“Sign this, and I will ensure you are given a quiet life far from here. A life where you can return to your fish, and we can forget you ever existed.” The parchment rustled softly in the still air of the Chamber of Ancestors. Banyu glared at the neat calligraphy, then at Kirana’s impassive face. Forget he ever existed? The words scraped a raw wound, igniting a familiar fire in his gut. This place, this *house*, had already forgotten him for over a decade. He wouldn’t be erased again. “No.” His voice was rough, unyielding. He took a step forward, closing the distance between them. “I won’t sign it.” Kirana’s obsidian eyes narrowed, a flicker of something unreadable passing through them. “You would cling to a name you defile? To a legacy you cannot comprehend?” Her gaze swept over his simple, worn clothes, a silent judgment that pricked his skin. “You are a blemish, Banyu. A crude, uncontrolled spark that threatens to ignite everything it touches. Do you truly believe you belong here?” “I don’t know what I believe,” Banyu retorted, his voice rising, the echoes of the ancestors around him seeming to hum with his agitation. “But I know this much: if this place is mine, if this name is mine, then I’m not running from it just because some ice queen tells me to.” He snatched the contract from her hand, tearing it down the middle with a decisive rip. The sound was deafening in the silence. Kirana watched the torn pieces flutter to the polished floor, her expression hardening. A muscle twitched in her jaw. “You will regret this, Angin,” she stated, her voice devoid of emotion, a cold promise. She turned, her movements fluid and precise, and walked away without another word, leaving Banyu fuming amidst the ancient stones. Hours later, the fury had not subsided, but Semar’s calm, persistent presence began to channel it. They stood in the ‘Gua Guntur,’ the Thunder Cavern, a massive subterranean chamber beneath the Pondok Sunyi where the constant rush of an underground river echoed like distant thunder. Training dummies, crafted from dense kayu besi wood, lined the cavern walls, each one bearing faint, gleaming scars from countless impacts. “The echoes of Angin do not whisper, Banyu,” Semar intoned, his voice cutting through the natural cacophony. He moved with an effortless grace, circling Banyu. “They roar. And yours, my boy, yours threatens to crack the very foundations of this world.” He gestured to a large dummy. “Unleash it. Feel the echo, not just on the surface, but deep within.” Banyu gritted his teeth, remembering the fish, the assassins, the raw, uncontrolled explosion of power. He focused, trying to replicate the sensation. His hands tingled, then a surge of heat climbed his arms. He slammed his fist into the kayu besi dummy. Instead of a fluid discharge of Gema Jiwa, a chaotic burst of emerald-green force erupted from his palm, unguided, radiating outward. The dummy shuddered, a splintering crack spiderwebbing across its chest, but Banyu felt a jarring recoil, the power lashing back at him, burning his own skin. “Crude, but potent,” Semar observed, a glint in his eye. He stepped closer, placing a hand on Banyu’s shoulder, a gesture of paternal concern. “The fire is strong, but the forge is untamed. You must learn to guide the torrent, not merely open the floodgates.” As he spoke, his fingers brushed Banyu’s neck, a feather-light touch, almost imperceptible amidst the roar of the river. A faint, almost transparent wisp of shadow, no bigger than a grain of sand, detached from Semar’s fingertip and seemed to melt into Banyu’s skin, vanishing without a trace. Banyu felt a fleeting, unusual chill, a momentary prickle like a distant static shock, but dismissed it as the lingering instability of his own power. “Again,” Semar urged, removing his hand. “The echo of this dummy. Feel its purpose. Its resilience. Connect.” Banyu nodded, still rubbing his neck subconsciously. He looked toward the dummy, trying to heed Semar’s instruction. He closed his eyes, extending his hand. This time, he didn’t just seek the surface glint. He pushed, reaching deeper. The air around him thickened. He sensed the grain of the wood, the slow growth of the trunk it once was, the bite of the iron axe, the chisel gouges, the countless impacts it had absorbed in its existence as a training tool. It wasn’t just a sensation; it was a deluge of images, a cacophony of quiet moments, a sudden, overwhelming surge of its entire history. His head snapped back. A gasp tore from his throat. The sheer *volume* of information was blinding, disorienting. He stumbled, clutching his temples, feeling a dizzying nausea. The world spun, the Thunder Cavern fading into a blur of green leaves and rough hands. He nearly collapsed, saved only by Semar’s steadying arm. “Easy, boy,” Semar murmured, a genuine concern