Wira stepped forward, placing himself between Laksmi and the approaching danger. His once-innocent eyes turned cold, emanating a subtle Sura aura—barely visible to the naked eye, but chilling to anyone standing near him.
"You disturbed our meal yesterday," Wira said calmly, his voice cutting through the tense silence that blanketed the village. "And now you're disturbing the peace of this village. What do you want, Beardie?" He deliberately gave the bearded leader that nickname—to make it easier to remember him by that prominent facial feature.
The thick-bearded man, leader of the Night Shadow Sect, sneered. His name was Jati.
"Pfeh… Don't act tough, mountain brat," he spat. "You think you can stop us? Step aside, or you'll die before the girl!"
Laksa energy surged around Jati, swelling like a crushing wave. The ground beneath his feet cracked slightly—proof that his power wasn't to be taken lightly.
Immediately, the twenty Laksa warriors of the Night Shadow Sect spread out, encircling Wira and Laksmi. Their swords were drawn, blades glinting in the morning light as they pointed toward their targets. These were trained assassins—their eyes cold, filled with murderous intent.
"Attack!" Jati bellowed.
Five warriors shot forward like shadows, their blades slashing from all directions—aiming for vital points. Their movements were swift and coordinated, the mark of battle-hardened fighters. Laksa warriors of their level could cleave through stone with ease.
But Wira merely exhaled softly. His movements were minimal, almost imperceptible. He shifted his body just enough to let the first blade pass mere inches from his nose. His left hand shot out, grabbing the wrist of one attacker.
"This is it?" Wira muttered, his tone casual—yet his eyes locked sharply onto Beardie, the group's leader. It was as if he wasn't even acknowledging the fight happening around him.
Before the warrior could react, Wira twisted the captured wrist. A loud crack echoed.
"ARGHH!"
Then came a kick—Wira launched the man backward at incredible speed, crashing into two of his comrades and sending all three tumbling to the ground, groaning in pain. They didn't rise again.
The three remaining attackers hesitated, shocked. They hadn't expected their assault to be broken so easily—or that one of them would be taken down with a single move.
"His moves… they're deadly!" one of them shouted in panic.
Wira didn't reply. He vanished—at least, that's how it seemed to the untrained eye. In truth, he had simply moved faster than their senses could track.
He reappeared right in front of two stunned warriors.
A kick landed squarely in the gut of one of them.
"BUAGH!"
The man was launched into the air, crashing through a nearby hut roof with a burst of straw and splintering wood. He hit the ground with a heavy thud—unconscious.
The last attacker swung his sword wildly, desperate. Wira easily sidestepped to the left, then delivered a blow to the man's ribs, followed by a quick spin and a final strike to his back. Even using only a fraction of his Sura, the hits were devastating.
"UUARGHH!"
The warrior screamed as his body flew backward, slamming into a coconut tree. The trunk cracked from the force. He slid to the ground, limp and silent.
In just a matter of seconds, five seasoned Laksa warriors had been defeated—without Wira breaking a sweat.
The village fell into stunned silence.
What had been panic and screams only moments ago was now replaced by a heavy, eerie stillness. Every eye—those of villagers peeking from windows, those hiding behind carts and barrels—were fixed on one person: Wira.
Laksmi, still behind him, stared wide-eyed. She had known Wira was strong, but this… this was beyond comprehension. This wasn't just strength—it was something else entirely. Something that made her both grateful and uneasy.
Jati, the bearded leader, narrowed his eyes. His sneer faded into a frown of disbelief, tinged with the smallest flicker of fear.
"Damn you… what kind of power are you using, boy?!"
"Hey, Beardie," Wira said casually, pointing at Jati, "why don't you come down here and try it yourself? This is called Sura."
His tone was light, almost bored, like he was describing a snack rather than a martial energy that had just flattened five warriors.
Jati clenched his fists. "Don't falter! He's just one man! Attack him all at once! Don't give him any chance!"
Fifteen warriors remaining charged in unison. They were no longer overconfident. This time, they moved with deadly coordination, weapons drawn—blades, spears, and tridents slashing from all directions in a storm of cold steel. The air vibrated with the flow of their Laksa energy, forming a deadly whirlwind.
Wira closed his eyes briefly.
He could feel it all. Every movement. Every murderous intent. Every thread of Laksa winding through the air like invisible snakes.
To Wira, it was like watching a dance in slow motion. Predictable. Easy.
He jumped—graceful and high, as if defying gravity. His body spun mid-air, and his leg swept in a perfect arc.
