Phase 1: Rise of the Orphan Blade
Chapter 1: The Crimson Vow
Part 1: Blood and Beginnings
I was sixteen when I learned the world doesn't wait for you to be ready. It throws you into its storms, its fights, its truths, and you either sink or find a way to stand. My name is Rentap Buana, but back then, I was just Rentap, an orphan on Blood Island, a place of jagged cliffs and restless seas, where survival was a lesson carved in coral and salt. I want to share with you how it all began for me—not with triumphs or titles, but with a vow made on a cliff, a blade in my hand, and a fight that showed me the weight of what I'd promised. This is where my story starts, raw and unpolished, on the edge of everything I'd ever known.
Blood Island isn't forgiving. Its shores are sharp, its jungles thick with secrets, its waves always hungry. I grew up in a village that raised me out of obligation, not affection, after pirates took my parents—Jaya and Mira—when I was too young to hold their memory. The elders spun tales of their courage: my father standing against a crew with a fishing spear, my mother shielding me until her last breath. Those stories were meant to inspire, but they left me hollow, haunted by faces I couldn't see and a debt I didn't know how to pay. I was just a kid, scrappy and stubborn, living on stolen fish and the hope of being more than an orphan's shadow.
Crimson Cliff was where I went to wrestle with that hope. It's a sacred place, where the coral turns red under rain, soaked with the blood of our people's defiance—centuries of battles against raiders who thought they could claim us. That day, the sky was heavy, clouds bruised and brooding, like they were holding their breath. I knelt at my parents' graves, coral stones etched with their names, my fingers tracing the worn grooves. My hands were rough from nets and brawls, my heart heavy with questions. "I'll make you proud," I whispered, but the words felt frail against the wind's roar. Proud of what? A boy who survived on scraps? I didn't know what pride was, but I craved it, for them, for me.
Then I felt it—a pulse, like the earth was alive, beating beneath my knees. I froze, hand on the coral, thinking it was a trick of my mind. But it came again, stronger, a rhythm from deep within the island. No one was there—no shamans with their mantras, no villagers—just the wind's wail and me. I looked down, and there, in the dirt, was a faint glint. I dug, fingers clawing through mud, and pulled out a jade rune, no bigger than a coin, glowing with a light like stars caught in stone. Its surface swirled with lines that seemed to shift, and it was warm, humming in my palm, like it carried a soul of its own.
I didn't know it then, but that rune was my first touch of Taming Jiwa, a keris of seven waves, forged by Ancient Emperor Eldrin in a celestial fire, its spirit tied to the Sky Nexus—a cosmic force weaving Easternasia and Astralasia. The elders spoke of it in hushed tones, a blade that chose its wielder, not the other way around. I wasn't ready for legends, but that rune stirred something in me, a spark that felt like destiny, raw and unyielding. It wasn't just a promise—it was a call, daring me to answer.
The storm broke as I stood, rain lashing my face, sharp and cold. I gripped the rune, facing the sea, its waves churning like a living beast. "I'll fight," I said, my voice steady despite the tremor in my chest. "For you, for Blood Island, for every soul those pirates stole. I'll be more than this." The words were rough, born from a place deep and honest, no poetry needed. The rune flared, its glow piercing the storm, like it was echoing my vow. Maybe it was. Maybe the island itself was listening.
That night, I didn't sleep. The rune stayed in my pocket, its warmth a restless companion, urging me to move, to act. Dawn brought whispers of trouble—a fishing boat missing, rumors of pirate sails near the mangrove maze, a tangled web of roots and channels where the jungle spills into the sea. The elders crowded the longhouse, their voices sharp with fear: fight, hide, or pray? I wasn't welcome there, but I eavesdropped, pressed against the bamboo, my pulse hammering. Pirates. The ones who'd taken my parents. The ones I'd sworn to face.
I was no fighter, not really. My only weapon was a rusted kerambit, its curved blade chipped from gutting fish, but it was all I had. The village had taught us boys the basics of Astra-Nusantara Silat, our martial art, rooted in the sea's rhythm and the jungle's strength. I knew Flowing Tide, a stance that let you move like water, slipping past blows and striking like a wave. It was enough to spar with kids, maybe fend off a bully, but pirates? Men with bloodied krises and parangs? Doubt clawed at me, but the rune's pulse burned it away. I'd made a vow. I couldn't stay still.
The mangrove maze was a half-day's trek, through jungle trails thick with vines and the hum of life. I slipped out at midday, kerambit at my waist, rune humming in my pocket. The air grew heavy as I neared the maze, salt and decay mingling with the damp. It was a world apart—roots arching over brackish water, forming tunnels where shadows ruled. I'd played there as a kid, weaving through roots, dreaming of battles. Now, it felt like stepping into one, the rune's warmth pushing me forward.
I moved low, Flowing Tide guiding my steps, my bare feet silent on the slick roots. The rune pulsed, like a guide, leading me deeper. Then I heard them—voices, harsh and foreign, laughing in a dialect I didn't know. Pirates. My heart thudded, but I crept closer, hiding behind a curtain of roots. There, on a sandbar, were ten of them, their faces scarred and sun-hardened, krises and parangs glinting. Their skiff was tied to a root, and they were sorting stolen nets, spears, and a bloodied tunic—likely from our fishermen. My grip tightened on the kerambit, rage surging over fear.
