He stood absolutely still, one hand resting on the badik at his waist, listening for the rhythm of the place's breath. Where the figure had stood moments before, only falling light remained, dust swirling like ground stars, vanishing before it touched the earth. There were no footsteps, no scent, just the echo of a presence that had pressed at his edge, then simply faded as if swallowed by the realm itself.
Not a retreat. A promise.
Sawerigading did not chase. "Wisdom is a blade you keep sheathed until you must draw it," his mother used to say. He exhaled slowly and moved ahead.
The spirit realm reorganized with the focus of his gaze. Ground shifted as he set out: roots arched into ribbed corridors, ferns uncurled into handprints, water split into colors before clearing again. When he blinked, strange constellations rimmed the sky.
Each step was measured, the tip of his scabbard testing the ground. His badik, faithful at his hip, was short and honest, steel rippling in the light like river current. He'd trained with longer ceremonial blades, krises inscribed with names and moods, but this one stayed true. Lineage and titles meant nothing to a blade that simply cut and kept secrets.
The first rule he learned was simple.
Do not count the shadows.
"Jangko a'rekkeng bayanganga," he murmured under his breath, the phrase forbidden and old. Never count the shadows.
He tried once, distracted and curious, the reflex of a mind tuned to patterns. The moment numbers fell from his tongue, something ancient, cold, turned to watch. He let the numbers slip, feigned innocence, and moved on.
He passed stones, half-buried and wrapped with faded silk strips. Wind made the silk whisper, almost calling his name, but not quite. He fixed his eyes on the path ahead and walked on.
Do not answer when the wind calls you by the name you wore as a child.
The second rule was older yet.
Do not eat what remembers you.
A clearing unfolded. A long mat of pandan and rivergrass lay on the ground, its spiral pattern sharp enough to twist his heart. Steam rose from bowls of fish and rice, palm-wrapped rice-cake,the aromas of smoke and salt without touching. The rhythm of the steam matched a lullaby he'd once heard on a night ship, when the moon was young and the tide forgiving.
He gave a respectful bow, refusing the invitation. The mat sighed, quiet and disappointed, but he moved on.
The forest opened, neither grove nor house, a blend of living pillars, sky-formed lintels, veins tying branches together. Lontara script drifted across the beams, flowing like water, sometimes rising to circle him before falling, dragonflies returning to wood.
He glimpsed a figure at the hall's far end, a gaze, a tilt of the head, the silent tension of a hunter and hunt meeting in mutual respect. He turned slowly, letting his palm brush the hilt of his badik, but greeted only a fold in the light.
Still a promise.
Memories ambushed him at every step. A river curved with banks like polished shells, its glassy surface reflecting two skies at once. He knelt to peer in. His reflection hesitated, blinked too slowly, chin lifting out of sync, a warning.
Beneath the mirror, a ribbon of red drifted,silk or hair, impossible to tell. It tangled on a branch, trembling in decision.
Inside, something old answered, not a name, nor a face, but a memory: a smile meant to say I'm alright when everything wasn't, a tilt hiding laughter, the way a room softened around her. The pain was eerily clean, the kind left by a blade that knows its work.
He did not reach for the river. He wiped the damp from his knees and walked upstream.
Birds, stitched of light, flew backward through the branches. To his left, a bissu's chant threaded the undergrowth, thin and steady, the sound of trance walking the old walasuji fence. The chant tugged him back to a barefoot childhood, circles drawn in the sand, prayers rising to the sky.
He followed the chant to a circle of spears, each shaft dressed with palm cloth, each iron tip kissed with turmeric. In the center, a small fire burned with no smoke. The fire sang, its melody cresting, blade-like, then flattening mirror-smooth, casting visions not of places but choices: a harbor lost in fog, a corridor at dawn, doors closed and doors never seen. When the note fell, only fire remained.
He bowed gently. "I hear you," he whispered. "But I have learned not to see every consequence before I choose." The fire hissed back, neither offended nor pleased, just acknowledging.
He skirted the circle. Somewhere ahead, a child laughed. He did not rush.
At a rise, vast roots of an ancient tree stitched the ground, trunk so wide ten men could not encircle it. Its bark was scarred with map-like patterns. Stones lay beneath its shadow, each with sleeping faces traced in moss.
