He has fallen countless times. But each time, he forces himself back up.

  His small body is battered—bruised, scraped, and drenched in sweat. His torn clothes cling to him, heavy with dirt and dried blood.

  Thin cuts sting his hands and legs, souvenirs from pushing through thorny undergrowth, but he barely notices.

  Hunger twists his stomach. Thirst scorches his throat.

  Barefoot. Exhausted. Lost.

  Still, he runs.

  Blindly.

  Desperately.

  He doesn’t know the way home—only that he has to get there.

  And then—

  Through the clearing of tangled trees, a shape emerges.

  A small hut in the valley, half-hidden by vines, encircled by a sagging wooden fence.

  In the yard, an old man stands, his axe rising and falling, splitting firewood with slow, rhythmic strokes.

  It’s a place. A person. A hope.

  On the edge of consciousness, Adanu Raksa pushes forward, his legs trembling beneath him. He stumbles—falls—then tumbles down the sloping forest floor.

  With raw desperation, he scrambles back to his feet, vision swimming, breathe ragged.

  “Sir… can I…”

  He approaches the hut, opens his mouth to call out. But his voice is weak, hoarse from exhaustion.

  “Sir… can I… have some water?”

  But the old man doesn’t seem to hear him. He keeps chopping the wood.

  Adanu Raksa is too frail to shout.

  His strength is gone.

  His vision blurs.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  And then—

  Blug!

  He collapses, his small frame crumpling into the dirt.

  Right at that moment, the hut’s front door creaks open. An old woman steps out, her face lined with years of hardship.

  She halts, her sharp eyes narrowing as she catches sight of a figure lying motionless near the fence.

  “What’s that?” she murmurs. Her voice carries to her husband.

  “Dear? What is it?” the old man asks.

  She doesn’t answer. Her gaze remains locked on the boy.

  She hesitates.

  Their home is remote. They live alone. Strangers rarely pass through.

  Caution grips her chest.

  But then, once she finally sees his face—

  “A child?”

  Her heart clenches.

  The old man steps forward, his touch gentle as he rubs her shoulder.

  “He must be lost,” he murmurs.

  After observing his surroundings for a moment, the old man lifts the frail child. His body disturbingly light, as if hollowed by suffering.

  “It’s getting dark. Come on, let’s take him inside.”

  ***

  After the sun sets…

  Adanu Raksa stirs to warmth. A soft bamboo recliner cradles his aching body. The flickering glow of an oil lamp dances on the wooden walls.

  Two figures sit before him—an elderly couple, watching with cautious curiosity.

  The old woman’s gaze softens. For a moment, she sees someone else.

  “…Dear. He looks just like Tole.”

  The old man sighs. “He does seem to be Tole’s age. But his skin is too smooth for a peasant’s son. Look at his clothes—he must be from a noble family.”

  The name Tole lingers in the air. A ghost of someone they lost. A shadow that never left them.

  Adanu Raksa slowly opens his eyes, and then blinking. His mind is foggy. His throat is dry.

  “Where… am I?”

  The old woman leans forward. “This is our home, child.”

  “How did I get here?” he mutters.

  “That’s what we want to know,” she says gently. “This place is far from the nearest village. How did you find your way here?”

  Adanu Raksa’s gaze flickers around the small hut, his thoughts slowly aligning.

  “Who… are you?”

  “My name is Barja,” the old man says. “And this is my wife, Ratih.”

  The moment stretches. Then, as if realizing something, Ratih rises abruptly and hurries to the kitchen. She returns moments later, carrying a bamboo cup filled with water.

  “You must be thirsty. Here, drink.”

  Adanu Raksa grabs it with trembling hands. The cool liquid soothes his parched throat, but it’s not enough. He wants more.

  Still—

  He lowers the cup, bowing his head slightly. “Thank you, Ma’am. You saved my life.”

  Ratih turns away suddenly, her shoulders trembling.

  She hurries into the next room, pressing a hand against her mouth as silent tears fall.

  Barja follows, resting a gentle hand on her back.

  “…He’s too young,” she whispers. “Too small to be alone like this.”

  Barja closes his eyes. He understands.

  Once, they had a child.

  Once, they had a son.

  But he was lost to them, swallowed by time and fate.

  And now, before them stands a different boy—wounded, alone, carrying ghosts of his own.

  “…Maybe,” Ratih says shakily, “God sent him to answer our prayers.”

  Barja exhales, rubbing her back. “Ratih… he’s not Tole.”

  “We could take care of him,” she pleads. “Let him stay.”

  Meanwhile—

  Adanu Raksa hears everything.

  A lump forms in his throat, but he shakes his head.

  And then—

  “…Excuse me.”

  Ratih quickly wipes her tears and steps out, kneeling beside him.

  She strokes his hair, her touch light and motherly.

  “Le,” she calls him softly. A term of affection. A name meant for a son. “Are you hungry? I can make you grilled chicken.”

  Adanu Raksa stiffens.

  He understands what she wants. What she hopes for.

  But he can’t give it to her.

  “My name is Adanu Raksa,” he says instead, voice small yet firm. “Son of General Rangkabhumi from Talang Asri.”

  A shadow passes over Ratih’s face. “General Rangkabhumi from Talang Asri?” she murmurs, realization sinking in.

  It’s the great general from the east, whose heroic sacrifice has been spread through the entire Chakradwipa territory. His legendary struggle even reaches these two elders’ ears.

  Adanu Raksa nods. “I need to go back. My mother—” his voice cracks. “She’s in danger.”

  Barja kneels beside him. “What happened to your mother, son?”

  “There was a man,” Adanu Raksa says, hands clenching into fists. “He was my teacher. But he betrayed us. He worked for the devil.”

  His voice shakes with anger.

  The couple exchange uneasy glances.

  They know what happened in Talang Asri. But…

  “How did you get here?” Barja asks.

  Adanu Raksa ignores the question, his focus unshaken. “Please, sir. Show me the way to Talang Asri.”

  Barja sighs. “Talang Asri is far, boy. It’s across the southeastern border of Chakradwipa. Two day’s journey, I’m afraid.”

  The kid can’t picture how far it is.

  But that’s all he needs to hear. Direction to home.

  He stumbles to his feet, and bows his head. “Thank you, sir. Thank you, ma’am. I’ll never forget your kindness. But I have to leave. I need to save my mom.”