Ten against one was a death sentence, even for a trained warrior. But Old Kadir, our Silat master, had drilled into us: "The jungle fights with you, if you listen." The maze was my ally—its roots a trap, its channels a barrier, its branches a vantage point. I studied the sandbar: the skiff's rope, the shallow water, the vines heavy with mangrove pods. A plan took shape, reckless but real.
I waited until one pirate wandered off, his parang slung carelessly. I moved, Flowing Tide making me a shadow, and struck—kerambit hooking under his jaw, a swift, silent cut. Blood spilled, warm and slick, and he crumpled. I dragged him into the water, my breath shallow, the rune pulsing like it was alive. One down.
The others didn't notice. I sliced the skiff's rope, letting the current tug it free, then climbed into the branches above the sandbar. When a pirate shouted about the skiff, they scrambled, wading into the channel, cursing. That's when I acted. I yanked a vine, pods crashing down, knocking two pirates into the water. Their screams drew the rest, and I dropped, kerambit flashing in the dim light.
It wasn't a dance, not like Silat practice. It was raw, chaotic, blood spraying like rain. I slashed one's arm, another's thigh, their cries swallowed by the maze's hum. Flowing Tide kept me moving, weaving through their clumsy swings, my kerambit biting deep. The rune burned in my pocket, and for a moment, I saw a jade spark along my blade, like it was guiding my hand. Five fell, then six, their bodies sinking into the mud, the water turning crimson.
The last four were smarter, circling me, krises raised. "You're dead, boy," one growled, his face twisted with scars. He lunged, kris flashing, and I parried, my kerambit's rusted edge sparking. Another struck from behind, his blade grazing my ribs, pain searing through me. I stumbled, blood dripping, but the rune's pulse steadied me, like a voice urging me on. I roared, diving forward, my kerambit tearing through the scarred man's throat. I grabbed a vine, swung clear, then hit the water, slashing ankles, dragging one under to drown in the muck. Three left. Two. One.
The last pirate was a giant, his kris etched with red runes—not like my jade, but dark, pulsing with something foul. "What are you?" he snarled, circling. I didn't know, so I stayed silent. He charged, kris aimed for my heart, and I slipped past, Flowing Tide saving me. My kerambit slashed his wrist, forcing the blade from his hand, but he tackled me, fists pounding. I twisted, drove the kerambit into his chest, once, twice, until he collapsed, the water red around him.
I stood, trembling, blood and mud coating me, the kerambit heavy in my hand. Ten dead, me still breathing. The rune glowed, its warmth easing the fire in my ribs. I didn't feel like a victor. I felt changed, like I'd traded something to survive. But I'd kept my vow, for now.
Footsteps came then, slow and deliberate, from the mangroves. I spun, kerambit raised, expecting another fight. Instead, an old man stepped out—gray beard, eyes sharp as coral, wearing a Kerisforge Clan tunic with jade embroidery. His staff, topped with a carved kirin, tapped the ground. "Impressive, boy," he said, his voice rough but warm. "Ten pirates with a fish knife? I'm Kadir. You're coming with me."
I didn't trust him, not yet, but the rune pulsed, like it knew him. The graves, the vow, the blood—they'd led me here. I didn't know where Kadir's path would take me, or what Taming Jiwa was, but I felt it calling, sharp and undeniable.
The trek back to the village was quiet, Kadir leading, his staff marking the way through the maze. My ribs ached, the gash shallow but stinging, and my hands shook, still gripping the blood-crusted kerambit. The rune stayed warm, a silent companion. I didn't tell Kadir about it—some instinct kept it secret, for now.
The village was alive with tension when we arrived, the longhouse glowing with torchlight, voices spilling out. Kadir strode in, me trailing, feeling every eye on my bloodied state. "Rentap, what have you done?" an elder snapped, his face creased with disapproval.
Kadir raised a hand. "This boy killed ten pirates," he said, voice cutting through the murmurs. "Alone, in the maze, with that." He nodded at my kerambit. The room fell silent, stares heavy on me.
Lila, the head shaman with silver braids, spoke. "Why, Rentap? Why go alone?"
The rune's warmth gave me strength. "I made a vow," I said, my voice steady. "At my parents' graves. To fight the ones who took them. To be more than this." I gestured at myself, bloodied and ragged. "I couldn't wait."
Lila's gaze softened, but her words were firm. "Vows bind you to hard paths, child. That blood—it doesn't wash away."
"I know," I said, quieter now. "But I'd do it again."
Kadir chuckled, a low, approving sound. "He's got fire," he told Lila. "And something more. The island chose him." His glance grazed my pocket, like he sensed the rune. "I'm taking him to Kerisforge Clan. He'll learn Silat, the true way. He might be the one."
The elders argued, but Lila silenced them. "If the island wills it, we won't stand in his way. But Rentap—" Her eyes held mine, heavy with warning. "This path is not gentle. Be ready."
I wasn't ready, not even close. But the rune, the vow, Kadir's staff—they were pulling me forward, into a world bigger than I could grasp. I nodded, my fate sealed in blood and jade.
That night, I sat by the sea, the rune in my hand, its glow soft but steady. The waves crashed, each one a question: Who was I? What was Taming Jiwa? Why me? I had no answers, only the blood I'd spilled, the vow I'd made, and the path ahead with Kadir. Blood Island wasn't done with me, and I wasn't done with it. The pirates were just the beginning. Out there, in the seas and jungles of Easternasia, my destiny waited—dangerous, real, and mine to claim.
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