Training officially began the following week.
No banners.
No music.
No crowds.
Just mats laid out neatly in the sports hall, the air cool and faintly scented with disinfectant and rubber flooring.
Hidayah arrived early.
As always.
She placed her bag at the side, removed her shoes, and stepped onto the mat barefoot.
The floor felt familiar beneath her feet.
Too familiar.
Other students trickled in gradually — some nervous, some excited, some clearly unsure what they had signed up for. Most wore fresh training attire, movements stiff, eyes darting around as they took in the space.
Hidayah stood quietly near the edge.
Observing.
Waiting.
The seniors gathered at the front.
The head trainer — broad-shouldered, calm, voice steady — surveyed the group before speaking.
"Welcome to Puncak Silat."
His gaze lingered briefly on each trainee.
"This is not a performance art," he continued. "It is discipline. Control. Awareness."
A pause.
"If you are here to look cool, you will be disappointed."
A few people laughed nervously.
Hidayah did not.
She had heard this before.
"Before we start," the trainer said, "is anyone here not new to silat?"
The room went quiet.
Hidayah raised her hand.
Not high.
Not dramatic.
Just enough.
"Yes?" the trainer said, eyes sharp now.
"I'm not a new trainee," Hidayah said evenly. "I've competed before."
A ripple moved through the group.
"Style?" the trainer asked.
"Primarily Javanese Pencak Silat," she replied. "With some exposure to Minangkabau."
The trainer studied her for a moment longer.
Then nodded.
"Good," he said. "You'll train with everyone else."
No special treatment.
Exactly as it should be.
Warm-ups began immediately.
Joint rotations.
Controlled stretches.
Balance drills.
Hidayah moved with quiet efficiency.
She didn't rush.
Didn't lag.
Her body aligned naturally — spine straight, shoulders relaxed, weight grounded evenly through the balls of her feet.
She noticed the small things instinctively.
Who was overextending.
Who was holding tension in their shoulders.
Who lacked awareness of their own balance.
Then came langkah — footwork.
The foundation.
The trainer demonstrated slowly.
Diagonal steps.
Weight shifts.
Circular movement.
"Your feet move before your hands," he reminded them. "If your base is weak, everything else fails."
They practised in silence.
Hidayah's movements were smooth, economical.
No wasted steps.
Each transition flowed into the next, hips rotating subtly, centre of gravity never rising unnecessarily.
This was Javanese Silat — grounded, deceptive, patient.
A senior passed by, slowing slightly as he watched her move.
She felt it.
Ignored it.
Next came kuda-kuda — stances.
Front stance.
Side stance.
Low stance.
Most trainees struggled.
Legs trembled.
Posture wavered.
Hidayah sank into the stance without strain, knees aligned, spine upright, weight distributed perfectly.
She held.
And held.
Her breathing remained steady.
In her first life, this had been where she pushed too hard.
Proved too much.
This time, she held back.
Not in ability.
But in display.
The trainer moved on to basic serangan — attacks.
Straight strike.
Diagonal strike.
Palm heel.
Elbow.
Each movement was demonstrated once.
"Slow," he instructed. "Feel the path."
Hidayah obeyed.
Her strikes weren't flashy.
They were efficient.
Power generated from the ground up — feet, hips, torso, shoulder, arm.
Nothing isolated.
Nothing forced.
When they paired up, her partner hesitated.
"You… you're really experienced, right?" the girl asked quietly.
Hidayah nodded. "Just focus on the movement."
She adjusted her partner's stance gently.
"Lower your centre," she said. "Don't lock your knees."
The girl nodded, grateful.
As they practised, Hidayah controlled her power carefully.
Every strike stopped just short.
Every counter precise but restrained.
The trainer circled back.
Watched.
"You don't overcommit," he observed.
"It wastes energy," Hidayah replied.
A corner of his mouth lifted slightly.
They moved into tangkisan — defences.
Parries.
Redirections.
Absorbing force rather than clashing with it.
This was where Javanese Silat truly shone.
Yield to overcome.
Hidayah's arms moved like water, guiding attacks away, turning her opponent's momentum against them.
Her timing was impeccable.
Not fast.
Right.
The session ended with jurus — structured sequences.
The trainer demonstrated a basic form.
Hidayah recognised it instantly.
Her body followed without conscious thought.
Each motion flowed seamlessly.
Each pause deliberate.
This wasn't memory.
It was instinct.
When the final movement ended, the hall was quiet.
Not because people were watching her.
But because everyone was catching their breath.
"Good work," the trainer said. "That's enough for today."
Relief washed over the room.
People laughed softly, stretching sore muscles.
Hidayah stepped off the mat, wiping sweat from her brow.
Her heart was steady.
Her mind clear.
This — this was where she belonged.
As she packed her things, one of the seniors approached.
"You trained seriously before," he said.
"Yes."
"You're welcome to join advanced drills later in the semester," he added. "If you want."
Hidayah met his gaze.
"Maybe," she said.
Not yet.
She wasn't here to rush.
She left the hall with calm steps, muscles pleasantly sore, spirit grounded.
Outside, the campus was quieter now.
But inside her, something had settled firmly into place.
Her body remembered.
Her discipline remained.
And this time, she would wield it with intention — not ego.
Not desperation.
Just control.