The six warriors step beyond the fortress gates following their generals, walking toward the enemy camp with fearless strides.

  “You think they’ll see us coming?” a commander mutters.

  “There’s no way they’re expecting this,” another replies.

  “This might actually work,” a third says, grinning. “We could cut them down before they even react.”

  “Don’t get cocky,” a more seasoned commander chimes in. “You’ll tire yourself out before we even get through half of them.”

  “What? You doubting my kanuragan* now?”

  Rangkabhumi smirks but interrupts before the banter escalates. “No sneak attacks. No tricks.” His tone is final. “We hold them off, make them busy until Senapati Kagendra arrives. We fight them head-on.”

  His fingers tighten around his sword hilt. A ripple of energy distorts the air around the blade. The commanders tense, recognizing the technique immediately.

  Rangkabhumi sprints forward, his blade slicing through the night.

  With a single swing—

  WHOOSH!

  A crescent-shaped wind blade erupts, flying fast in the air, slashing through enemy tents and tearing through Galuguh soldiers like paper.

  Panic spreads through the enemy camp. Bamboo alarms clatter as frightened soldiers scramble to alert the others.

  In the distance, a horde of men rushes toward them.

  Rangkabhumi, keeping his running momentum, swings again.

  WHOOSH!

  Another blade of spirit energy carves through the charging warriors, leaving only mangled bodies in its wake.

  One of the commanders grins. “That’s the Great Warrior of Mount Saringgih for you.”

  “Idiot!” another scolds. “He’s burning his life force using that technique. He can’t keep this up forever!”

  “Then we better move fast,” a third growls. “Let’s go! Don’t let him die before us!”

  ***

  By dawn, the cavalry from Muncar Regency finally arrives.

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  At the head of the troops, not just Senapati Kagendra—but also Mahapatih* Abimana, the greatest warrior of Chakradwipa—the Supreme General whose position only second to Prabu Jayantaka himself.

  Unlike the others, Abimana immediately senses something is wrong. His sharp gaze locks onto the battlefield ahead.

  Even from a distance, he recognizes the technique being used.

  His blood runs cold.

  “By the gods… are there no men left in that fortress?!” he mutters.

  One of the Talang Asri boys, still inside the fort, rushes to him. “Only Senapati Rangkabhumi and his five commanders are out there. They’ve been fighting alone for three incense sticks*.”

  Abimana’s eyes widen.

  Without another word, he spurs his horse forward.

  The other generals hesitate. It’s unheard of for a leader of his rank to charge into battle before issuing orders.

  But Abimana understands what’s happening.

  He knows Rangkabhumi too well.

  He knows his old friend is fighting with his life as the price.

  The battlefield is a graveyard of corpses.

  Rangkabhumi stands alone. Drenched in blood.

  His commanders are dead, their bodies scattered around him.

  And yet—

  He still fights.

  An arrow juts from his back. Another is lodged in his right thigh. His chest is slick with blood, deep wounds carved across his torso. A broken spearhead remains buried in his stomach.

  But he keeps swinging.

  His grip on his sword never wavers.

  In his left hand, he clutches the banner of Chakradwipa, its crimson fabric drenched in the blood of friend and foe alike.

  The enemy hesitates.

  They should have killed him already.

  And yet—he’s still standing.

  Then…

  “Rangkabhumi!!!”

  A voice echoes across the battlefield.

  Even without turning, Rangkabhumi knows who it is.

  A faint, peaceful smile touches his lips.

  Slowly, he drives the banner into the ground, securing it upright.

  And with a weak breath, he whispers, “Long live Jayantaka… Long live Chakradwipa…”

  His fingers loosen. His eyes close.

  And at last—

  Blug!

  He drops to his knees.

  Abimana leaps from his horse, soaring high into the sky.

  WHOOSH!

  His blade slashes through the air, unleashing a devastating crescent of wind energy, the same Spirit Blade technique Rangkabhumi had been using toward his end.

  Just one swing, one crescent flying blade, the front line of Galuguh soldiers is obliterated.

  Abimana lands in a crouch, breathing hard. But his attention isn’t on the enemy.

  It’s on the man behind him.

  Rangkabhumi kneels, motionless, his hand still gripping the banner.

  Abimana approaches, eyes stinging.

  “…How can you smile like that, brother?” he murmurs.

  A swell of pride and sorrow rises in Abimana’s chest. Rangkabhumi had met his end as a warrior should—his blade unyielding, his banner planted firm in the soil of Talang Asri.

  He had not fallen in despair. He had entrusted his final breath to Abimana.

  And Abimana would not let that trust go unanswered.

  The moment of mourning is fleeting.

  His hand tightens around his sword. His body stills, his presence shifts—mourning fades, leaving only fury.

  The Galuguh soldiers tense.

  They know who stands before them.

  “That's Abimana the Wise...” one enemy whispers, voice laced with unease. “The strategist who wins wars before the battle even begins.”

  Another swallows hard. “They say he never fights anymore—he doesn’t have to.”

  But then—

  They watch as Abimana lifts his sword.

  The air around him twists. The blade gleams—not just with steel, but with something more. Something deadly. Something merciless.

  And in that instant, they remember—

  Before he was a Supreme General, before he was a legend, before he was Abimana the Wise—

  He was a swordsman bathed in blood.

  And that swordsman is about to return, to prove his legacy once more.

  As panic spreads among the Galuguh troops, another sound shakes the battlefield—the thunderous charge of Chakradwipa’s cavalry.

  At the forefront rides Senapati Kagendra, his banner whipping in the wind. The ground quakes beneath the force of galloping hooves, and fear grips the hearts of the Galuguh soldiers.

  “Lieutenant! Order the retreat!” a commander shouts, his face pale. “We’ll be slaughtered if we stay!”

  He turns his horse, desperate to flee.

  However…

  Shnk!

  A sharp wind cuts through the air.

  A severed head flies, spinning through the air. The commander’s lifeless body slumps in the saddle before tumbling to the bloodstained earth.

  The soldiers freeze.

  At the heart of the battlefield stands Abimana, his sword still raised, his royal kris glinting in his left hand.

  He moves like a phantom, weaving through the enemy ranks. Steel flashes—heads roll. Blood sprays the earth as his blade finds its mark again and again.

  By the time the cavalry reaches him, there is no battle left to fight.

  He has ended it alone.

  The victorious horsemen let out a thunderous cheer, their voices echoing into air welcoming the sunrise beam.

  But Abimana does not celebrate.

  His steps are slow, heavy, as he approaches the fallen warrior holding Chakradwipa’s banner. His voice is thick with regret.

  “If only we had come a moment sooner…”

  Despite their triumph, Abimana feels no victory.

  Only regret.

  Incense Stick Measurement: Since the concept of hours was not yet in use, people in this era estimated time based on how long an incense stick took to burn. A standard incense stick typically lasted around one to two hours, making it a practical tool for measuring time in daily life, military watches, and ceremonies. While not perfectly precise, this method provided a consistent way to estimate the passage of time.