The twilight hanging over the horizon of Mount Lawu's peak that evening offered no peace. Usually, the sun would dip below the clouds in a soft, golden embrace, but today was different. The sky bled. It looked like a canvas drenched in thick, fresh blood, staining the heavens with an ominous crimson hue.
Low-hanging clouds rolled in, heavy and charcoal-black, as if the universe itself were holding its breath before an inevitable cataclysm. The mountain breeze, which typically carried the refreshing scent of pine and wet earth, had turned savage. It howled through the rocky crevices, carrying a metallic tang of rust and the pungent, suffocating aroma of ceremonial incense—so sharp it felt like needles piercing the lungs of anyone who dared to breathe.
At the highest point of this sacred plateau stood an old man.
His body was severely hunched, his spine curved as if he were carrying the literal weight of the firmament upon his frail, bony shoulders. His hair was a cascade of silvery white, flowing so long it brushed against the blackened earth. His skin, wrinkled and weathered like the bark of an ancient oak, was etched with primordial tattoos that pulsed with a faint, rhythmic glow, emitting a haunting emerald aura.
This was Ki Bungkuk Jagad.
A name that, for centuries, had served as a synonym for both divine miracles and absolute terror across every corner of the Nusantara archipelago.
Surrounding him in a perfect, lethal circle were seven of the most powerful kings to ever grace the earth. Each was clad in ceremonial golden armor that shimmered under the dying light of the setting sun.
Behind these monarchs stood thousands of elite warriors—high-tier martial artists capable of shattering boulders with a single strike. Yet, despite their prowess, their bodies trembled violently. Their grips on their spears and kris daggers were slick with cold sweat.
They all knew the truth.
Though the man in the center looked fragile, leaning on a gnarled wooden staff, a single stomp of his foot could, in theory, send shockwaves through half the island.
"So..." Ki Bungkuk Jagad began, his voice rasping from a dry, parched throat.
The sound wasn't loud, yet it resonated through every inch of the earth, bouncing off the cliff walls and whispering directly into the eardrums of every living soul present.
"Is this how you intend to conclude my years of service?"
A sturdy man in a golden silk robe stepped forward, his movements hesitant. He was the King of the Holy Mountain, the ruler of the most fertile lands, and a man long considered Ki Bungkuk's closest disciple.
On his majestic face, there was no trace of triumph. There was only profound, agonizing grief. Tears streamed down his cheeks, soaking into his neatly trimmed beard. His shoulders shook with suppressed sobs, yet his right hand remained firm, clutching a legendary kris pointed directly at his master's heart.
"Forgive us, Eyang... Forgive our insolence..." the King choked out, his voice thick with emotion. "This world... this Nusantara... no longer has enough room to contain your existence."
He paused, swallowing hard.
"Your majesty has surpassed the natural order of men. The common folk live in perpetual fear, and even we, the kings, feel like mere ants beneath the shadow of a titan. Your presence is a sun that shines too brightly, Eyang. If we do not extinguish it, we will all be burned to ash."
Ki Bungkuk Jagad fell silent. He gazed up at the darkening sky with an unreadable expression.
"A sun that shines too brightly, you say?"
He chuckled, a dry, hollow sound.
"I am the one who raised your kingdoms from the wretched ruins of civil war. I am the one who planted seeds in your barren lands using my arts. I am the one who drove away the Black Plague and silenced the Jinn lords of the ocean so your people could sail in peace."
His gaze sharpened, cutting through the kings like a blade.
"And now, after your bellies are full and your thrones are secure, you label me a threat that must be purged?"
Suddenly, a spasm of excruciating pain struck Ki Bungkuk's chest. He doubled over, coughing violently. With every retch, thick, foul-smelling black blood sprayed from his mouth, staining the sacred soil of Lawu he had guarded for centuries.
His eyes widened, the veins in his neck bulging as he felt a searing heat spreading through his veins, corrosive and fast, dismantling the spiritual meridians within his body. The primordial energy he once commanded with ease suddenly turned feral, clawing at his internal organs as if thousands of poisoned needles were being driven into his soul simultaneously.
"The Corpse Flower Venom..." Ki Bungkuk hissed, his voice dripping with disdain.
He recognized the substance. It was the most forbidden mystical toxin in existence—a black concoction that could only be brewed through a ritual of heinous sacrifice. It was made from the essence of seven types of flowers grown atop the graves of sinners, soaked in the blood of a thousand black crows, and consecrated under a solar eclipse for forty consecutive nights.
This poison wasn't designed to destroy the body instantly. No, it was far more sinister. It was crafted to rot the connection between a human soul and the energy of the universe. It was the absolute antithesis of a Shaman's power.
"Which of you," Ki Bungkuk glared at the King of the Holy Mountain, his eyes flashing with a cold, terrifying fire, "had the courage to slip this filth into my ritual offerings?"
The King of the Holy Mountain could only bow his head, unable to bear the weight of the legend's gaze. He remained silent in his weeping, but his silence was the loudest answer.
