The nights in the Duchy of Tuban were never truly quiet for someone with hearing as sharp as Raden Said's. Behind the sturdy walls of the keputren, carved from thick red brick and decorated with ancient reliefs, the gentle trickle of the pond and the whisper of the northern coastal wind usually brought peace. But tonight, the coastal air felt thick and suffocating. The smell of oppressed common folk's sweat, the scent of road dust left unswept by rain for months, seemed to seep through the cracks of the carved teak windows where the duke's son lived.
Raden Said sat cross-legged on a sandalwood platform. His eyes were closed as he regulated his breathing according to the advanced kanuragan breathwork taught by the instructors of the ministerial compound. His broad chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm. Each time he inhaled, a warm sensation gathered below his navel, flowed through his blood vessels, and stoked his pure energy until it reached his fingertips. Yet no matter how hard he tried to quiet his mind, the whispers of sorrow from beyond the palace walls continued to pierce his inner defenses.
He imagined the exhausted faces he had seen that afternoon in the duchy's market. An old woman wailing on the dusty ground because her rice had been seized by a tax collector; small, emaciated children with distended bellies crying for a piece of boiled cassava; and the cold resolve of the palace guards as they mercilessly swung leather whips at anyone late in delivering their tribute.
"Why must this luxury stand on the suffering of others?" Raden Said whispered softly. His voice was swallowed by the whispering night wind.
Raden Said was the only son of the Duke of Tuban, Tumenggung Wilatikta. Barely into his early twenties, Said possessed everything young men throughout Java dreamed of. He had a handsome face with a strong jawline, sharp eyes like a hawk's, and a tall, sturdy frame honed by physical training since childhood. More than that, he had been gifted with extraordinary kanuragan talent. Complex silat techniques that took ordinary soldiers decades to master could be absorbed and perfected by Said in a matter of months.
Yet all those advantages had become a weight crushing his chest. While other noble youths enjoyed bedhaya dances, drank sweet palm liquor from golden cups, or hunted deer in the palace hunting grounds, Said felt tormented by such luxury. To him, every mouthful of pristine white rice served on a silver plate felt like the blood and sweat of the common folk, wrung from them without mercy.
With an almost soundless, fluid motion, Said opened his eyes. His pupils glinted in the darkness of the room. He rose and walked toward the window facing the duchy's western town square. In the distance, the palace guards' torches glimmered faintly, emphasizing the sharp boundary between the noble world, drowning in wealth, and the world of the poor, shrouded in darkness.
Suddenly, Said's keen hearing caught footsteps approaching his chamber. They were measured and heavy, filled with an unmistakable presence. They belonged to his own father, Tumenggung Wilatikta.
Before the knock sounded against the wooden door, Said had already turned and bowed respectfully. The carved door opened slowly, revealing a broad-shouldered, middle-aged man dressed in the dark ceremonial robes of a duke, embroidered with gold thread. A nine-curved heirloom kris was tucked proudly at his left hip.
"You're not asleep yet, Said?" Tumenggung Wilatikta's deep voice echoed through his son's bedchamber.
"Not yet, Kanjeng Rama," Said replied gently, his voice full of respect as he remained bowed. "The night air feels rather warm. I was practicing a breathing technique to refresh my mind."
Tumenggung Wilatikta stepped inside, his sharp eyes fixed on his only son. Great pride shone in his gaze, but beneath it lay a carefully concealed flash of concern. The Duke knew perfectly well that his son was far more gifted than other young men his age. But he also knew Said's critical nature and how easily he sometimes became too sensitive to matters beyond the palace walls.
"A future duke must possess peace of mind, Said," Tumenggung Wilatikta said as he approached the window. "Tomorrow is the day the district chiefs and village heads from every part of Tuban will deliver their tribute. Patih Sasrabahu and the duchy's officials have prepared a grand welcoming ceremony. I expect you to sit beside me on the throne."
Said fell silent for a moment. His chest seemed to rumble. The word tribute had rekindled the anger he had tried to suppress all night.
"Kanjeng Rama," Said said slowly, choosing his words carefully so he would not wound his father's heart. "Could the tribute collection this time not be postponed, or at least reduced? I heard directly from villagers that this year's long drought has ruined the rice harvest across nearly the entire southern region. The people don't just lack the means to pay their taxes in gold and rice—they have to dig up poisonous roots in the forest just to eat each day."
