Chapter 6: The Dance of the Jungle
The morning mist clung to Kinabalu Peak, wrapping the jungle in a silver veil as the first light of dawn crept through the canopy. Rentap Buana stood in the clearing. His tattered green shirt was little more than rags now, stained with sweat and blood, the scars on his back and ribs a map of his journey so far. The faint claw mark on his arm, a gift from the *Claw Path*, tingled with a strange warmth, as if Kinabalu itself watched him. Mira's coral pendant pulsed against his chest, her memory a steady flame that anchored him amidst the mountain's mysteries. The fisherman's knife at his belt and the staff in his hand felt like extensions of himself, honed by days of relentless training. Guru Harimau Jati stood before him, his scarred frame radiating a quiet intensity, his tiger pelt cloak catching the light. "You've faced the mountain's echoes," he said, his voice a low growl. "Now you'll learn its rhythm—the *Dance of the Jungle*."
Rentap's muscles ached, but the spark within him—the flame kindled by each trial—burned brighter, eager to grow. "What's the dance?" he asked, gripping the staff, the *Tiger Claw Slash* and *Leaping Fang Strike* now second nature after days of drilling.
Harimau Jati's eyes glinted, sharp as a predator's. "Tiger Martial Art isn't just about fighting—it's about harmony with the jungle. You'll move with its flow, strike with its fury, vanish with its shadows." He gestured to the dense forest beyond the clearing, where the trees stood like ancient sentinels, their roots sprawling across the earth. "Today, you'll learn the *Jungle Stalk*—a technique to move unseen, to strike without warning. A tiger doesn't charge blindly. It waits. It hunts."
Rentap nodded, the guru's words resonating with the instincts he'd honed on Blood Island—dodging punches, slipping through crowds, always watching, always ready. Harimau Jati led him into the jungle, his movements silent despite his size, his staff barely stirring the undergrowth. "Watch the earth," he said, pointing to a patch of moss. "Step where it's soft. Use the shadows." He demonstrated, gliding through the trees with a grace that belied his scars, his body low, his steps soundless. Rentap followed, mimicking the guru's stance, but his first step snapped a twig, the sound sharp in the quiet jungle. Harimau Jati turned, his gaze hard. "Louder than a boar," he growled. "Again."
They spent hours on the *Jungle Stalk*, Rentap learning to shift his weight, to step lightly, to use the jungle's natural cover—ferns, roots, the dappled light of the canopy. His body protested, still sore from the *Claw Path* trial, but he pushed through, the pendant warm against his skin, Mira's laugh a quiet encouragement. By midday, he moved with less noise, his steps blending with the jungle's rhythm, the spark within him syncing with the forest's pulse. Harimau Jati tested him, disappearing into the trees and ordering Rentap to find him. The guru was a ghost, his tracks faint—a bent leaf, a scuff in the dirt—but Rentap's senses, sharpened by days on the mountain, began to catch the signs. When he finally spotted Harimau Jati crouched behind a boulder, the guru grunted in approval. "Better," he said. "Now, strike."
The second half of the day focused on combining the *Jungle Stalk* with Rentap's attacks. Harimau Jati set up wooden dummies throughout the jungle, their positions hidden among the trees. "Find them," he said. "Strike with *Tiger Claw Slash* or *Leaping Fang Strike*. Don't let them 'see' you." Rentap stalked through the jungle, his movements quieter now, his body low as he scanned for the dummies. The first one stood in a clearing, its wooden surface scarred from past training. Rentap crept closer, using a fern for cover, then sprang with a *Leaping Fang Strike*, his staff slamming into the dummy's chest with a crack. The impact jarred his arms, but the dummy toppled, and Harimau Jati's voice called from the shadows: "Good. Next."
Rentap hunted through the jungle, finding and striking five more dummies, each attack sharper, more precise. He used the terrain—leaping from a low branch for a *Leaping Fang Strike*, darting from behind a tree for a *Tiger Claw Slash*. His body flowed with the jungle's rhythm, the spark within him burning brighter, a flame that danced with the forest's energy. By the time he felled the last dummy, the sun was dipping low, casting long shadows across the jungle floor. Harimau Jati emerged, his expression a mix of scrutiny and pride. "You're learning to move like a tiger," he said. "But the jungle isn't just your ally—it's your teacher. Tomorrow, you'll face its wrath."
Rentap's heart quickened. "Its wrath?" he asked, wiping sweat from his brow, the tiger pelt heavy on his shoulders.
Harimau Jati's lips twitched in a rare smirk. "Kinabalu tests those it favors. You'll see." He gestured to a stream nearby. "Wash. Eat. Rest. You'll need your strength."
That evening, Rentap sat by the fire in the clearing, the stone pillars looming around him, their tiger carvings glinting in the firelight. He chewed on dried meat, the day's lessons replaying in his mind—the *Jungle Stalk*, the way the forest seemed to breathe with him, the flow of his strikes blending with its rhythm. The claw mark on his arm tingled, a quiet reminder of the mountain's presence, its favor and its claim. He clutched Mira's pendant, her memory sharper than ever—her giggle, her scream, her hazel eyes full of trust. "I'm getting stronger, Mira," he whispered, the fire casting shadows that danced like the jungle itself.
Sleep came slowly, the jungle's sounds a lullaby—crickets, the distant hoot of an owl, the rustle of leaves in the breeze. Dreams flickered through his mind—Mira running through the jungle, her braid swinging, a tiger's roar echoing in the distance. The spark within him glowed, a flame growing with each trial, a step closer to the power of Taming Jiwa, though its whispers remained faint, a distant promise on the path ahead.
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