“Bastard!” Rangga shouted, his voice swallowed by the wind.
A powerful gust swept across the mountainside.
The old sheet metal on the roof of Post Three rattled violently, slamming against the frame whenever the wind hit it. The dragging, screeching noise—kraaang, kraaang—was enough to make his ears ache.
Rangga sat inside the small shelter, which was already half-leaning, his back pressed against the cold wooden wall. His phone was lit up in his hand.
A photo—him and a girl.
His ex now.
The person who had brought him here. Hiking alone, carrying a heavy backpack, intending to “heal” himself… only to get caught in a storm.
Rangga stared at the photo for a few seconds before slowly exhaling.
“Next time,” he muttered, “I’m not dating an art major again.” “Especially not someone majoring in electro art.”
Rangga paused, then frowned.
“Art, but electricity… How does that even work? Installing power outlets but making it meaningful?”
He slowly shook his head.
“I got dumped by someone who probably cries when she sees tangled cables.”
His thumb stopped on the screen before finally pressing delete.
The photo disappeared.
No more emotional backup.
Rangga turned off the screen and rested his head against the wall, trying to calm himself down—even though the wind outside was only getting worse.
The door to the shelter suddenly slammed shut.
BANG.
Rangga turned toward it, his expression flat.
“I came here to heal…” he said quietly, “…and instead I got caught in a storm at Post Three.”
He glanced outside. Total darkness.
“Goddamn, I’m unlucky.”
He shoved his phone into his pocket. He pulled his jacket zipper all the way up to his neck and curled his body inward, bracing against the cold that was beginning to pierce through him.
Outside, the wind began swirling strangely. It wasn't just strong—its direction kept changing, as if it were gathering around a single point.
The rain grew heavier, and then—for a fraction of a second—all sound seemed to disappear.
KRAAAK!
Lightning struck not far from the shelter.
In that brief flash, the trees became unnaturally clear.
And among them… there was something. Or someone.
Sitting on top of a large rock a few meters from the shelter.
Still.
Naked.
Darkness returned, and Rangga narrowed his eyes.
“…What the hell is that?”
He quickly rubbed his eyes.
“Don’t tell me… that’s a person?”
The sound of rain returned, louder than before. The wind went berserk, slamming the shelter door over and over until the wood began to creak.
Then, for no logical reason, the door slowly opened.
Even though the wind was blowing in the opposite direction.
Cold air rushed inside along with a thin mist creeping across the floor.
From outside came the sound of footsteps.
Slow. Heavy. Rhythmic.
Stepping across the wet ground without the slightest sense of urgency.
The figure appeared in the doorway.
Soaked from head to toe, his body covered in faint burn marks. Yet his gaze was calm.
Far too calm for someone standing in the middle of a storm like this.
He didn't enter. He simply stood there, rain pouring over him.
“Whose territory is this?”
His voice was flat.
“I crossed the boundary without permission.”
Strangely, the rain seemed to avoid his body slightly.
Rangga immediately stood up.
“Hey! You monkey! Faggot! Pig!”
He yanked his carrier bag in front of himself like a shield.
“What the hell do you want?! You gonna rape me or something?!”
His hand reached into the bag and found a tent pole. He pointed it forward, trembling but determined.
“Get out! Get the hell out!”
The man didn't react the way Rangga expected.
He didn't get angry.
He didn't back away.
He simply observed—the carrier, the metal rod in Rangga's hand, everything—with calm eyes, as if evaluating them.
Then he stepped inside.
One step.
Slowly. Carefully.
“If I intended to harm you,” the man said flatly, “you would not have had time to stand.”
Rangga became even more agitated.
“Who the hell are you?! Where are you from?! Are you a fucking demon?!”
He pointed the metal rod straight at the man's face.
The man stepped closer.
His hand slowly rose and touched the tip of the rod.
Rangga held on tightly—but the rod stopped.
It couldn't move forward, as if it had struck something invisible.
“This is not a weapon,” the man said.
He released it, and suddenly the rod became light again.
“I am not a demon.”
He looked directly into Rangga's eyes.
“I am human. My name is Wira.”
The wind outside died down for a moment, as if making room for his words.
“I do not recognize this place,” he continued. “And I do not recognize the way you speak.”
Rangga was still frozen, but his mouth kept moving.
“Where are you from?! What were you doing naked?! Are you crazy?!”
Then he stopped himself and muttered,
“Dumbass… I’m a psychology student. How could a crazy person be this calm…”
He looked at him again.
“You’re… Wira, right? What do you want?”
Wira studied him more closely now.
“Your manner of speaking has changed. Earlier, you were ordering me to leave. Now you are asking questions.”
He stepped fully inside.
The door behind him slowly closed.
Wira stood upright, water still dripping from his body, but his breathing remained steady—as if the cold had no effect on him.
“My name is Wira,” he repeated. “I was meditating at the summit.”
He pointed outside, toward the top of the mountain.
“I was nearly through the Dharmasraya stage. Then lightning came. I did not evade it—it was supposed to be a trial.”
He looked at his own hands for a moment.
“When I regained consciousness… I was already here.”
His gaze returned to Rangga.
“My clothes were burned.”
“Whose territory is this?” he asked again, slightly more firmly this time. “I must ask for permission.”
Rangga stared at the man for a moment before answering.
“Permission’s down below, at the Simaksi post. Are you a local or some lost hiker?”