Jasmine floated through the roots, mingled with far-off salt. The hairs on his arms rose. He had encountered that fragrance just once, on a deck slick with spray, when a stranger asked softly if regret was possible before destiny was chosen.
He almost spoke, almost broke the rule. Instead, fingertips grazed the badik's hilt, and he inclined his head, a soldier's courtesy to memory.
The air cooled. Day and night traded places. Suddenly, mangrove roots formed a corridor, black hands curled above water dark as ink. Hanging from a branch, a rattan-shell charm swayed, the kind mothers hang to plead, not tonight, spirit. The shell clicked in wind that could not be felt.
He crossed on the tangled roots. They held his weight, never sinking. Below, something large shifted, making the far shore shudder in its reflection. He measured distance and angles, reading the roots' crossing lines. He thought only of currents and kept going.
Midway, the stare returned, closer than before, no longer patient,now poised to test his defenses. The air pulled taut, like a drawn bow behind him.
He did not whirl. He did not shout. His left foot claimed a root, knees bent, right hand brushing the badik. He tipped his head as if looking for a bird, and the smallest gesture formed a question. The roots creaked beneath him; the water smiled, rippleless.
He waited.
The stare held, then released, dissolving with the faint fragrance of rain-cooled steel.
"Bagus," he said quietly, a rare Makassar word for approval. "We'll meet next when one of us decides to stop pretending."
He reached the secure far bank and melted back into the forest.
A ridge lifted him out of shadow into grass moving like scales under wind. In the distance, a wall of cloud sat like a sleeping city, lightning flickering within, colored unlike any storm he'd known. Only once, at the world's edge, had he seen weather like that, sailors sang over their own fear, compasses went mad.
He turned his back to the cloud, descending to where stone stakes rose from the ground, marking graves, borders, circles within circles. Each stake notched at the top, with pebbles nestled there some smooth, some shard, some green as sea glass. A few notches missed their pebbles, and what filled them instead, he did not let himself finish. He bowed, walking cautiously through.
Beyond, the ground opened into a square, the ghost of an old marketplace. Stalls stood with frames of bamboo and bone, ropes hung empty. Yet the air was thick with the trade of glances, calculations and withheld smiles. As he entered, pressure shifted,like plunging into a deep pool. Voices layered around him,bargains, blessings, lies,not for him, but aware of him.
Pasar Ghaib, his own people would have called it.
He paused at the edge, honoring a rule without words. He let the market's gaze meet his, studying the empty stalls until he saw just one with something hanging: dusk-colored fabric, moving not like cloth but like breath.
A strong, scarred hand adjusted it, careful as a fighter with a friend's throat. Sensing his eyes, the hand withdrew.
He could have spoken then, could have invited the market to price his true name.
He smiled instead, small and rueful. "Next time," he said, and felt the square sigh, amused.
The path kinked left, ducking under a fallen trunk. Light deepened, the sun nowhere. He drank from a spring that sang answers to unasked questions, letting the water dry on his skin.
The last thing he found that day was a sound, a simple hum, balancing between prayer and work song. He followed its pull down a narrow cut in the land, soil scented with promised rain. There, on a shelf of rock, lay a comb carved from bone, its handle threaded with copper and the pattern he'd seen before, once embroidered on a sash by a girl who smiled like she'd lost something and was glad.
He did not touch the comb. He crouched until the hum faded, settling into rock like a heartbeat.
"Cukup untuk hari ini," he told the place. ("Enough for today.")
He rose and turned to leave. The path behind was gone.
In its place stood a gate, two posts and a beam, wood blackened by lightning, carved with a pattern he recognized as much by instinct as memory. A dusk-colored strip of cloth hung from the right post, frayed, familiar.
Beyond the threshold, the air thickened. The hum called from within, joined by another, low and measured, like counting. Waiting for his step.
He laid his palm on the badik, the hilt warm as though a hand had only just left. He smiled, fiercer now.
"Mari kita lihat apa yang kau pikir aku siap pelajari," he said, voice sharp enough for the air to listen. ("Let's see what you think I'm ready to learn.")
His shadow crossed the gate.
The hum stopped.
And somewhere deeper, the rules waited to test the one who dared walk where shadows outnumber men.