Tumenggung Wilatikta's expression hardened at once. The lines across his forehead and around his eyes deepened. He turned and fixed his son with a gaze of unyielding authority.
"Said! Don't speak like a commoner who knows nothing about governing!" the Duke cut in, his voice cold and forceful. "Tribute is the absolute duty of every subject of this world to its ruler! Without tribute, how can we pay the five hundred soldiers guarding this fortress from the threat of northern sea raiders? How can we send chests of offerings to the central court to preserve loyalty and political stability?"
"But, Kanjeng Rama..." Said tried to interrupt, but his father raised his right hand, cutting him off instantly.
"Enough!" Wilatikta snapped. "Your heart is far too soft. Compassion without firmness is a ruler's greatest weakness. Patih Sasrabahu has carried out his duties according to the duchy's laws. If any subject rebels or is late delivering his share, punishment must be enforced to preserve the palace's authority!"
Tumenggung Wilatikta drew a long breath, trying to calm his rising emotions. He approached Said and gently but firmly patted his son's broad shoulder.
"You are Tuban's future, Said. One day, this entire region, from the coast to the limestone mountains in the south, will be your responsibility. Cast away that misplaced pity. Learn to see the world as a ruler, not as a hermit."
Without waiting for his son's further response, Tumenggung Wilatikta turned and walked out of the room. The thick wooden door closed again with a soft creak, leaving Said alone in a silence that felt far colder than before.
Said clenched both hands until his knuckles turned white. His heart screamed against the cold truth his father had just spoken. To Said, power built on the suffering and tears of the people was not glory but a curse waiting for the moment it would collapse.
"See the world as a ruler?" Said whispered, a bitter smile touching his lips. "If being a ruler means closing my eyes to my own people's suffering, then I'd rather become an enemy of the rulers themselves!"
The resolve buried deep in his heart now fully blossomed. His decision was made. Said could no longer sit silently and watch from behind the palace's silk curtains. If the duchy's laws could not deliver justice to the weak, then he would create that justice with his own hands—even if he had to cross into darkness.
Said walked toward a black wooden cabinet in the corner of the room, tightly secured with a brass padlock. From within the fold of his sarong, he produced a small key and opened it. Inside were no noble ceremonial clothes or gold jewelry. There was only a set of all-black clothing made from thick, coarse mori cloth, a matching black headband, and a thin sheet of deep-black fabric specially designed to cover half his face.
Beside the clothes leaned a slender, unsheathed sword with a silvery gleam—a distinctive weapon he had forged himself at a hidden blacksmith's shop outside the city, designed for speed and agility rather than indiscriminate killing.
Said removed the formal clothing of the crown prince clinging to his body. One piece at a time, he put on the black outfit. The coarse mori cloth felt cold against his skin, as though absorbing the last remnants of palace luxury and replacing them with the wild spirit of night. He tied the black cloth around his head and tightened the fabric belt around his waist.
Before covering his face, Said walked to the bronze mirror on the wall. In the dim copper reflection, he saw a young man who was no longer Raden Said, son of the Duke of Tuban. His eyes gleamed with unshakable determination, radiating the aura of a warrior ready to challenge his own fate.
With practiced precision, he tied on the face covering. The nobleman had vanished. All that remained was a black shadow ready to slip into the darkness of night.
Said walked to the wide-open window. Outside, the northern wind blew hard enough to shake the leaves of the ancient banyan trees in the palace grounds. The window stood no less than ten meters above the ground, enclosed by slick stone walls and a heavily guarded fortress. For an ordinary person, jumping from that height meant broken bones or death. But to Raden Said, who had mastered the Kapuk Ranandhu Body-Lightening Technique, the distance was only a small step.
Said leaped without hesitation. His body drifted through the air like a feather caught by the night wind. Without making the slightest sound, his feet landed perfectly on the grass in the rear palace grounds, precisely within the banyan tree's shadow.
Two guards were patrolling not far from where he landed. They carried long spears and swaying torches. Said held his breath, absorbing every trace of his presence until his heartbeat slowed to an undetectable level. The Shadow Disguise Technique, which he had secretly learned from old books in the ministerial compound, worked flawlessly. The two soldiers passed within a few steps of Said's hiding place without realizing that their lord's son was standing pressed against the darkness of the wall.