Wira was silent for a moment, processing the words.
“Simaksi…” he repeated slowly, as though the word were the name of something important.
Then he shook his head.
“I do not know it.”
He turned toward the lower part of the mountain, following the direction Rangga had indicated.
“Then the guardian of this territory is there.”
His gaze returned to Rangga, briefly dropping to his jacket and bag before rising again.
“Are you a resident of this place… or a guest as well?”
Rangga frowned.
“You’re not gonna do anything to me, right?”
His tone remained wary.
Wira looked at him but didn't answer immediately, as if the question itself seemed strange to him.
“Do anything?”
He repeated the words slowly, then glanced at Rangga's position—his body tense, the metal rod still raised.
“If I wanted to harm you, I would not have needed to ask anything in the first place.”
His tone remained flat.
He shifted slightly, giving Rangga more space near the doorway.
“I have no business with you.”
“I only need to understand this place.”
Rangga finally lowered the metal rod.
He continued staring at Wira for a few seconds, making sure the man wasn't about to do anything strange, before opening his carrier.
He pulled out a T-shirt and a pair of pants and held them out.
“Put some clothes on first. Then we can talk. It’s uncomfortable seeing you standing around naked like that.”
Wira looked at the clothes.
His gaze shifted from the clothes to Rangga's face.
“You are giving these to me?”
He accepted them slowly, turning the fabric over in his hands as if studying an unfamiliar object.
“These are clothes… belonging to you?”
Without saying much else, he began putting them on.
His movements were stiff, clearly unfamiliar with the process.
The T-shirt went on slightly crooked.
He managed to put on the pants, but stopped at the waistband.
“Why does this need to be tied so tightly?”
A few seconds later, he was done.
Not neat, but acceptable.
He stood again.
Now, at least outwardly, he looked like a normal human being.
Wira looked at Rangga.
“Is this more appropriate?”
His voice remained flat, though there was a slight hint of acceptance in it.
The rain outside was beginning to ease.
The wind was still there, but it was no longer as violent as before.
“Now we can talk,” he continued. “You have not answered me. Are you a resident of this territory… or merely passing through like me?”
Rangga let out a short sigh.
“Me? Yeah, I’m just passing through. I’m a hiker.”
He looked at Wira, still suspicious.
“Where are you from? Which trail did you take? And why the hell were you naked? Don’t tell me you got struck by lightning—people don’t survive getting hit by lightning.”
Wira listened without interrupting.
“A hiker…” he repeated slowly, as though adjusting to the term. “I came from above.”
He pointed toward the summit.
“I did not travel along a trail like the one you mean.”
He paused.
“And I was indeed struck by lightning.”
He said it without hesitation.
Without drama.
As though it were the most ordinary thing in the world.
His gaze returned to Rangga.
“Why do you believe a human cannot survive it?”
Outside, lightning struck again.
For a brief moment, light entered the shelter.
Wira's shadow appeared clearly against the wall—upright, calm, not trembling in the slightest.
“The body can be destroyed,” he continued, “if it has not been trained.”
He glanced at Rangga's jacket.
“You endure the cold with an object.”
His gaze returned to him.
“I endure it from within.”
“So… why is it impossible?”
Rangga's mouth fell open.
“The way you talk is so fucking weird.”
He shook his head.
“And obviously! Millions of volts can't just be withstood by a human body. Did you never go to school or what?”
Wira was silent for several seconds, genuinely processing the statement.
“School…” he repeated.
“A place for learning?”
“I learned from my master,” he said calmly. “And from my own body.”
He then sat down on the wooden floor, cross-legged, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
“You said millions of volts. I do not know what that means.”
His gaze rose again.
“But I know the limits of my body.”
“And at that time… I had not yet been destroyed.”
He tilted his head slightly.
“Therefore, I am still alive. That is sufficient proof.”
Rangga eventually sat down as well, though his eyes remained wary.
“Jeez… I think this guy’s got mild schizophrenia,” he muttered.
Then he spoke more clearly.
“How about this, Wira. Once the rain stops, I’ll take you down to the Simaksi post. You can ask the ranger there.”
Wira listened.
The unfamiliar term passed through him without much reaction.
“Ranger…” he repeated.
“The guardian of the territory?”
He nodded slowly.
“Very well. If that is how things are done here, I will go.”
Wira looked outside the shelter.
Rain was still pouring, the wind dragging water across the wooden floor.
He stood, then walked outside.
“Hey, what are you doing—” Rangga said, getting to his feet as well.
Wira didn't answer.
He simply looked up at the sky for a moment, then stomped his foot against the ground three times.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Rangga frowned.
“What the hell are you doing?”
Half a second passed.
Nothing happened.
Then…
The wind vanished.
The heavy rain that had been pouring down suddenly stopped.
Just like that, there wasn't a single drop of water falling around them.
Rangga immediately looked up.
The clouds were still there.
The sky was just as dark.
“…Huh?”
He looked forward, then to the side, then back at Wira.
“You just… what the hell was that?”
Wira stood there casually.
“So we won't get wet. We can go straight to the guardian of the territory now,” he replied flatly.
Rangga stared blankly for a few seconds.
“…Goddamn.”
---- Author's Note: Thank you for reading! You can find character art and other illustrations on my Instagram: SLEEPYFACE18. Want to read ahead? You can get access to advance chapters on my Patreon for FREE: SLEEPYFACE487 See you in the next chapter!