Chapter 1: Embers of Blood Island
The sun dipped low over Blood Island, casting an orange glow across the jagged cliffs that stood like silent sentinels. Mist clung to the rocks, wrapping the shore in a shroud as if reluctant to let go. Rentap Buana, sixteen, stood at the village's edge, barefoot on the coral-strewn sand. His eyes, dark as the obsidian caves rumored to snake beneath Kinabalu Peak, scanned the horizon where the sea roiled with secrets, its waves whispering tales no fisherman dared speak. Six years had passed since the pirates attacked—since his mother's song turned to a scream, his father's shout was silenced, and his sister Mira, then eight, disappeared in a haze of smoke and blood. Her hazel eyes, full of trust, her braided hair bouncing as she hummed a tune, lingered in Rentap's mind like a fresh wound. Her smile, stolen by steel, was the ember that kept him alive, a vow etched in his heart: he would never again lose what he loved.
Rentap adjusted his tattered green shirt, patched from years of toil—hauling nets under the blazing sun, carving oars until his hands blistered, sparring with village boys who mistook his quiet for weakness. His lean frame, 1.71 meters and 65 kilograms, carried a strength beyond his years, (blending Buakaw's wiry agility with Rodtang's unyielding grit). No village boy could best him in the fighting ring. "Too small for a warrior," the elders muttered, but their sons limped home bruised, whispering of Rentap's speed, his ability to slip blows like a ghost. He cared little for their words. Today wasn't for fishing or proving himself. Today, he would leave Blood Island, drawn by a summons he felt but couldn't name, toward the sacred heights of Kinabalu Peak.
"Rentap!" A voice cut through the dusk, sharp as a gull's cry. Lina, fourteen, sprinted across the beach, her short dagger bouncing at her hip, its coral hilt glinting. Her braid, dark and tight, echoed Mira's so closely it stung, but her grin—bold, untamed—was her own. "You're really going? To the mountain?"
Rentap nodded, his jaw set. "Tok Bayu sent word. He sees something in me."
Lina's eyes sparkled, catching the fading light. "The shaman? They say he's half-mad, speaking to spirits! What if it's a trap?"
"Then I'll face it," Rentap replied, his voice steady as the tide. His fingers brushed the coral pendant at his neck, Mira's last gift, its edges smoothed by years of touch. "I can't stay, Lina. Not after…"
Her grin faltered, just for a moment. She knew the story—every soul on Blood Island did. The pirate raid, the flames that consumed the longhouses, the blood that soaked the sand. Rentap, only ten, had crawled through ashes, calling for Mira, finding only silence. "You'll come back, right?" Lina asked, her voice softer. "Stronger?"
"If fate allows," Rentap said, offering a faint smile for her sake. Lina, with her chatter and bravery, deserved that much.
The village buzzed behind them. Fishermen dragged nets heavy with fish, their shouts mingling with the clatter of bamboo. Women wove rattan under thatched roofs, their fingers swift as children sang beneath sprawling banyan trees. Rentap's uncle, Pak Din, hobbled forward, his face carved by salt and sorrow. Once a spearman, now crippled by a pirate's blade, he carried the weight of the family Rentap had lost. "Boy," he rasped, his voice rough as driftwood, "Kinabalu's no place for chasing dreams. Raiders haunt the straits, and mountain folk don't welcome outsiders."
"I'm no outsider," Rentap said, meeting his uncle's gaze. "I'm summoned."
Pak Din snorted, but his eyes held a flicker of respect. He shoved a bamboo tube into Rentap's hands—dried fish, rice, a flint wrapped in cloth. "Don't shame us," he growled. "And don't die."
Rentap bowed, the weight of Blood Island pressing harder on his shoulders. He turned to the jetty, where a small boat waited, its patched sail fluttering in the breeze. Lina followed, her sandals slapping the planks as she rambled about sea monsters and mountain spirits, her voice a thread tying him to the world he was leaving. "You'll need more than that knife," she said, eyeing the fisherman's blade at his belt, its iron dulled from years of scaling fish.
"It'll do for now," Rentap said, stepping aboard. He pushed off, the boat rocking as waves slapped the hull, their rhythm echoing Mira's old lullabies. Lina stood on the jetty, waving until she became a speck against the cliffs, her braid a dark stroke in the twilight. Rentap gripped the oar, his inner strength—raw, unshaped—stirring deep, like a beast waking from sleep.
The journey to the mainland took three grueling days. Storms battered the boat, waves crashing over the bow until Rentap's arms burned and his shirt clung like a second skin. He navigated by starlight, Mira's pendant his only guide when clouds smothered the sky, its faint warmth a whisper of her presence. Hunger gnawed, the bamboo tube's rations dwindling, but he pressed on, driven by the fire in his chest, stronger now, like a current pulling him to shore. On the fourth dawn, Kinabalu Peak loomed ahead, its summit shrouded in mist, a giant's spine piercing the heavens. Rentap beached the boat near Kota Belud, a bustling port where voices—Malay, foreign, trader, sailor—clashed over piles of pearls, spices, and salted fish. He slipped through the crowd, a shadow in green, his coin pouch nearly empty but his resolve unshaken.
