PROLOG
The ground beneath them trembled violently.
The shockwave almost brought down the fragile legs of an ancient, hunched old man standing in the middle of a holy relic war. His trembling fingers clutched tightly onto a crude spear—his sole remaining shield against the gripping terror.
His breath hitched. Wrapped in shattered armor, the old man in ragged farmer's clothes staggered forward. Several arrows lodged in his thigh continued to bleed warm blood. The red fluid dripped slowly, soaking the dry earth of the battlefield. Yet, his eyes refused to yield; he kept dragging his steps toward a figure he knew all too well in the distance.
His grandson.
Among the remaining warriors and piles of fallen corpses, the young man was staring up at the sky with a blank expression, consumed by profound anxiety. When the grandfather called his name with what little hoarse voice he had left, the youth instantly turned. His tear-brimming eyes locked onto his grandfather.
As if forgetting the death lurking around them, the two ran toward each other. Under a sky no longer ordinary, they embraced tightly—a farewell hug of humanity's last remaining affection.
Instantly, a scorching heat enveloped the battlefield.
Above them, the sky seemed to split open, glowing with a blinding light. A colossal comet fell, rending the horizon and striking the earth of Chandraklana with absolute destruction and catastrophic force.
And then... Blast!
Everything that was there vanished into nothingness.
--------------------------
A thousand years later...
A dark-colored horse-drawn carriage with an antique design pulled up in front of a nobleman's manor. Almost the entire structure was built from white stone, showcasing an architecture that resembled a blend of temple exteriors.
An eighteen-year-old youth was seen carrying tools to place on a low platform in front of the magnificent mansion, which shone brilliantly like a white palace under the morning light.
His white vest fluttered in the breeze, while his black udeng hung slightly lopsided—a testament to his hard-working nature.
"Just four more boxes left, Sir..." His clear voice brought a touch of cool relief amid the scorching morning sun that was beginning to beat down on the roof of the white manor's gate.
An old man with a long white beard and hair chuckled softly. With a raspy, nearly faded voice, he placed his palm on the shoulder of the pale, fair-skinned youth beside him just as the young man was about to lift a tool box from the back of the carriage.
"Haha, that's enough, lad. Thank you."
The youth's side-parted black hair brushed across his sweaty forehead, swaying occasionally in the wind. "These are your belongings... there are still some left."
"Ah yes, I forgot about those. Haha, it's fine. I'm giving the rest of these luxury goods to you."
The youth was taken aback. "I cannot accept that, thank you."
The old man dressed in an all-white robe went quiet. He stared at him, bewildered. "You don't want them?"
"That's right."
"Come here, come closer..."
The old man invited him to take shelter under the gatehouse of his manor. They sat on the foundation of the gate. All around them stretched a vast white pool resembling a lake, its water's surface calm and still.
"To be honest, why did you decline my gift?" The old man's face was serene, carrying a gentle gaze.
"You have already paid me more than enough for the transport. In my view, that is sufficient."
The old man smiled a little wider. He continued to look at the youth with admiration.
"You're a good kid." The old man reached out and patted his shoulder. "At such a young age, I can see that you are a hard worker and diligent..."
The youth smiled faintly, though a streak of anxiety was evident on his face. "Yes, I am trying my best to make a living."
"Oh..." The old man stood up, then turned around to face him. Hunching his back slightly, he peered closely into the youth's face. "Look at that, a heavy burden is painted across your expression..."
"Tell me the truth..."
"Go on..."
The youth crossed his arms. "I don't have any burden or problem..." Yet his eyes could not hide the lie behind his words.
"I'm just a little anxious..."
The old man, whose white beard reached down to his stomach, stood gazing at the youth. His white robe billowed in the wind from time to time. "Why?"
Finally, he spoke candidly, "I am worried about someone I love. She is sickly, and over the past few days, her illness has relapsed."
"Have you taken her to a healer?"
"I have," he replied.
"Good, then." The old man straightened his back. "Who is this person you love so dearly?" The old man smiled. "Your girlfriend?"
The handsome youth looked up, staring flatly at the white-clad elder. "She is my mother, Sir."
"Now you must accept my gift..." The old man grasped the youth's shoulders with both hands, looking into his gentle eyes. "Consider it a gift in the year of Panandha..." The old man nodded.