This betrayal wasn't just about politics. They had used the one thing Ki Bungkuk still held sacred—his affection for his students—to deliver his death warrant.
In an instant, as if responding to the agony of its guardian, the nature around Mount Lawu erupted with a fury never before witnessed by mortal eyes.
The sky turned pitch black, as if ink had been spilled across the heavens. Massive bolts of violet and crimson lightning struck incessantly, tearing through the clouds with thunderclaps that made the very foundations of the earth shudder.
Tornados began to form at random, ravaging everything in their path. Ancient trees that had stood for millennia were ripped from their roots, tossed into the air like dry twigs. The thousands of warriors surrounding the Shaman were thrown back by a sudden burst of spiritual pressure, many losing consciousness instantly.
Ki Bungkuk Jagad felt his strength failing. He dropped to one knee, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Every inhalation felt like swallowing shards of hot glass.
But amidst the physical ruin, a spark of transcendental rage began to ignite his soul. He looked up, seeing the silhouettes of the kings through the haze of dust and lightning. He could see them trembling, but he could also sense a flicker of relief growing in their hearts—a cowardly hope that they would soon be free from his shadow.
In his fading mind, Ki Bungkuk envisioned the aftermath of his death.
He saw these kings and their ministers sitting at the same banquet table, laughing boisterously as they raised golden chalices to celebrate their "victory." He saw how they would order historians to rewrite the past, erasing his name, belittling his sacrifices, and labeling him a monster that deserved to be slain.
Resentment... such bitter resentment... Ki Bungkuk thought.
His anger was no longer about his death; it was about how the truth would be twisted by these cowards.
"Do you truly believe..." Ki Bungkuk Jagad raised his face. His eyes, which had begun to dim, suddenly exploded with a dense, black light—a manifestation of rage that transcended the boundaries of mortality. "Do you truly believe my death is the key to your peace?"
The air around him began to warp.
"You kill me because you fear my shadow. Then let that shadow become an eternal nightmare for your bloodlines!"
With a slow, deliberate movement, Ki Bungkuk reached into the folds of his simple patterned sarong. His trembling fingers touched a small artifact tucked away—the World Diamond Mustika, a dark crystal that pulsed in perfect synchronicity with his heart.
This was the core of his entire existence. He would not let this sacred object fall into the hands of traitors whose palms were already stained with foul blood.
He would take it with him. He would take his knowledge, his forbidden arts, and most importantly: his vengeance.
"PANCASONA KALACAKRA!"
Ki Bungkuk roared the incantation, a sound that seemed to split the very heavens.
Instantly, the earth beneath their feet cracked open, giant fissures spitting out acrid black steam. A blinding deep purple light erupted from Ki Bungkuk's pores, forming an impenetrable defensive dome. All the chaotic natural energy that had been raging around the mountain was suddenly sucked into the dome, swirling at the speed of light.
The King of the Holy Mountain and the other rulers attempted a final, desperate strike. They thrust their legendary kris, unleashed thousands of enchanted arrows—but every attack disintegrated into dust before even touching the surface of the light.
They could only watch in a mixture of horror and awe as Ki Bungkuk Jagad's body began to fade, dissolving into millions of black light particles that flew toward a dark vortex suddenly appearing in the sky.
In the final seconds before his consciousness completely vanished, Ki Bungkuk closed his tired eyes.
In that darkness, he heard it again—the imaginary laughter of his betrayers. The mocking, celebratory laughter. That hatred became the last thing he felt, fueling his soul with a fire that would never be extinguished.
Laugh all you want for now, you petty kings, Ki Bungkuk thought coldly. I am going to a place you cannot reach. And when I return, I will no longer come as your protector.
I will come as the catastrophe that swallows your world whole.
A massive explosion of black light occurred in absolute silence.
In the blink of an eye, Ki Bungkuk Jagad vanished from the peak of Mount Lawu. There was no corpse left to bury, no ashes to scatter. All that remained was soil that had turned perfectly black, charred by an energy that was profoundly alien and cold.
Slowly, the madness of nature began to subside. The black sky returned to a silent, peaceful twilight, as if nothing had ever happened. The wind stopped howling, and the lightning vanished without a trace.
The kings and their thousands of soldiers stood frozen in the haunting silence. They had won the battle today; they had brought down the sun.
But in the deepest recesses of their hearts, a new terror—far greater than before—was born. They knew they hadn't truly killed Ki Bungkuk Jagad. They had only sent him somewhere else.
The King of the Holy Mountain fell to his knees on the blackened earth. His legendary kris slipped from his hand, clattering against the stone. He stared at the empty space before him with hollow eyes.
His tears continued to flow, not just because he had lost the figure he most respected, but because he realized a terrifying truth...
He had just started a tragedy that he would never be able to stop.
In that place, under the fading embers of twilight, the Nusantara had lost its guardian—and another world, in a place far, far away, had just received a soul forged in the fires of vengeance.