A pulse of blue energy—subtle, barely visible—erupted from his motion.
"BOOM! BAM! BUAGH!"
A shockwave blasted outward.
Several warriors were hurled away like dolls, crashing into huts and trees. Others collapsed on the ground, clutching their chests as if struck by a giant invisible hammer. Their weapons clattered to the dirt, rolling uselessly.
Cries of pain echoed. But not one of them could stand.
In mere heartbeats, the twenty elite warriors of the Night Shadow Sect lay defeated.
Wira hadn't killed any of them. But none could fight. None could even crawl.
Jati stood alone, the only one left on his feet. His face was pale, his eyes wide—not with fear of death, but of something worse: confusion, disbelief, humiliation.
"You… you're a demon!" he shouted, his voice cracking. "This power—it's not human! It's a curse!"
Wira looked at him blankly. "I'm not a demon. I'm Wira. You can't just call someone a demon because they're stronger than you." He tilted his head and pointed calmly. "And you, Beardie… you act worse than one."
Jati growled. His pride shattered, but his rage still flared.
With trembling hands, he drew his sword again. This time, the blade pulsed with a darker aura—Laksa energy condensed into a sharp hiss. He poured everything into this one move.
"You'll regret this, boy!" he roared. "You don't know who you're dealing with! I—Jati—am respected in the Night Shadow Sect! You'll pay for this insult!"
Wira said nothing. He simply waited, still as a mountain.
Jati stepped forward, his blade raised high. The black Laksa around it crackled, vibrating through the air like a lightning storm. It was his ultimate technique—Moonshadow Tempest, a deadly strike that had ended countless battles.
The ground trembled as he moved, leaving a blur in his wake. The sword came down—fast, fierce, humming with killing intent, aimed straight for Wira's throat.
"Feel the wrath of the Night Shadow Sect!" Jati bellowed.
Wira didn't flinch. He shifted slightly, raised one hand, and caught the strike with his bare palm.
TIING!
A deafening crash rang out.
The villagers gasped. The earth shook. Sparks flew. Jati's sword bounced off, his arms shaking violently from the impact. The blade didn't break—but the force of the block was like hitting solid stone.
Wira calmly lowered his hand. "Not bad," he said, mildly impressed. "You've got some power."
Jati hissed and spat. "You damned monkey! I'll—"
He leapt again, launching a flurry of attacks—slashes, thrusts, spinning strikes. His blade danced in silver arcs, Laksa slicing through the air. Each swing faster, more desperate.
But Wira flowed like water.
He bent, ducked, twisted—parrying with his arms, redirecting energy with his elbows, sometimes tapping Jati's wrist just enough to throw him off balance. Not once did he counterattack with force.
He was studying. Testing. Letting Jati exhaust himself.
Jati began to slow. His breath turned ragged. Sweat poured down his face. His movements, once precise, now wavered with fatigue.
Wira… still hadn't even broken a sweat.
From behind, Laksmi watched in silence. She could hardly believe her eyes. This wasn't just a fight—this was a performance. And Wira wasn't even trying. Every move was elegant, controlled, as if he were… dancing.
Eventually, Jati staggered back. His knees shook. He planted his sword in the ground just to stay upright. His eyes locked onto Wira's with something new: not just fear, but awe.
"Who… are you?" His voice was hoarse, barely a whisper. "I've fought monsters… masters… but you… you're something else."
Wira shrugged. "I'm Wira. I just don't like it when people cause trouble. Especially to Laksmi's friends."
Jati closed his eyes, the taste of defeat bitter on his tongue. Around him, his men lay broken. This… was no ordinary boy. This wasn't just power. This was something beyond.
And for the first time in his brutal life, Jati felt… helpless.
He turned away.
"We're leaving!" he barked to what remained of his soldiers. "Report to the Elders. There's an anomaly on Mount Tarakan. This is no longer our business!"
The few who were still conscious began to crawl or stagger away, dragging their wounded comrades.
Jati vanished into the forest, his speed desperate—less like a warrior retreating, and more like a man fleeing a nightmare.
Wira watched them go, unmoving. There was no need to chase. The threat had passed.
"What does 'anomaly' mean?" Wira turned to Laksmi, his expression as innocent as ever.
She didn't answer.
She could only look at him, then at Jati's sword, still buried in the earth. The wielder had fled in terror. And the boy who stood calmly before her hadn't used even a fraction of his true strength.
The villagers emerged slowly from their hiding places, eyes wide, whispers spreading like wind.
Wira.
That name would not be forgotten.