The Sports Hall (GOR) of Rajawali High School was a massive, imposing structure, physically and metaphorically detached from the main academic wings. If the classrooms were where brains were sharpened with the whetstones of calculus and history, then the GOR was where muscle was forged through the fires of sweat and adrenaline.
On the second floor of this building lay a vast expanse covered in red and blue interlocking puzzle mats. The air here was perpetually dense, a suffocating cocktail of rubber, salt-heavy sweat, and the sharp, medicinal sting of liniment oil.
This was the Dojo. The cage for Rajawali's fighters.
"Hah! Hah! Hah!"
The sound of ragged, synchronized breathing filled the space, punctuating the sharp 'wush-wush' of the gi—the heavy cotton karate uniforms—snapping through the air with every strike.
In the center of the mat stood Saifuddin—known to everyone simply as Udin. He was rooted to the floor in a rock-solid Zenkutsu Dachi stance. Sweat cascaded down his temples, matting his stiff, buzz-cut hair before dripping onto the mat below.
Udin wasn't a talker like Dani, nor was he an eccentric genius like Salim. Udin was a boulder. Silent, hard, and immovable.
"One hundred more!" Udin roared. His voice was a thunderous resonance that bounced off the concrete walls, commanding instant obedience.
"Osu!" the twenty other members of the Karate club responded in a single, guttural shout. Their voices wavered with the onset of exhaustion, but not a single one dared to lower their fists.
Udin led the Kihon—the foundational basics. His hands, wrapped in frayed white handwraps, shot forward with the speed of a piston. Seiken Zuki. The straight punch.
"Ichi!"
Thud! The sound of twenty fists striking the air in unison.
"Ni!"
Thud!
"San!"
Thud!
Every strike Udin delivered carried a different weight. He wasn't merely punching the wind. In his mind, there was a reinforced wall in front of him that demanded destruction. His back muscles contracted with anatomical perfection, his hips rotating as the pivot point of his power.
This was what separated Udin from the others. To the rest, Karate was a bullet point on a college application. To Udin, Karate was a way of life—a way to define his existence among the spoiled children of empires who populated this school.
"Yame!" (Stop).
Udin lowered his hands and took a long, measured breath through his nose, exhaling slowly through his mouth in the Ibuki breathing technique. He worked to stabilize a heart that was currently hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.
"Five-minute break. Drink. Do not sit down; keep moving to prevent lactic acid buildup," Udin instructed, his tone authoritative and final.
The juniors scrambled to the edge of the mat, clutching their water bottles as if they were the elixir of life. Meanwhile, two seniors approached Udin.
They were Sucipto and Ramon. Udin's trusted lieutenants in the dojo.
Sucipto was wiry and lean, slightly shorter than Udin but possessed an explosive, kinetic energy. Ramon, by contrast, was built like a tank—broad-shouldered and heavy-set, a grappler who specialized in throws and bone-snapping locks.
"You're a maniac, Din," Sucipto groaned, wiping his face with a small towel. "This was supposed to be a warm-up, but it felt like a war simulation. The tenth-graders look like they're ready to puke."
"Let them puke now rather than puke blood when they face the Taekwondo team next week," Udin replied flatly, taking a measured sip of mineral water.
"You're taking this inter-club match too seriously," Ramon chimed in, massaging a knotted shoulder muscle. "It's just an exhibition, Din. Not a street brawl."
Udin turned his gaze toward Ramon. It was a sharp, predatory look that made the larger boy flinch instinctively.
"There is no such thing as an exhibition once you step onto the mat, Ramon," Udin said coldly. "Raka will bring his A-team. They're arrogant. They think Karate is stiff, slow, and robotic. I won't have our Dojo humiliated on its own turf."
The rivalry between Karate, Taekwondo, and Silat at Rajawali High was an open secret. The three martial arts fought for prestige, for new recruits, and most importantly: for school funding. Success equaled better facilities. Last year, the Taekwondo club under Raka's leadership had snatched the provincial gold, leading the administration to cut the Karate budget to buy new electronic scoring mats for Taekwondo. Udin had not forgotten the insult.
