The arena's underground chamber felt more like a stone dungeon than a soldier's preparation room. The walls were damp, cold, and strangely porous, as if they absorbed sound only to store it within. The air was thick and suffocating, clinging to the skin like a foul film, a sickly mixture of sweat, rusted metal, and something far more bitter. It smelled like stale medicinal herbs forced onto an open wound.
From above, the muffled roars of the crowd seeped through the layers of earth. The words were indistinguishable, arriving only as waves of sound that erupted and vanished in rhythmic pulses.
Bandung stepped into the room, searching for a place to prepare. His stride was filled with feigned confidence, shoulders squared and chest puffed out. To an outsider, he looked like a determined village youth sure of his path. But Jaka, walking half a step behind, noticed the subtle fractures in Bandung's armor: the way he exhaled far too often, and how his fingers clenched and unclenched in a desperate battle against his own anxiety.
Rough wooden benches lined the walls. Some candidates were already seated; one gripped a wooden spear with both hands as if fearing it would be snatched away, while another prayed with trembling lips, his feet tapping incessantly. Others simply stared at the stone floor with hollow eyes, perhaps imagining the shape of their own deaths without daring to give the thought a name.
Among them, several figures in gray robes paced back and forth. They checked on the participants, ensuring everyone was "fit" for the selection process. Their robes were long enough to graze the floor, plain and clean, yet unnervisngly worn. Their faces were shrouded in white cloth, leaving only their eyes visible. They carried jars, rolls of bandages, and small vials of clear liquid.
A sharp scent of incense and flowers erupted every time they passed. It was so potent it drowned out everything else. The smell of jasmine and magnolia was thick enough to clog the throat. To Jaka, however, the fragrance felt like a warning. Beneath that sickeningly sweet veil, his nose caught a scent he knew all too well: the musty, clinical smell of camphor, the scent used to preserve corpses.
This kingdom was putting on a performance, Jaka thought. Spreading the perfume of heaven to mask the stench of the hell they've built beneath these walls.
The robed figures spoke in soft, identical tones, as if reading from the same script. "Be calm. There are no fatalities here." "Everything is under our control." "Any wound, no matter how deep, can be healed."
The words were meant to be soothing, but they only birthed a deeper unease. Anindya shivered, pulling her shawl tight. Without looking at him, she whispered to Jaka, "Jak... do you feel it? The way they talk... they don't sound like people."
Jaka nodded grimly. "Yeah. Like dolls made to speak."
Bandung tried to stay focused, ignoring the sensations his friends discussed. He sat on a bench and accepted a practice dagger from a guard. The metal was light, far too light for a weapon meant to protect a life.
A youth sitting next to him turned. His face was wet with sweat, but his eyes were warm. "You from a village too? Which one? Is it your first time here?"
Bandung nodded. "I'm Bandung. From the southern hamlet."
"I'm Seta," the boy replied. "From the region west of the river." He took a breath and looked down, his voice dropping. "I came here to find my brother. He enlisted three years ago. They said it was just training and minor duties... but he never came home. Not a single letter."
Bandung frowned, feeling a mirror of his own fears. "Are you sure he's still alive?"
Seta gave a stiff smile. "I don't know. But if I don't come here, I'll never know anything."
The same fire burned in both their eyes... the desperate hope of village folk who believed that if they were brave enough, the world might finally be forced to be fair.
From the corner of the room, Danu stood faking adjustments to his camcorder. He recorded the sound of the gongs and the cheers from above, his fingers ice-cold. "The vibe is wrong," he muttered. "This is a Colosseum. It's not an enlistment; it's a show."
Jaka closed his eyes for a moment, listening to the patterns from above. Gong. Cheer. Silence. Repeat. "There's a pattern," he whispered to Danu. "It's always the same. Like a boss fight in a game." He opened his eyes, staring at the exit. "If this test is truly fair, why aren't we allowed to see our opponents first?"
Before an answer could form, a guard entered and shouted, "Seta, from the western village! Prepare yourself!"
Seta flinched. His hands shook as he gripped his wooden spear, a weapon that now looked pathetically fragile against the dark corridor and the unknown terrors awaiting him. Bandung stood and patted his shoulder. "You can do this. Remember why you're here."
Seta nodded. "If I succeed... pray that I find news of my brother. And I hope you achieve what you're chasing here, Bandung."
He walked into the dark corridor with the guard, never looking back. Bandung watched him go until the darkness swallowed him. For a moment, his own confidence wavered. A cold sensation crawled up his neck.
The same primal dread hunters feel in the forest before a catastrophic storm. He wanted to call out to Seta, to say something, but the words died in his throat.
A question unbidden rose in his heart: Was that the last time I'll ever hear his voice?
A gong thundered, followed by another explosion of cheers that vibrated through the stone walls. Bandung clenched his fists, praying for his new acquaintance.
