The sunset casts a deep orange hue across the sky of Yogyakarta. The wind carries the scent of nutmeg, ylang-ylang, and the lingering smoke of incense that still fills the atmosphere after the day's ceremonies. From afar, the grand palace building appears like a peaceful island amidst the bustling city—its walls hold many stories, while the joglo roof conceals mysteries that must not be revealed carelessly.
In front of the palace library door, a young man leans against a wooden pillar. His face was dignified, his body sculpted by years of physical training; the black sports shirt he wore still smelled of sweat. His name was Ardhan Wicaksana: a history student, a fan of the martial art of pencak silat, and a memorizer of parts of the Qur'an who made prayer the anchor of his soul. That night, he had the rare opportunity to study several valuable manuscripts—a privilege usually reserved for certain academics.
The library door opened slightly, and the slow steps of an elderly palace servant led Ardhan inside. Inside the room, the dim light from oil lamps flickered over the surfaces of leather-bound books, while dust particles floated softly like a small mist. Tall shelves formed barriers to the view, creating corridors that seemed to lure anyone into getting lost in time.
The servant led Ardhan to the innermost part, to a small room that was cared for with special attention; there were items stored there that could not be touched carelessly. He opened a box lined with old cloth, taking a deep breath as if carrying a great responsibility. From inside the box, he took out a bundle of palm leaves wrapped in white sheets—paper that was so fragile it seemed it could be destroyed if touched roughly.
"Young Man... this is a special manuscript," his voice trembled softly but firmly. "Its name is... Sastra Jendra Hayuningrat. As my parents reminded me: this manuscript is like a door. Whoever opens it must be aware of the risks."
Ardhan stared intently at the palm leaves. The name of the manuscript echoed in his mind like the faint sound of a gong, which he always recognized from ancient books. Since childhood, he had often heard whispers about sacred texts that held the secrets of his ancestors; but until now, it had only been a lesson in history class, never as concrete as it was now.
"Thank you, sir," Ardhan replied in a low voice. His left hand trembled slightly as he opened the wrapper. Under the light of the oil lamp, the ancient Javanese letters formed words so delicate they looked like carvings. Although Ardhan was not skilled at reading all the characters, something in his chest trembled—as if the manuscript was speaking not only with sound, but also with vibration.
He began to read slowly. Sentence after sentence flowed, the sound of the letters vibrating in his head like a prayer. "...Sastra Jendra Hayuningrat; pangruwating raga lan jiwa; lawang kang nutupi antara jaman lan jaman...." The words merged with his breath, sticking deep in his chest. For a moment, he remembered his grandfather Ki Wicaksana's message, which emphasized that true martial arts were not just physical techniques; the strongest were the balance between energy and humility—strength and obedience to the Creator.
When his index finger touched the last letter in the first paragraph, the atmosphere in the room changed. The oil lamp flickered, even though there was no wind from the window. The shadows on the shelves seemed to beat, and the floor seemed to vibrate softly under his feet. Ardhan felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. In his chest, the Al-Fatihah prayer that he usually recited before starting his activities flowed automatically—not just a routine, but a soothing reinforcement of the soul.
The lontar in front of him began to glow softly: not the light from the lamp, but a blue and gold shimmer that slowly flowed across the paper. The writing appeared to rise, floating like fragments of words reflecting the light. Ardhan closed his eyes for a moment, but his curiosity overcame everything. He swallowed, reached out again with his hand, and read a few sentences that seemed to jump out—trying to understand the meaning of the faint letters.
"Subhanallah..." he said, not only because he was impressed, but because of a spiritual instinct that connected the present moment with something greater than himself. He said a long prayer in his heart—even though he was in a public place—asking for protection. His words were like a roof protecting him from the storm of power so that it would not hit him.
However, all human efforts became meaningless when the manuscript chose to open itself. The slowly rotating light turned into a strong current; the air in the room felt tense, and the letters unraveled into circular lines of light. The boxes on the shelves began to shake. The old servant, who had previously stood covering his face with the back of his hand, looked incredulous at what he saw.