"Alright, alright, Oh Captain, My Captain," Sucipto raised his hands in surrender. "What's next on the menu? Kumite?"
Udin nodded. He set his bottle aside and reached for his gumshield, clicking it into place.
"Free Kumite. Me against both of you."
Sucipto and Ramon exchanged wide-eyed looks of disbelief.
"Two-on-one? Are you trying to get yourself killed?" Sucipto asked.
"I need to train my reflexes against multiple attackers. Raka is all about speed. I need to get used to being flanked," Udin said, walking to the center of the mat. He dropped into a combat stance, his eyes narrowing. "Come at me. Don't hold back. Pretend I'm the guy who just stole your girlfriend."
Sucipto smirked, cracking his knuckles. "Fine, if that's how you want it. Don't cry when I kick that handsome face of yours."
"Osu!" Ramon roared, stomping his foot onto the mat.
The fight exploded into motion.
Sucipto moved first. He was a blur of motion, his leg lashing out in a Mawashi Geri—a roundhouse kick aimed squarely at Udin's temple. Simultaneously, Ramon charged like a bull, staying low, aiming to wrap his arms around Udin's waist for a devastating slam.
A high-low combination. Lethal.
But Udin didn't retreat.
Instead of dodging, Udin stepped into the strike—penetrating Sucipto's range before the kick could reach maximum velocity. He threw up his left forearm in a hard Jodan Uke block that collided with Sucipto's shin with a sickening thud.
CRACK!
"Argh!" Sucipto winced; it felt like he had kicked an iron pillar.
Without missing a beat, Udin pivoted his hips, driving a Gyaku Zuki—a reverse punch—straight into Ramon's exposed solar plexus as the larger boy tried to close in for the hug.
OOF!
Ramon gasped, his momentum coming to a jarring halt. The air was sucked out of his lungs.
Udin used the opening. He swept Ramon's lead leg with an Ashi Barai, sending the giant stumbling, then spun in a tight circle to deliver a back-kick (Ushiro Geri) that sent Sucipto reeling back until he hit the padded wall.
One second. Two seniors downed.
The juniors, mid-drink, stood frozen. They stopped their chatter, mesmerized by the sight of their captain dismantling two high-level practitioners simultaneously.
"Get up!" Udin barked. "The enemy won't wait for you to catch your breath!"
Sucipto grimaced, rubbing his bruised leg. "Damn it... is your skeleton made of reinforced concrete or something, Din?"
Ramon climbed back to his feet, his face flushed with a mixture of shame and irritation. "Again! I wasn't being serious yet!"
They attacked again, this time with more coordination. Sucipto acted as the distraction, circling Udin with feints and light strikes, while Ramon waited for the perfect opening for a heavy blow.
Sweat sprayed as the intensity ramped up. The sound of flesh hitting flesh and bone clashing with bone echoed through the GOR. Udin took several hits. His lip was split from Ramon's elbow, and a dark bruise began to form on his thigh from Sucipto's low kicks. But he didn't stop. The pain only sharpened his focus.
To Udin, pain was merely information. Pain in the leg meant his stance was too wide. Pain in the face meant his guard was too low. He processed pain the way Salim processed numbers: as data to reach a solution.
The brutal session lasted twenty minutes without a break. Finally, the heavy dojo doors swung open with a loud, echoing bang.
The room went silent.
Three figures stood in the doorway. They wore black-collared doboks—the Taekwondo uniform. In the center stood a tall youth with a perfectly styled undercut. Raka. The Captain of the Taekwondo club.
Raka surveyed the scene inside the dojo with a condescending smirk. He saw the battered Udin and the two seniors gasping for air on the mat.
"Whoa, intense stuff," Raka said, stepping onto the mat without removing his shoes—a massive violation of dojo etiquette. "Are you practicing to be a punching bag, Udin?"
Udin spat a small glob of blood into a tissue he pulled from his pocket. He stared at Raka's expensive sneakers treading on the sacred mat.