The trail to Kinabalu wound through jungle, the air thick with the scent of orchids and decay. Rentap moved cautiously, his fisherman's knife at hand, senses honed from years dodging punches in village brawls. A rustle stopped him—a boar, rooting through the undergrowth, not a man, but his heart pounded all the same. "Focus," he muttered, Mira's smile flashing in his mind, her laugh a ghost on the wind. He climbed higher, sweat stinging his eyes, until the trees parted to reveal a stone shrine, its surface carved with birds, their beaks aimed skyward like spears.
"Boy," a voice rasped, rough as broken coral. Tok Bayu stepped from the shadows, sixty, stooped but spry, his cap frayed and his eyes glinting like coals. His staff, gnarled like ancient roots, tapped the ground with purpose. "You're late."
Rentap bowed, sweat beading on his brow. "The sea fought hard, sir."
"Life fights harder," Tok Bayu said, circling him like a predator sizing its prey. His gaze lingered on Rentap's pendant, then flicked to his knife, his patched shirt. "Why come? Revenge for your family? Glory for your name?"
Rentap's throat tightened. "To be more," he said. "For Mira."
Tok Bayu's eyes softened, just a fraction, then hardened again. "Good. But 'more' means pain. Follow, and keep up."
They climbed, Tok Bayu's pace defying his age, through cliffs where the wind hummed eerie tunes. Rentap's legs ached, his breath short, but he kept stride, driven by the fire in his chest, Mira's pendant warm against his skin. At dusk, they reached a cave, its entrance flickering with firelight, the air inside heavy with moss and ash. Tok Bayu knelt by a pool, his staff tracing patterns in the water as he murmured words Rentap couldn't grasp, like a chant to unseen forces. "Kinabalu tests you," the shaman said, not looking up. "Tomorrow, you meet Guru Harimau Jati. Fail, and you're nothing."
Rentap nodded, settling on the cave's stone floor, the cold biting through his shirt. He clutched Mira's pendant, its edges a map of memory—her giggle, her tiny hand in his, her scream cut short. Sleep came in fragments, torn by dreams of blood and blades, of Mira calling from a burning shore. A roar jolted him awake—not a dream, but a beast outside, its growl shaking the cave walls. Tok Bayu, already standing, grinned, his teeth flashing in the firelight. "Your first lesson, boy."
Dawn broke, gray and heavy, the jungle beyond the cave alive with sound—birds, insects, the distant rush of a stream. Tok Bayu led Rentap into the green, teaching him to read the earth—snapped twigs, claw marks, the faint press of weight in soft soil. "Maristha's masters move like predators," the shaman said, his voice weaving tales of warriors who danced with tigers, their strikes swift as death. Rentap listened, his fisherman's knife feeling small, inadequate, but something stirred within—a spark, faint but growing, begging to be fed.
They tracked the beast through vines and shadow, the air thickening with menace. At a stream, they found it—a tiger, its gold eyes locked on them, muscles taut beneath striped fur. Its growl vibrated in Rentap's chest, a challenge older than words. Tok Bayu stepped back, leaning on his staff. "Your fight."
Rentap's breath caught. "Alone?"
"Always," Tok Bayu said, his grin sharp as a blade.
The tiger lunged, claws flashing like polished steel. Rentap dove aside, rolling through ferns, his knife slashing nothing but air. Instinct surged—years of dodging fists, weaving through nets, outlasting stronger boys. He ducked a swipe, the tiger's paw grazing his shoulder, tearing cloth. Pain flared, but Mira's face burned brighter—her smile, her scream. Rentap struck, his knife slicing the beast's flank, blood spraying the stream's edge. The tiger roared, rearing, and pinned him, its weight crushing, its breath hot with fury. Rentap's vision blurred, Mira's voice echoing—*Brother, run!*—but he refused, his inner strength flaring, a raw pulse that shook his bones. He roared back, driving his knife into the tiger's shoulder, twisting until the beast staggered, limped, and fled into the green.
Rentap collapsed, panting, blood and mud streaking his hands, his shirt torn. Mira's pendant pulsed, warm as a heartbeat. Tok Bayu clapped, slow and deliberate, his eyes gleaming. "Not bad, boy. Harimau Jati will take you."
Rentap rose, shaky but unbroken, the jungle's pulse syncing with his own. He wasn't strong—not yet—but something had stirred, deep as Kinabalu's roots, a spark that would grow into flame. Taming Jiwa, years from his grasp, waited in the shadows of his path, its power a whisper he couldn't yet hear.
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Hi guys, this is my first ever novel.
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