It was then that Jaka stood up. "I need to find the latrine. I've been holding it too long."
A participant standing near the door pointed the way. "To the left, hit the intersection, then there's a narrow crawlspace. Follow it to the wooden door. Don't get lost."
Jaka nodded, but his eyes flicked toward Danu and Anindya, a subtle signal they understood perfectly.
He walked away with a casual pace, acting as if he truly were searching for a restroom. But his eyes were sharp, scanning every shadow.
As he moved further away, the cheers faded, replaced by the sound of dripping water and the thickening scent of camphor. He reached the intersection and saw the narrow, darker corridor to his left. Checking to ensure no one was watching, he slipped inside.
He moved through the gloom, pressing himself against the wall to vanish into the shadows. The air carried a faint draft.
And with it, the metallic tang of blood and the sound of footsteps.
Jaka froze.
The corridor branched again, and the flickering torchlight ahead revealed a sight that nearly stopped his heart.
The gray-robed figures appeared again, but this time, their faces were uncovered.
Jaka held his breath. His eyes, accustomed to analyzing high-definition game graphics, were now forced to witness a gruesome reality. In the flickering light, he saw their skin, it wasn't just pale; it was desiccated, clinging tight to the bone like ancient manuscript parchment. Along their jawlines and necks were coarse stitches made with thick black thread, oozing a dark, stagnant fluid.
No blinking. No breathing. They were no longer living workers; they were corpses reanimated by force to serve as macabre porters for death.
Jaka watched them carry a stretcher. Upon it lay a youth he didn't recognize. The boy's chest had been torn open down to his stomach, and fresh blood still dripped from the cavity of his ribs. Jaka covered his mouth, fighting the urge to gasp in the foul, iron-scented air. Tears pricked his eyes as he battled the violent heaving of his stomach.
Behind the stretcher-bearers, two guards walked, laughing. One of them stopped to flip a silver coin. "Easy money. The kid didn't even last five minutes," he sneered.
"Like a pig to the slaughter," the other replied. "Talked big during registration. I'm actually curious about that 'hero' kid next. It'll be fun to see how he ends up, haha!"
They walked on casually, treating the mass of flesh on the stretcher not as a human with dreams and a family, but as a mere statistic in a gambling pool. Rage and hatred surged through Jaka. To these people, human life was nothing more than a commodity for profit and entertainment.
In that moment, Jaka knew the truth.
This arena, this entire high-ranking selection system, was nothing but a trap to lure in those who dared to touch the inner circle of power. They ensured you tried, only to make sure you were silenced forever.
***
"I just saw it... the person before... is dead."
Jaka's whisper was hoarse, as if sharp gravel were stuck in his throat.
He swallowed hard, trying to keep his composure after sprinting back to the waiting room.
"Really dead," he continued, his voice darkening. "Those medics... they aren't healers. They're just cleaners. The stretcher was soaked in blood, and the body... it was destroyed. There was no saving him. None..."
Jaka turned away, the image of the undead porters seared into his mind. Danu froze, his grip on his camcorder so tight his knuckles turned white. Anindya gripped her shawl, her eyes trembling.
"We have to tell Bandung," Danu whispered. "Now."
They approached Bandung. Jaka told him everything in short, broken sentences. He didn't need to dramatize it; the raw facts were enough to shatter anyone's sanity.
Bandung listened. His jaw set, and the flicker of doubt in his eyes was instantly replaced by a rigid, defensive wall.
"Enough, Jaka," he said coldly. "You probably just saw things in the dark."
"Bandung! I..."
"I've seen plenty of royal soldiers in our village," Bandung cut him off. "They are honorable. They wouldn't lie to their own people. If someone doesn't return... it's because of a secret mission. Not a senseless death like that."
"Bandung, I saw it with my own eyes! It wasn't my imagination!" Jaka nearly shouted before forcing his voice back down.
Bandung exhaled slowly. He looked at his three friends with a gaze that sat somewhere between gratitude and an immovable stubbornness.
"I believe you," his voice softened but remained heavy. "But I have to believe in my own path too. If I back down now, what was the point of coming this far? What do I tell Arga? That I ran home because I was scared?"
A painful silence fell between them. It was the silence of realizing that Bandung was stepping into a grave he had dug for himself.
CREEEEAK.
The iron door groaned open.
"Bandung from the south! Prepare yourself!" the guard bellowed.
Bandung stood up. His back was straight, though Jaka noticed a slight stiffness in his shoulders. He turned one last time, giving a thin smile that felt like a final goodbye.
"Take care of yourselves up there," he said. "Pray for me. I promise everything will be fine."
Jaka wanted to grab his arm, to drag him home, but he knew the fire in Bandung's eyes couldn't be extinguished by a mere warning.
"You three, to the top! The spectator stands are open!" another officer barked.