Once they had passed, Said moved like lightning. He ran along the eastern fortress wall, cleared an iron fence bristling with sharp spear points in a single bound, then glided down across the palace's defensive moat. Within seconds, Said was outside the Duchy of Tuban Complex.
The air outside felt different. Free, wild, and yet filled with the unmistakable scent of suffering.
Said made his way through the narrow alleys of the commoners' settlement outside the city walls. The houses here were made only of rotting woven bamboo, their thatched roofs leaking in places. There were no bright oil torches like those inside the palace; there was only thick darkness and, now and then, the miserable sound of coughing from within the squalid huts.
Said's footsteps carried him toward the duchy's northern boundary, where the duchy's largest rice granary complex stood. The granary was heavily guarded by a dozen elite soldiers under the direct command of Patih Sasrabahu. Inside the enormous wooden building were thousands of tons of the finest rice taken from rural villagers—rice intended to be sold to foreign merchants from across the sea to enrich the officials' personal coffers and fund palace feasts.
From the branch of a shady tamarind tree near the granary complex, Said surveyed the situation. Eight guards stood watch at the front door, four patrolled around the building, and two held the keys to the main gate. They looked relaxed, occasionally laughing as they played dice on a wooden table. They felt completely safe because for decades, not a single criminal or bandit had dared touch the duchy's granary.
"They sleep in their arrogance," Said whispered from the branch.
Said drew a deep breath and channeled his pure energy into both palms. He had no intention of killing or permanently injuring the guards. To him, they were merely small men carrying out the wrong orders of a tyrannical ruler. His main goal tonight was to open the officials' eyes while giving hope to the starving people.
With a light tap against the branch, Said shot downward. He moved so quickly that the guards saw only a black shadow flash through the air.
Whoosh!
Before one of the patrol guards could shout, Said was behind him. His fingers moved like lightning, tapping the Thithik Lali nerve point at the back of the guard's neck. The guard immediately went limp without making a sound, and Said swiftly caught his body before it touched the ground, then laid him down gently behind the bushes.
The other three patrol guards suffered the same fate in less than a minute. Said moved like the night wind—unseen, unheard, yet leaving a tangible impact.
Eight guards remained at the granary's front door. Said tossed a small stone toward the bushes to the east.
Click!
"Who's there?" shouted the guard captain, a muscular man with a thick mustache. "Go check it out! Two men, move!"
Two soldiers approached the bushes with their spears raised. As soon as they passed the corner of the building, Said dropped from the granary roof and landed between them. With both palms wreathed in softly rippling pure energy, he struck each soldier in the chest. Both soldiers were thrown backward and knocked unconscious instantly.
The guard captain and his five remaining men finally realized the intruder was there. They turned, eyes wide, at the sight of a tall figure dressed in black, his face covered by dark cloth, standing gracefully in the middle of the granary yard.
"A robber! There's a robber!" the captain shouted, drawing his sword. "Surround him! Don't let him escape alive!"
The six soldiers leaped forward in a simultaneous attack. Six swords and spears flashed beneath the moonlight, aimed at deadly points across Said's body.
But ordinary soldiers were no match for Said. As the first sword's edge nearly touched his chest, Said twisted with extraordinary agility, using the advanced White Dove Silat Technique. He slipped between the gaps in their attacks, turning the guards' own bodies into his shields.
Crack! Thud!
His hands moved like the strike of a king cobra. Each time his palm or elbow grazed an opponent's joints, the weapon in that guard's hand flew loose and clattered to the ground. Said did not use his sharp sword; he relied solely on the force of internal energy to jolt their motor nerves.
Within five breaths, five soldiers lay on the ground, groaning in pain and clutching their temporarily paralyzed arms or legs.
Only the guard captain remained. The muscular man trembled as he gripped his sword in both shaking hands. He had seen the masked figure before him bring down five trained soldiers without spilling a drop of blood or using a weapon.
"Wh... Who are you really?!" the guard captain shouted hoarsely in fear. "Do you know what place this is?! This is the Duchy of Tuban's granary! If you touch this rice, the Duke and Patih Sasrabahu will hunt you to the ends of the earth!"