Shortly after, the youth set off. He sat in the driver's seat and pulled the reins, prompting the two muscular horses to step forward slowly.
The old man turned and waved his hand. "I forgot to ask, what is your name...?"
The youth looked straight ahead. Surrounding him was a vast grassland filled with white-trunked trees. He turned his head back toward the old man, who was drifting further behind, framed against the grand, luxurious manor that hardly seemed like the work of ordinary mortals.
"Randu..."
The old man nodded, his hand still waving. His figure grew more distant, slowly blending into a silhouette, veiled by the trees, until he was left far behind.
In his calm mind, a question crossed the youth's thoughts as he recalled everything white he had just witnessed: Was that old man part of the Alliance?
--------------------
In a padepokan (traditional martial arts academy), the atmosphere was bustling. Many disciples moved to and fro, engaging in various activities to welcome the night of Suro. Some were practicing martial arts, others walked in and out of vocational workshops, while some beat a log drum as large as a mortar, hanging to the front left of a magnificent joglo building with a mystical aura.
Two tall young men wearing the academy's black selontrang uniforms walked side-by-side toward the joglo building ahead of them.
"Hey!" Suddenly, a handsome young man with a crew cut slipped into the middle, breaking the stride of the two men.
"Where have you been? We were looking for you at the blacksmith's workshop, but you weren't there," said a tall, fair-skinned handsome youth with shoulder-length wavy hair.
The newly arrived youth wore a sleeveless black vest. He draped his arms around his two friends' necks, making his muscular arm muscles bulge even more. "I was doing physical training. A fascinating topic came up, which made me late meeting you guys."
They walked along the straight pathway ahead, along with other male disciples who were arriving from various directions.
The tall, fair-skinned youth glanced at the man embracing him. His gaze was met with a sweet smile adorned with a neat, thin mustache.
The narrow-eyed man broadened his smile, then slowly brought his face closer to the fair-skinned youth's chin. This made the fair-skinned youth uncomfortable, as his friend's lips were already pouted in a kissing pose, almost touching his chin.
Instantly, the fair-skinned youth pulled his face away. "It's definitely about the sleeping spot or position, right?!" teased the tallest youth among the three.
"Haha… Of course! It feels great, after all. Better than polishing spears all day…" The muscular youth tightened his embrace, his fingers slowly drifting down toward his friend's chest.
"Come on!" The fair-skinned youth broke free from the embrace, revealing his dimples. "Jok… Joko… For goodness' sake, stop being ridiculous!" He crossed his arms behind his back and walked ahead of them.
"Ughhh… Is the tall guy sleepy? Talking about bed so early in the morning?" Smirking, Joko—the broad-shouldered, muscular youth—kept trying to tease him.
The tall youth turned around with his lips slightly parted. "Huh? You yourself look like you're still half-asleep… Shocking that you didn't oversleep today!"
"Handoko, that's enough…" mediated the youth with middle-parted hair, who had been walking calmly while adjusting the tie of his black udeng (traditional headpiece).
"Whatever, Wi… Whatever!" added Joko. He stepped closer behind Handoko, who was still walking ahead, and forcefully slipped his hands into Handoko's crossed arms.
Handoko instinctively turned around. "Look at you… always like this, Jok… Joko… Sigh, sometimes I actually feel sorry for you," Handoko jabbed back.
Joko tried to step forward again to tease Handoko, but he was quickly pulled back by the middle-parted youth whom he was still holding, settling the minor squabble.
Agniran knew very well that his two nephews often bickered and argued, even though they were actually inseparable brothers.
The joglo building looked sturdy and spacious. Above its roof, the branches of a giant old banyan tree stretched out like a sleeping guardian embracing the structure.
Their steps drew closer. The atmosphere grew more crowded and packed, yet everyone moved orderly up the long steps.
Now, the three of them walked toward a dark green carpet laid out in a circle at the center of the antique joglo building. Most of the area was already occupied by other disciples sitting cross-legged neatly in a circle under the brightly lit hanging lamps.
The three novices sat cross-legged to fill an empty spot in the row. Agniran took the middle position to separate his two nephews, who were still arguing.