Their steps were heavy as they climbed the stone stairs. The arena spread out before them, a stage of death surrounded by high iron bars. From a small platform, a herald in a turban shouted with dramatic, theatrical flair.
"And here he is! The brave youth from the southern village! Is this our newest knight? Let us welcome... BAAANNN... DUUUUUUNG!!!"
The crowd erupted. Some cheered, some whistled, others simply waited for the blood to spill. To Jaka, Danu, and Anindya, the sound was like a cheer at a funeral, a crowd unaware of the horrific fate awaiting those who failed.
Their eyes locked onto the arena floor, where Bandung stood alone in the center of that vast, lethal space, facing the iron gate on the opposite side. Their hearts hammered against their ribs.
"You're worried, aren't you?"
A soft voice came from beside them.
They turned in unison.
A girl sat calmly in the next seat. Her hair was neatly styled, and her clothes were simple but clean. She looked far too composed for such a place.
"It's natural," she continued.
"This arena has been a witness to life and death for a long time. Everything you hear from them... is only what they want you to believe."
When they realized who she was, their mouths hung open in shock.
"... Ranti?" Anindya stammered, her voice shaking.
Ranti glanced at them and gave a small, knowing smile. "Hello, everyone."
She spoke lightly, as if this were just a normal day and their meeting a mere coincidence.
The trio lobbed questions at her simultaneously, their voices frantic. "Why are you here?" "Do you know what this place is?"
Ranti raised a hand, silencing them with a sharp, steady gaze. "I know you have a thousand questions. But if I answer them now, you won't be able to focus." She leaned in, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Your friend is currently betting his life down there."
A brief silence followed.
"Do you want to waste time asking," she continued, "or will you watch? And pray for him?"
They fell silent, recognizing the cold truth in her words. Slowly, they turned back to the arena.
Below, the herald raised a large coconut shell that pulsed with a ghostly green light. His voice amplified perfectly.
Clear, but with a strange, unnatural reverb.
Jaka narrowed his eyes, noticing similar shells on the arena pillars, all pulsing with magical light.
Magic, Jaka thought. The whole sound system is high-level arcana. This kingdom's lie is so well-crafted.
Then, another voice boomed, heavy and ancient.
A thin man with long, silver hair appeared on the highest podium.
Whispers rippled through the crowd: "That's Ki Yatna... the King's Advisor."
Setuju banget. Bagian pidato Penasihat Raja (Ki Yatna) itu seharusnya jadi gong pembuka yang megah sekaligus mengancam (ominous). Kalau cuma dipotong di tengah, vibe kolosal dan tensi pertandingannya jadi kurang berasa.
Berikut adalah versi bahasa Inggris yang lebih grande, puitis, dan punya wibawa gelap untuk bagian pidato tersebut:
The man raised his hand, and the stadium fell into a suffocating silence.
"Today..." his voice was a dry rasp, like old wood grinding together, yet it echoed with a haunting power that filled every corner of the arena.
"Today, we stand witness to a soul brave enough to wager everything. A youth who dares to step into the mouth of fate."
He paused, his hollow eyes sweeping across the crowd before landing on the lone figure below.
"Today, we shall see if his blood burns with the true fire of loyalty to the Great Mataram! Let every eye be a witness to the thin line between glory and the grave. Let us see who is worthy to stand, and who is destined to fall."
The Advisor's hand dropped like a guillotine.
"With this... let the battle begin!"
The roar of the crowd was deafening, but the enthusiasm faltered as a dark aura began to bleed from beneath the opponent's gate.
The temperature in the arena plummeted. Bandung's breath turned into white mist. The torches on the walls flickered and bowed, as if cowering from what was about to emerge. The black fog crawled across the ground, thick and possessed of its own sinister will.
Jaka, Danu, and Anin held their breath. From their seats, they could feel that this wasn't mere smoke. There was an energy within it, something dark and predatory.
The aura was heavy and cold, pressing down on everyone's chest like an invisible giant's hand.
"Oh, God..." Anindya whispered, covering her mouth.
Bandung stood frozen. His courage, once a blazing fire, was being stripped away layer by layer until it was nothing more than a tiny candle in a hurricane. His heart faltered.
What am I doing here? What am I trying to prove with my life on the line?
DWONGGGGGGG!
The gong was struck.
The iron door opposite Bandung groaned open. And from behind the grinding of metal came a sound like long talons dragging across stone.
SREEEEEEK...
The sound was so piercing it set their teeth on edge. Some spectators covered their ears; others looked away, unable to face what was coming. Then, a high, piercing howl erupted, long and harrowing.
It didn't sound like an animal, nor did it sound like a man. It sounded like a choir of a thousand mouths screaming and laughing all at once.
Behind the veil of black smoke, a shadow began to take form.
Finally... it had arrived.