The broadcast ended, leaving the cavernous training hall of Akademi Langit in a heavy silence, broken only by the hum of distant machinery and Bayu’s ragged breathing. Blood from a dozen scraped knees and elbows tacky on the polished durasteel floor. He had failed Nenek Ratih’s latest drill, again. Failed to absorb the impact recoil of the plummeting ancestral hammer, a counterweighted training apparatus calibrated to simulate falling meteors. Failed, while Jovan was out there, soaking up the world's desperate hope. “Pathetic,” Nenek Ratih’s voice cut through the air, sharp as a mandau blade. She stood by the massive holographic display, her back to Bayu, her silver hair pulled back in a severe bun. “You collapse like a sack of rice, and he crowns himself king. This is not how our house operates.” Bayu pushed himself up, wincing as a fresh ache shot through his shoulder. “What do you want me to do? I can barely stop a glorified weight from knocking me flat, and he’s talking about shattering an asteroid. He’s got tech, Nenek. Not just… whatever this is.” He held up his shaking hands, palms stinging from residual recoil. Nenek Ratih turned, her eyes, dark as polished obsidian, pinning him in place. “Tech is merely a tool. True power comes from here.” She tapped her temple. “And here.” She thumped her chest. “Jovan understands the modern world’s hunger for a savior, for something tangible. While we toil in the shadows, he builds his stage. But you, Young Master, must understand the *true* levers of power. Our bloodline has always moved more than just mountains.” She pointed toward the reinforced door. “Change out of those rags. We have a field trip. It’s time you saw what your family actually *does*.” The ‘field trip’ took them not to some ancient temple or a hidden vault of cosmic artifacts, but to the beating heart of Tirtawijaya’s capitalist empire: the Bursa Sahara, the global stock exchange. Bayu, now clad in a ridiculously stiff, tailored batik shirt that chafed his neck, felt entirely out of place amidst the cacophony of ringing phones, frantic shouts, and the kaleidoscopic glow of digital market screens. The hall reeked of stale espresso and panicked sweat, far more disorienting than the physical momentum he was struggling to absorb. Nenek Ratih, in a perfectly tailored kebaya, moved with the quiet grace of a predator. Bayu, stumbling behind her, felt every eye on them, a mix of curiosity and deference. “This, Bayu,” Nenek Ratih said, her voice barely a whisper above the din, “is where fortunes are made and empires fall. Where the true battles for global influence are fought. Every major corporation, every mineral concession, every infrastructure project that shapes this city and beyond, has an Angkasa hand in its ledger. We are the bedrock beneath the gold. We manage the flow, ensure stability.” She paused, a glint in her eye. “Or instability, should the need arise.” Bayu just stared, dumbfounded. He’d thought our heritage was about punching meteors and secret martial arts. This was… spreadsheets. Extremely expensive spreadsheets. As they wove through the crowded terminal floor, the shouting died down. A hush began to spread, a ripple of anticipation that silenced the brokers’ chatter. All eyes were turning to a raised platform in the center of the hall, where an array of curved monitors dominated the space. And standing there, under the dazzling spotlight, was Jovan Adicandra. He was even more polished in person, a shark in a charcoal suit, flanked by two figures Bayu had never seen before. One was a woman, tall and lean, with eyes that seemed to miss nothing, her hands clasped loosely in front of her. The other, a burly man with a shaven head and a neck thick as a tree trunk, stood like a statue, his gaze flat and unblinking. Bayu felt a prickle of unease. There was something *off* about them, a stillness that defied the chaos around them. Jovan’s smile was a practiced, predatory flash. He tipped his head slightly toward Nenek Ratih, a tilt that read more as challenge than greeting. “Nenek Ratih. And Young Master Angkasa, I presume?” His voice, amplified by the hall’s acoustics, carried a tone of mock respect. “How delightful to see you gracing our humble market. Though I must say, your timing is rather… impeccable.” Nenek Ratih’s expression remained unreadable. “Jovan. Still playing with other people’s money, I see.” “Only to ensure a more efficient allocation of resources,” Jovan countered smoothly. He waved toward the primary screen behind him. “Speaking of which, I have an announcement to make. Sampar Dynamics has long believed in transparency and progress. It is with this spirit that we announce our intent to acquire a controlling stake in Lintang Mining.” The name rang an immediate bell. Lintang Mining was the label stamped on the supply crates his father, Chandra, obsessively tracked. Nenek Ratih had once dismissed it as a minor family front. As Jovan spoke, the display behind him flickered, and a cascade of numbers began to scroll. The ticker for Lintang plummeted, numbers plunging off a cliff. Red numbers flashed like warning lights. A collective gasp swept through the trading floor, quickly followed by a panicked flurry of activity. Brokers shouted into phones, their faces contorting in horror. The floor erupted into panic as the stock sank straight into freefall. “This isn’t just an acquisition, Nenek,” Jovan continued, his voice calm amidst the growing pandemonium. “It’s a declaration. The era of hidden influence, of quiet manipulation from behind velvet ropes, is over. The world demands visible leadership, visible power. And Sampar Dynamics is ready to provide it.” Bayu watched the numbers evaporate, decades of his family's quiet leverage zeroing out on a public board. The sheer audacity, the public humiliation, mirrored his own at the wedding. This wasn’t just business; this was a personal assault, a power play designed to cut his family at the knees, using the very arena Nenek Ratih had brought him to for his ‘education.’ His anger surged, raw and uncontrolled. He instinctively balled his fists, a tremor running up his arms. The charge Nenek Ratih had drilled into his marrow surged forward, sharp and unchanneled. He didn’t know how to manifest it properly, only that it wanted *out*. He took a step forward, a low growl rumbling in his chest, intending to punch something, anything, to make this insufferable bastard regret his words. But before he could even properly wind up, the burly man standing beside Jovan took a subtle step forward. His unblinking eyes met Bayu’s, and a faint, almost imperceptible ripple passed over his form. The momentum Bayu had gathered in his forearms deadened instantly. It didn’t dissipate, it simply *stopped*. Like punching a sponge. Bayu staggered, his swing aborted, the surge of power inexplicably gone, leaving him feeling hollow and foolish. Jovan leaned in, murmuring beneath the roar of the panicked pit. “Your family’s power is a relic. Mine is the future. I’ll even name the crater after you.”

A Hostile Takeover