Ardhan tried to back away, but it felt as if the floor was sticky beneath his feet. A small rumbling echoed in his head; he felt a pull that was not only gravity, but also the pull of time. Everything seemed to come together: the faint sound of gamelan music from afar, the smell of burning dry leaves, and the echoes of old words that now set the mood.
"AAHH—!" He screamed without being able to stop himself. His body was pulled, not by brute physical force, but as if lifted by a wave of soft, warm light. Every muscle felt pulled from one point to another, passing through a shapeless void.
His face lifted, his hair blowing in the wind, and he left behind everything from the modern world—neon lights, the sound of vehicles, and cell phone notifications—as distant memories that faded away.
Suddenly, there was silence.
Ardhan opened his eyes and found himself lying on the ground, but this was not the library floor. The ground here was damp, smelling of rice and mud, with dew still clinging to the grass. The sky above was blue, more beautiful than any photo he had ever seen, and the clouds moved slowly, as if on a long journey without haste. In the distance, he could see a row of hills rising like the back of a dragon, where he saw wooden tents and rough flags flying—symbols he recognized from history books: signs of the Mataram Kingdom era.
Ardhan's body trembled. He touched his hips, feeling the jacket that now felt foreign on his skin. His jeans and rubber shoes seemed very out of place with the scenery around him. A number of farmers—an old man with a cloth on his head, a woman carrying a basket on her back, and a small boy with dreadlocks—observed him with a mixture of curiosity and fear.
A middle-aged man approached him with steady steps, carrying a hoe on his shoulder. His gaze was full of caution. "Who are you, sir? Your clothes are very strange," said the man with a thick rural Javanese accent.
Ardhan swallowed hard. The language sounded unfamiliar yet friendly; ancient words that he had only ever read were now flowing from the man's mouth. He wanted to explain, but the phrase "the year 2025" sounded ridiculous to his own ears. Who would believe him?
"I... am lost," he replied briefly. His voice broke, because the different air caught in his throat. In his heart, he offered a prayer; not for knowledge, but for safety. The prayer he had learned all this time, the recitation he usually recited in prayer, was now his lifeline in the midst of confusion.
In the distance, a child pointed at Ardhan and shouted, "Strange man! Look at his clothes!" Immediately, several people approached, forming a cautious circle. Their eyes were full of judgment: some were afraid of the unknown, while others were curious about the miracle that might appear.
Ardhan felt his mind spinning: he knew the simple, devastating fact that the manuscript he held was not just an object. The Jendra Hayuningrat literature—which the mischievous reading had just revealed—had taken him across time. He exhaled deeply, feeling the scent of rice entering his lungs like a confession.
In his mind, his grandfather's message echoed: "Keep your faith, Ardhan. Knowledge without faith is just embers that burn its owner." He closed his eyes for a moment, reciting Al-Fatihah and the prayers of protection that he now remembered. When he opened his eyes again, something had changed in his gaze: it was no longer passive fear, but a subtle determination. This world was foreign, but he would not shy away from the questions—why had he been brought here, and what had fate in store for him?
Amidst the crowd of whispers, the soft sound of gamelan music could be heard from the east. The melody was delicate, almost like sewing the air; and behind the rhythm was a nuance that seemed to welcome and warn. Ardhan realized one thing that stuck in his mind: this journey had just begun—and the gate of mystery that had been opened in the library not only connected spaces, but also connected destinies.
His body still trembling, he slowly stood up. His eyes gazed far into the horizon, where history awaited his steps. In his heart, prayers trembled. He vowed: he would study Jendra Literature, not as a seeker of power, but as a witness connecting knowledge, ancestral dignity, and the beliefs that guided him. And if he must step into dangerous territory, he would advance with a strong heart—for between the currents of time and ancient texts, there was one constant: the decision to hold fast to goodness.
Night slowly crept in. Long shadows stretched across the edge of the rice fields. Ardhan clung to the remnants of security he had gained from prayer, then slowly walked toward the village—toward an era he must observe carefully in order to find his way back, or perhaps encounter a new destiny waiting behind the Curtain of Mataram.
To be continued...