or mending, but wild and fierce. When he looked at his sister, We Tenriabeng, he saw no accusation. Just grief, raw and sharp, leaving hollowness instead of scars. She pressed a lock of hair into his palm and placed a ring in his other hand. "These aren't farewells," she said softly. "These are commands. Find her. Seek the likeness beyond these shores. Chase what fate denies you here." Her finger pointed east, toward Tiongkok, a land beyond oceans and history.
This was the moment myth and reality started blurring.
The weeks folded into storms. Welenreng sliced across waters thick with omens. Sawerigading slipped past islands, some named, others nameless, sliding by coasts where fishermen swore they heard voices from kingdoms long drowned. Shores where memories of gods still haunted the sand. Sailors whispered of orang bunian, spiritfolk known to lure souls with beauty and madness. Tales of bell-ringing cities sunk beneath the waves drifted along the deck. He listened to them all, but none softened the ache inside. Every wave against the hull seemed to say, "Pole na'mu." (Not yet.)
One night, a crescent moon spilled silver across the sea and the tempests finally broke. The waters fell silent, like a rough hand had smoothed them. Above, stars scattered—sharp, bright, countless, splinters of old bone. Sawerigading felt a hum, wordless and ancient, vibrating in his bones, a pulse beneath the world itself. He closed his eyes, and the sea faded, replaced by a vision: roots twisting downward into infinite dark. Something called him, not from across, but from beneath.
At dawn, the ship landed on a stranger shore, not Tiongkok, but something else entirely. The jungle glistened with blue-tinted dew. Trees climbed high, their bark marked with winding veins; their roots writhed through the soil like ancient tales.
With a deep breath, he tasted memory in the air.
Here, the boundaries between worlds thinned.
Dusk reached into the forest, stretching shadows out of their shapes. Sawerigading dropped to one knee, let his palm touch the earth, and let his blood spill. It sizzled as the ground sucked it down. He spoke a name, old and frightening, the kind elders only dared whisper at night. The earth shivered, not in fear, but in recognition.
The world changed.
Waliala arrived not with blaze or thunder, but seeping into him, soft, invasive, like mist inhaled too deep. The jungle faded. The air thickened, uncertain if it belonged to the living or the dead.
Vision blurred into dream. Floating stones with unreadable runes hovered. Rivers bled colors that had no name. Shadows moved of their own accord. This was the Spirit Realm.
He walked forward, each step gentle as memory. Time slipped away until he felt them: old eyes, watchful, hungry, hiding in the darkness between light.
He stopped, heart thudding.
Silence pressed in, so dense it threatened to steal his breath. He had crossed into a place that mortals weren't meant to visit.
Then a voice broke the hush, not thunder nor whisper, but something different.
"You bleed like a man," it said, slow and deep. "But you walk like one of us."
Sawerigading's hand tightened around his badik, the Makassarese dagger, warm with old magic.
The mist parted. A figure took shape.
"battu kamae ki?" ("Where are you going?") asked the figure, words curling with ancient power.
Sawerigading opened his mouth to answer, but the world held its breath.
And somewhere in the gloom, something else began to move