etched on his face, though his eyes held a calculating light. “You felt it. The true echo. Deeper than even I could touch. This is your gift, Angin. This is your burden. But you must learn to sift the sand from the gold, or the tide will drown you.” Days melted into a blur of raw power and dizzying visions. Banyu’s temper flared often, frustrated by his lack of control. He could shatter objects, but he couldn’t guide the fragments. He could glimpse echoes, but they threatened to overwhelm his mind. Semar’s guidance was a constant, a soothing balm that pushed him further, always further. One sweltering afternoon, Banyu was practicing in the Pendopo Agung, the great open-air pavilion. His movements were still clumsy, each surge of Gema Jiwa more of a struggle than a controlled flow. Other clan members, mostly younger aspirants and scions of various branches, occasionally passed through, offering Banyu sidelong glances of disdain or amusement. His market-boy origins were a well-known, whispered joke. A young man with slicked-back hair and an ornate, lacquered training staff swaggered into the pavilion. His robes were pristine, his posture arrogant. It was Jati, Kirana’s younger cousin, a rising star of the Gema Jiwa practitioners, known for his precision and sharp tongue. He stopped a few paces from Banyu, a sneer twisting his lips. “Look at this,” Jati drawled, loud enough for several nearby acolytes to hear. “The Butcher of Rembang, flailing like a beached carp. Still haven’t learned how to hold a proper stance, have you, fish-monger?” He mimicked Banyu’s awkward posture with an exaggerated sway of his hips, drawing snickers from his entourage. Banyu’s hands clenched. The blood rushed to his ears. “Mind your own business, Jati,” he bit out, his voice tight. “My business is the reputation of House Jelita,” Jati retorted, tapping his staff against the polished stone floor. “And your crude existence soils it. My cousin, Kirana, made a mistake, but it seems she can’t even pay you to leave. Perhaps a lesson in humility is required.” He spun his staff, a blur of practiced motion, the tip whistling near Banyu’s head. “What do you want?” Banyu demanded, taking a defensive stance, his own raw power simmering just beneath his skin. Jati smirked. “A demonstration. You claim the name Angin. Show us something worthy of it. Or perhaps, show us why you truly belong back in the mud of the fish market.” He launched a precise blow, the lacquered staff aimed for Banyu’s side, a controlled, practiced thrust that trailed faint Gema Jiwa light. Banyu sidestepped clumsily, but the staff grazed his ribs. A flash of Semar’s voice echoed in his mind: *“Their momentum. Let it be your strength.”* Jati pressed his assault, another swift thrust imbued with the honed discipline of his family style. He was faster, more skilled, but his movements, while perfect, were predictable. This time, as Jati drove the wood forward, Banyu didn’t try to block. Instead, he twisted, catching the end of Jati’s staff with both hands. He felt the echo of Jati’s channeled intent, the surge of his Gema Jiwa, the arrogant confidence of his attack. Instead of resisting, Banyu pulled, not against Jati’s momentum, but with it, yanking the staff forward, disrupting Jati’s balance, throwing him off his practiced rhythm. Jati stumbled, surprised. Then, Banyu unleashed his own power, not in a disciplined maneuver, but a raw burst of emerald-green force that pulsed from his hands directly into the wood. It wasn’t Gema Jiwa, but something far more destructive, an echo-disruption that resonated with the very fabric of the weapon. The lacquered staff, a prized possession, shrieked. A sharp *CRACK* echoed through the pavilion. Splinters exploded outwards as the dense wood shattered, not merely broken, but disintegrated into a shower of dust and jagged shards. Jati gaped at the shattered hilt in his grip, blood draining from his face. The fragments of his weapon, tinged with a faint violet haze, littered the ground around them. Silence descended upon the Pendopo Agung, broken only by Jati’s ragged breathing. The other clan members watched in open-mouthed disbelief. Banyu, his own hands tingling and faintly smoking, felt a surge of unfamiliar triumph. Jati, the haughty young prodigy, stood exposed, humiliated, his pride shattered as completely as his staff. His mouth opened and closed, but no words came out. From the shadows of a distant archway, Semar watched. A faint, predatory smile touched his lips. He closed his eyes, shoulders settling into stillness. Deep within, he felt it—the first, barely perceptible trickle siphoned from the parasitic echo, a delicate thread connecting him to Banyu’s potent, untamed power. It was just a taste, but it was enough to confirm his plans were perfectly on track.

A Lesson in Scars