As the atmosphere in the pavilion area fell silent, a woman in a dark green kemben (torso wrap) dress, her neatly tied hair adorned with gold leaves, walked firmly into the center of the pavilion. Both of her hands held a large, clear glass bowl filled with clean water. She was escorted by two guards carrying dark green flags featuring carved leaf patterns hanging down from the tips of their spears.
"One year from now… will be a grand moment across all of Sanajayan…" the middle-aged woman, who still radiated natural beauty, began to speak. She was the archery class master, Nyai Andarini—a legendary archer.
"Next year, someone will be crowned as the Crescent Wanderer…" Her sentence cut off. She intended to continue, but in her heart, she knew that what she was about to say contained a lie.
"…Before that, I would like to inform you—perhaps some of you have heard about the Circle of Darkness." With a slight sense of anxiety, the woman tried to convey her words with extreme caution.
"The Circle of Darkness is like this…"
She opened the lid of the large bowl placed on the table so that all the disciples surrounding her could see.
Then, she opened a small bottle containing black ink and dropped a single drop into it. The drop caused the clear water inside the bowl to slowly turn murky and black.
Nyai Andarini recapped the ink bottle while her gaze swept across the disciples' faces. "This clear water represents goodness, and this black ink is evil…"
"The Seven-Year Contest will choose someone capable of turning this black ink into white." She began to smile, looking at the disciples with hope.
"Of course… this white ink symbolizes the light."
The woman walked slowly toward the rows of disciples.
"As the winner, you will receive an extraordinary reward…" The woman turned around. "Your lives will become far more revered. You will be sent to Wulansana to behold the Sanajayan Relief of Destiny…" She paused briefly. "Because that very Relief is calling out to you through this Seven-Year Contest."
As she walked slowly around the disciples once more, she pointed her index finger upward. "This is not merely a display of skill, nor is it a brawl to determine who is the most adept fighter…"
"This event is different from the academy's annual gathering that celebrates high-achieving disciples…" She placed her hand gently over her chest. "Because this event is official and sacred, held directly under the auspices of the Alliance."
She stopped and turned back to look at the prospective participants. "All of you may join, as this event is open to anyone… as long as you have reached adulthood."
Her words were immediately met with a burst of whispers from the disciples.
"…Well, Jok, that means you can't join!" Handoko joked, snorting mockingly at Joko. Without wasting a second, Joko immediately wrapped his arm around Handoko's neck and put his head in a headlock.
Nyai Andarini raised her right hand to chest height. "Are there any questions before you return to your respective workshops?"
Several disciples raised their hands.
"Master… is participating in this Seven-Year Contest mandatory for us?"
"A good and noble question…" The woman placed her palm back on her chest, feeling touched. "Indeed, interest in the Seven-Year Contest has been declining. However, here, we are forged not to be tempted by worldly wealth, but to accumulate richness of the heart."
"The Crescent Wanderer is like natural selection… a destiny carved in prophecy…"
"So, whether it is mandatory or not depends on your own hearts. Whether you feel called, or not…" The woman concluded her answer with a warm smile as she looked at the disciples. "Anything else?"
"Master…" Another disciple raised his hand. "…is it true that the relic exists?"
She explained patiently, "It is true, the relic exists…" She took a quiet breath, lowering her gaze briefly as if weighing whether it was appropriate to say the next sentence.
"However… darkness has consumed it. Should we come into direct contact with it, the Almighty will know instantly. The sky will project a continuous beam of light once the relic is used, and that light will only be extinguished after the relic is destroyed. If not destroyed immediately, the darkness will spread. It is extremely dangerous and capable of infecting anyone it touches."
Then, she uttered words that felt immensely heavy.
"And… we will be executed if we use it," she added softly. "That is an absolute law that cannot be negotiated."
The woman's words were met with a fearful hum of murmuring among the disciples. The atmosphere in the joglo, which was initially calm and serene, turned somewhat chaotic.
"Therefore… we all hope that you are the bearers of hope who can turn this black ink into white ink…"
"Alright, let us end this brief meeting. If anything remains unclear, you may return when the schedule announcement is released. For now, you may return to your respective lessons."
Nyai Andarini hurriedly closed the bowl and gathered her equipment, as the disciples dispersed back to their busy routines.