At seven years old, Jaka Adiwasesa could proudly declare one thing:
He was no longer a toddler with low stats.
Well, maybe not entirely proud—his height barely reached his father's hip, and he still wheezed after hauling two buckets of water—but his points told a different story.
Strength: F (91/100)
Agility: F (99/100)
Dexterity: F (98/100)
Endurance: F (90/100)
After three years of odd training—especially countless hours of ridiculous spoon combat with imaginary enemies in the backyard—his physical points had climbed from pitiful Rank I to a respectable F.
His Blunt Weapon Proficiency had even reached H-rank, thanks to dinnerware duels that would shame any martial arts school.
Weapon Proficiency
Blunt: H (35/100)
Blade: I (2/100)
Polearm: I (5/100)
Throwing: I (55/100)
Bow: I (1/100)
To be fair, spoons weren't exactly good for points grinding. Even the system barely acknowledged them. But anything heavier—like a proper stick or scrap-metal bar—had once left a nasty bruise on his thigh. His mother had cried. His father had gone quiet.
That was the last time Jaka dared to train with anything remotely dangerous.
Spoons were safe. Harmless. Underrated. They let him train without breaking bones—or trust.
Now that his body could endure more than stubbed toes and nosebleeds, his mother Sekar finally allowed him to help with farming. But Jaka, ever the schemer, proposed a different plan.
"Fishing?" Sekar raised an eyebrow, her straw hat slipping as she worked the yard. "You finally get permission to work, and you want to go spear river creatures?"
"It's productive," Jaka insisted, gripping the carved bamboo spear like a sacred relic. "It develops survival skills. And patience."
She blinked. "And how exactly does that help us harvest rice?"
"It doesn't. But it'll help me grow."
Behind her, Wirajaya, his father, let out a hearty laugh. The tall blacksmith leaned on a hoe, face dusted with soot from the morning's forging.
"Let him go," Wira said. "If fish teach him more than dirt, let the river be his classroom."
Jaka grinned. "Thanks, Father."
And so, with his father unusually free—no tool repairs or sword polishing that day—the two of them walked side-by-side to the riverbank beyond Kalentang Village, spears in hand, hearts open to the silence of flowing water.
The river was wide and slow, dragonflies buzzing in lazy circles over reeds. A heron stood on a rock downstream, occasionally darting its beak to snag small prey.
Jaka planted himself on a flat boulder, toes dipping into cool water. Wirajaya chose a shady spot nearby, humming as he sharpened the tip of his spear with a riverstone.
It felt peaceful. Too peaceful.
So, of course, Jaka's brain wandered into existential dread.
Three hours passed.
One sickly catfish.
Two shrimp.
Several speared leaves (which offered zero to Job Proficiency but netted a few Polearm points).
Polearm +10
Fisherman +1
Dexterity +5
[System Message]
Patience not found. Try again later.
Jaka groaned softly, watching the water flow around his ankles.
"This is worse than debugging cooking recipes," he muttered.
"Hm?" Wirajaya glanced over.
"Nothing," Jaka said quickly. "Just… thinking."
"About fish?"
"About everything."
Silence stretched a while. Then Jaka exhaled, eyes on the shimmering current.
"Father," he said, "can I ask you something… weird?"
Wirajaya smiled. "You've been asking weird things since you could talk."
Jaka smirked. "Fair. But… say someone built a world. Every detail, every grain of dirt. They knew all the rules. But one day, they find a door they never made. What does that mean?"
Wirajaya didn't answer right away. He speared nothing, shifted his footing, then set his weapon down on a sun-warmed rock.
"Well… maybe it means the world grew beyond the builder. Like how a child grows up and makes choices the parents didn't plan."
Jaka blinked.
His father continued. "I forge weapons. Each one has shape, balance, purpose. But once they leave my hands, they fight battles I'll never see. The same sword can protect or kill—it's not up to me anymore."
That landed deep in Jaka's chest.
Even if he was the creator of this world—despite all logic—why couldn't he understand all of it?
Why was his Philosopher job not maxed?
Job Proficiency
Spoon Warrior: D (97/100)
Philosopher: A (12/100)
Fisherman: I (5/100)
He stared at those numbers, flickering faintly in his mind's eye.
He had written this system. Designed its balance. Built the logic gates and point curves.
And yet… he didn't have max in a job he invented?
The world felt like it was whispering behind his back.
Maybe the world had changed.
Maybe it was evolving on its own.
Or maybe… something else had taken root. Something he hadn't coded. Something he didn't know.
That's why he wanted to travel.
Not just to explore—but to investigate.
To see what had become of this world he once understood. To find the hidden logic… or the glitch in the machine.
His father broke the silence. "Say, Jaka…"
"Hm?"
"I've noticed you train with spoons a lot."
"Well, yeah," Jaka said. "Compact. Lightweight. Accessible."
"But… not hammers?"
That gave Jaka pause.
Wirajaya scratched his beard, avoiding eye contact. "I was just thinking. You're strong with your arms now. Good grip. Steady hands. A forge could use that. When I'm older… someone has to carry the fire."
Ah. There it was.
The Blacksmith's Torch. A profession passed through callused hands, father to son.
Jaka hesitated, looking down at his small, blistered palms—spoiled by spoons, not hammers.
"Father…" he began softly. "I… appreciate that. I really do."
Wirajaya looked up, eyes kind.
"But…" Jaka clenched the spear tighter. "There's so much I haven't seen. Villages I haven't stepped in. Mountains I haven't climbed. Dungeons I haven't dared. I want to travel. I want to see every corner of this world with my own eyes."
He bit his lip.
"I want to chase the horizon until my feet can't stop."
"I want to understand the world I made… because I no longer know if I'm in control."
His father was quiet for a while.
Jaka braced for disappointment, maybe even anger. But when Wirajaya finally spoke, his voice was warm.
"…You speak like an old man sometimes, son."
Jaka blinked. "That's a no?"
"No," Wira chuckled. "It's a compliment."
Jaka blinked again, confused.
"I see you," Wirajaya said gently. "The way you think. The questions you ask. Sometimes I forget you're only seven." He smiled, pride hidden in his voice. "And maybe that's why I respect your dream."
Jaka's heart ached.
He grinned to mask it. "Maybe I'm secretly seventy inside."
"Would explain the back pain," Wirajaya teased.
They both laughed.
Their spears rested on the rocks, the heron still ignoring them—but the moment was full.
Jaka hadn't told the truth—but he'd told his truth.
And that seemed enough.
As the sun dipped low, painting gold across the river, Jaka leaned back on the grass and stared at the sky.
He let his father hum beside him—a forge song, simple but steady.
And for a moment, he wasn't a philosopher. Or a spoon warrior. Or the creator of a world slipping through his fingers.
He was just a boy.
A boy with two lives.
Because even as he smiled, even as he laughed with Wirajaya…
His heart pulled somewhere else.
To a memory—not of this world—but the one before.
A quiet home.
A mother's voice calling him to dinner. A father patting his shoulder after exams. The warmth of human life without stats or systems.
His name.
His real age.
His family, left behind in another realm he could never return to.
And one question rose quietly in his chest:
Did they cry when I died?
He didn't know.
He'd never know.
But here, in this world of points and forged blades, he had been given another life.
And though he didn't understand it…
Though it scared him…
He would live it fully.
Even if he had to start with spoons and spearfished catfish.