Said stood calmly. His sharp eyes behind the black mask regarded the guard captain with a cold yet compassionate gaze.
"Tell your greedy ruler this," Said's voice rang out deep and resonant, disguised through the Ghaib Swara voice-masking art. "This rice was bought with the people's blood and tears. Tonight, it returns to its rightful owners."
Before the captain could react, Said stepped forward with speed beyond the eye's ability to follow. Said's index finger struck the upper chest of the guard captain. The muscular body instantly stiffened like a statue, unable to move or speak. Only his eyes darted wildly in terror.
Said took the ring of brass keys tucked into the guard captain's belt. Without wasting time, he walked to the granary's massive wooden door, inserted the master key, and turned it.
Clack!
The heavy granary door swung wide. Inside, stacks of high-quality rice sacks rose all the way to the ceiling. The sweet scent of fresh rice poured out, stinging Said's nose.
Said smiled behind his black mask. The first step of his grand plan had succeeded. But he knew he could not carry hundreds of rice sacks by himself. He had prepared for the next step.
Said walked to the outer gate of the granary complex, then pulled a small whistle made from buffalo horn from inside his clothes. He blew it three times in an extremely low tone—a secret signal understood only by a few village youths he had quietly recruited and come to trust over the past several weeks.
Before long, more than a dozen young men emerged from the bushes and the darkness of the small forest behind the granary, their faces tense but bright with hope. They brought wooden handcarts and empty sacks.
"Brother... Brother Lokajaya?" whispered the young man at the front, a thin youth named Jaka whose younger sibling had nearly starved to death two days earlier.
Said looked at the young men and nodded slowly. Lokajaya was the alias he had just created—a name meaning Ruler of the Place or Victor in the World, a name that would one day shake the entire martial world of Java.
"We don't have much time," Said said firmly but calmly. "Take enough rice for each village. Distribute it evenly among the poorest people's huts before dawn. Remember, don't keep a single grain to sell! If anyone disobeys, I will come to his house myself."
"Yes, Brother Lokajaya!" Jaka replied, his eyes brimming with tears. "By God, thank you! You've saved our village from death!"
"Don't thank me," Said said as he helped load two sacks of rice onto a wooden cart at once. "Thank the Almighty Creator. Now move quickly!"
The village youths worked with remarkable efficiency, driven by their desperate hunger for survival. In less than an hour, dozens of rice sacks had been transferred onto the wooden carts and covered with dry grass to avoid suspicion.
Before leaving the granary, which now held only half its former contents, Said approached the front wooden wall. Using the tip of his slender sword, he carved several large lines into the hard teak in bold, deep ancient Javanese script:
“This wealth belongs to the people, was taken from the people's sweat, and is returned for the people's survival. If you seek the thief, seek the justice you buried!”
Beneath the inscription, Said added a simple emblem: a circular carving with an arrow pointing upward—the symbol of an oppressed spirit's resistance rising toward liberation.
After making sure all the village youths had safely left the granary complex through a hidden route, Said leaped back onto the granary roof. From that height, he gazed toward the dawn beginning to appear on the eastern horizon. A golden-red glow began to split the darkness over Tuban's coast.
Said knew that the next morning, news of the granary break-in would explode like thunder under a clear sky. Patih Sasrabahu would be furious, the officials would panic, and his father—Tumenggung Wilatikta—would mobilize the full strength of the Duchy of Tuban's soldiers to hunt the masked figure.
Yet inside Raden Said's chest, there was no longer any doubt or fear. The restlessness that had burned within him for years inside the palace had now transformed into a cold, focused fire of struggle.
He had chosen his path. He had cast aside the comfort of a future ruler to become a protector moving behind the shadows.
"Let them call me an outlaw," Said whispered as he pulled his face covering tighter while the morning wind blew hard. "If outlaw is the only title for someone who defends the poor, then I will become Lokajaya the Outlaw—the outlaw most feared by those who prey on the people!"
With a graceful leap that defied gravity, the black-masked figure floated down from the roof and merged once more with the shadows of the vast teak forest beyond the Duchy of Tuban, heading toward a new destiny that would carve his name into the long history of the martial world of the archipelago.