“It seems I underestimated you, old man,” Aji said, his voice carrying over the clash of their movements as he pressed forward with a relentless barrage of strikes. “Your skills are… respectable, I suppose.”“Respectable?!” Wiro Sentiko roared, twisting aside to avoid a fist that would have shattered his ribs. He had managed to evade the last few attacks, but each near-miss left him breathless and shaken. The casual way his opponent spoke sent a chill down his spine—if this handsome young warrior considered him merely ‘respectable’, then his own power must pale in comparison to what lay hidden within Aji.Aji shifted his stance, and his attacks came faster still—each punch, each palm strike moving with a fluidity that defied logic. Wiro Sentiko struggled to keep up, his eyes darting frantically as he tried to predict the next move. Aji’s fighting style was like water—constantly shifting, never staying the same, and so beautiful in its precision that any observer would have been left i

Ratih and the three young women made their way out of the Dark Sect compound, stepping carefully over the charred earth that marked the edge of what would soon be nothing more than ash and memory. Behind them, Aji entered one of the remaining standing halls and retrieved a lit lantern from a stone pedestal—its flame still burning bright despite the chaos of the night before.With deliberate purpose, he moved from building to building, touching the lantern’s flame to curtains, wooden beams, and dry rushes laid across the floors. One by one, the structures erupted into brilliant fire—great tongues of orange and red reaching toward the sky as the ancient wood crackled and roared. Aji left nothing untouched; not a single wall or roof was spared the cleansing heat of the flames.From outside the walls, the handsome warrior joined Ratih and the maidens, all of them standing in silence as they watched the sea of fire consume the compound. Most of the buildings had been constructed primarily

“A classic question indeed,” Aji chuckled lightly, his gaze sweeping across the four crimson-robed warriors whose faces were contorted with seething rage. “If you wish me to keep my distance, then cease this cowardly ganging up! Are you not ashamed to overwhelm a man of such advanced years? What would your families think if they knew you were no better than bullies—preying only on the elderly because you dare not face those your own age?”“Insolent whelp! Have you only just emerged from obscurity into the martial world that you do not know us—the Four Crimson Sickle Warriors? We fight as one, always—as our name has long proclaimed!” one of them snarled, his knuckles white where he gripped the hilt of his massive curved blade.“Hahaha! You are nothing but four frightened men hiding behind each other’s shadows,” Aji laughed, his voice ringing with sharp mockery. “You band together because you lack the courage to stand alone, is that not so? If you were true warriors, would you not face

Without the rigid structure of their formation to guide them, their assault crumbled before Aji like a sandcastle against the tide. Every sweeping arc and powerful swing of their massive crimson sickles—meant to shatter his defenses and overwhelm his guard—was laid bare to his keen eyes, their trajectories as clear as stars in a cloudless night sky. Each failed strike only stoked the fire of their fury, sending their emotions spiraling further into the abyss of recklessness.In truth, were strength alone the measure of worth, Lodra and Ki Ageng stood leagues above these four warriors combined. What the quartet had failed to perceive was that Aji had deliberately allowed their blows to find his body time and again in the early moments of battle—not out of weakness, but as a carefully crafted gambit to inflate their confidence to dangerous heights.Through countless battles and hard-won trials, Aji had learned a timeless truth of combat: unchecked arrogance blinds even the most skilled

“If there is any soul on this earth who grieves the loss of Grandfather Prayoga more deeply than all others, it is I,” Aji declared, his voice steady despite the weight of sorrow that still lingered in his eyes. “He did not merely save me from death when I was a child—he pulled me from the darkness of obscurity and shaped me into a man who might serve the world with honor. Every skill I possess, every principle that guides my path, every ounce of strength in my bones was gifted to me by his hand. His legacy is woven into the very fabric of my being, and nothing in this world could ever replace what he gave me.”Though the pain of losing his beloved mentor threatened to consume him, Aji refused to let despair root itself in his heart. He had learned from Prayoga himself that life was but a temporary gift—borrowed from the cosmos, to be returned when the time was deemed right. To wallow in grief would be to dishonor the lessons his grandfather had spent a lifetime teaching him.Sakuntal