Jaka stood alone at the edge of the village, his gaze lost on the horizon, where twilight bled into the deepening sky. The weight of the world pressed heavily against his chest, yet this world—this fabricated reality—felt as foreign as any dream.
It was his creation, born from his mind, and yet, somehow, it imprisoned him.
He had designed it—crafted every stone, every path, every echoing shadow. And now, the cruel irony settled in his bones: he was no longer the architect, the god—he was a prisoner to his own creation.
No one knew the truth. No one knew that the world they lived in wasn't a product of divine will or ancient prophecy, but the intricate weave of Jaka's imagination.
The villagers—they were just pawns in his game. Or at least, he had thought so. But as the days blurred into nights, Jaka realized that it wasn't the villagers who were bound by his design. It was him.
They—their laughter, their pain, their fleeting moments of joy—had become anchors. They kept him tethered to this place, and yet they didn't know him. Not truly. No one knew the burden of being the creator of a world that no longer felt like his own.
A soft crunch of gravel beneath steady footsteps interrupted his thoughts. He turned to see Laksita, her face bright with enthusiasm, holding a worn book in her hands. Her presence was warm, so incredibly real, that it cut through the fog of his doubt.
"I've been reading about scholars," she said, her voice full of excitement. "I want to be one, Jaka. Thanks to you, I want to see the world beyond this village. To travel, explore. With you."
Her words, so full of hope and possibility, caused a knot to tighten in his chest.
Laksita had always dreamed of something beyond the confines of their home, something larger than the world she knew. And hearing it now, with such certainty, filled him with both guilt and awe.
Could he walk that path with her? Could he be the one to lead her out of this fabricated life? Or was he too broken—too much of a ghost?
"Why me?" he asked, his voice softer than he'd intended.
Her smile softened in return, genuine and unhurried. She sat beside him, setting the book down gently on the grass. "Because you're different. You're not like the others. You don't need to be perfect. You just need to be you."
Her words hit him like a wave, crashing through the walls he'd built.
You don't need to be perfect.
The thought echoed in his mind, rolling like a bell's toll. Slowly, gently, the knot inside him began to loosen.
Not perfect. Not the god of this world. Not the flawless architect who held together this illusion. Just… Jaka.
For the first time, it didn't terrify him.
As days passed, the rhythm of the village continued as always—slow, steady, unremarkable. But for Jaka, the world felt different. More present. More real. His mother's steady presence in his life was like a quiet tide that soothed the sharp edges of his thoughts. She never asked him to explain himself, but somehow, she always knew when to speak.
"You don't have to be perfect, son," she said one evening, brushing a strand of hair from his face. Her hands were gentle, warm with the comfort of years. "You've carried too much on your own. Let it go. Whatever comes, we're with you."
And once again, it hit him.
You don't have to be perfect.
This wasn't just about the game.
It was about him. The real him.
Tears burned in his eyes as something heavy within him began to lift. His mother didn't need a hero. She just needed her son. And for that—she loved him. Unconditionally.
Later, under the shade of a tree, Jaka sat with Ra Kuti, his mentor. The old scholar had been guiding him since childhood, never demanding answers or greatness. He simply listened. Accepted.
"Master," Jaka asked, his voice tight, uncertain, "why do you stay by my side? I'm not who I was meant to be. I'm weak."
Ra Kuti looked at him, his face calm as always, before glancing toward the swaying fields. "You think wisdom comes from standing tall all the time? No. Wisdom grows in those who fall—those who face their shadows and choose to rise again."
Jaka looked down, heart heavy with the truth in those words.
He had been running—hiding—from the darkness inside him for so long. Pretending it wasn't there. But Ra Kuti's words rang clear, louder than any fear Jaka had carried.
"Face your truth, boy," the old man said, his hand landing firmly on Jaka's shoulder. "You don't need to be perfect. You just need to be brave."
You don't have to be perfect.
The words weren't just an idea anymore. They were a revelation.
He didn't need to be the creator. He didn't need to carry the weight of this entire world on his shoulders alone. He didn't have to be the flawless figure who created the game.
He just needed to be himself.
The pressure—years of suffocating pressure—began to ease, and for the first time, Jaka could breathe.
Later that night, under a star-filled sky, Jaka sat alone in the village square, gazing upward. The stars, once distant and cold, now seemed near—gentle companions watching over him. He felt seen, not as the god of this world, but as a person.
A person who mattered.
He thought of Laksita, of Ra Kuti, of his mother—and...
Dyah Netarja. His greatest creation. His waifu.
The one who had stood beside him when the cracks in his world first began to show. She hadn't asked for explanations. She hadn't turned away. She had been the one to light the spark in his darkest moments.
They were the ones who saw him—not as a god, but as a person. And that was enough.
"I don't need to be anyone else," Jaka murmured, a shaky laugh escaping his lips. "I don't need to be John Wick."
He smiled, small but genuine.
"I just need to be Jaka."
And with that, a click—silent but absolute—echoed deep inside him.
The game, his creation, had once been his purpose. But not anymore. It had evolved, updated, and created—something unpredictable. Like an unknown bug he didn't know how to fix.
But he don't need to anymore because, now he had something more valuable: clarity.
"I'll end this," he whispered, his fist clenching. "Not as the creator. But as Jaka. And I'll protect the world that matters. The people who matter."
He stood, his shoulders lighter than they had been in years.
As he turned and walked back toward the village, the stars above him shimmered like a promise.
This time, Jaka wasn't going to run.