"Take off your shoes, Raka. Or I'll remove them for you—along with your feet," Udin said in a low, vibrating tone that made the air in the room feel several degrees colder.
Raka let out a short, dry laugh. "Relax, bro. I'm just here to remind you of the match next week. I heard the Silat kid—Amir—is coming to watch. Try not to embarrass yourselves. I'd hate to see your budget get cut even further."
"Worry about your own budget," Sucipto snapped, standing up. "The gold is coming back to Karate this year."
Raka glanced at Sucipto with zero interest before returning his gaze to Udin. There was a deep-seated rivalry between them. Raka was the representation of natural talent and luxury. His movements were beautiful, acrobatic, and popular—especially among the girls. Udin was the representation of raw, unrefined hard work. Udin's Karate wasn't for show; it was for neutralization.
"I'm seeing you get slower, Udin," Raka goaded. "You have too much dead muscle. In a real fight, speed kills. You won't even touch me."
Udin walked forward until he was inches from Raka's face. The smell of Udin's acrid sweat clashed with Raka's expensive cologne.
"In a real fight, Raka," Udin whispered sharply, "you won't get points for a fancy kick to my head. You'll be dead the moment I catch your leg."
Raka snorted and took a step back, his smile faltering. He felt a genuine threat in Udin's words. Udin wasn't a bluffer.
"We'll see on the mats," Raka said coldly. He turned, gesturing to his subordinates. "Let's go. It smells like a construction site in here."
The Taekwondo group left.
"Bastard!" Ramon cursed, kicking a water bottle across the room. "I'm breaking his leg next week. Just watch me."
"Keep your head, Ramon," Udin said, though his own jaw was clenched tight. "That's his strategy. He wants us hot-headed and sloppy so we get disqualified."
Udin turned back to his students, who were looking both anxious and enraged.
"Did you hear him?!" Udin roared. "They think we're slow. They think we're just laborers. Show them! Karate isn't about jumping around like a fancy kangaroo! Karate is the foundation! Karate is Ikken Hissatsu—one strike, one life!"
"OSU!" the dojo members screamed, their spirits reignited by the insult.
"Continue! Five hundred Mae Geri kicks! Now!"
The GOR thundered once more.
In the midst of the training, Udin allowed the pain in his body to fade into the background. His mind drifted for a moment to his friends. He thought of Salim.
Salim is probably eating some greasy snack or counting pocket change right now, Udin thought, a small, rare smile tugging at the corners of his mouth despite the intensity.
He admired Salim. Physically, Salim was weak—Udin could probably snap Salim's arm with a single finger—but he knew Salim had "muscle" of a different kind. Mental endurance. The way Salim faced poverty and Rinto's insults without lashing out was, in Udin's eyes, a high-level martial art. Patience.
And what did Udin have? He only had his body. He wasn't a doctor's son like Alya, he wasn't a student council leader like Salma, and he wasn't a genius like Salim. He was just the son of a retired soldier who was taught that the world is hard, and you have to be harder than the world to survive.
"Yame!" Udin shouted, ending the session.
The practice was over. The sun had long since set outside. The GOR's industrial lights hummed overhead. Udin sat cross-legged in the center of the mat, closing his eyes for the closing meditation—Mokuso.
In the darkness behind his eyelids, Udin felt a strange, familiar prickle. It was the same feeling he got before a major tournament. His heart raced not from fatigue, but from anticipation.
Why does it feel... like there's a danger far greater than Raka lurking out there?
Udin opened his eyes. He looked at his right hand, calloused and scraped. A hand he had trained for thousands of hours to be a weapon.
"I hope I never have to use this for the wrong reasons," he murmured softly.
Sucipto patted his shoulder. "Talking to ghosts again, Din? Hurry up and shower. You smell like a dead rat trapped in a door."
Udin chuckled, standing up. The sense of dread vanished for a moment, smothered by the typical banter of high school boys. He walked toward the locker room, leaving the silent dojo behind—a silent witness to the final preparations of a soldier before the real war began.