The Student Organization Meeting Room (RRO) of Rajawali High School was designed to be a demilitarized zone. At least, that was its theoretical function.
Tucked away in the west wing of the main building, the room was a masterpiece of corporate elegance. It featured soundproof glass walls, lush charcoal carpeting, and a massive mahogany round table that was rumored to cost more than the combined annual tuition of three scholarship students.
But this afternoon, the round table felt less like a place for diplomacy and more like a high-stakes boxing ring.
The wall clock ticked toward 4:30 PM. The central AC hummed a low, clinical drone, struggling to cool the room as three massive egos sat in a tense standoff. The atmosphere was so thick with animosity it felt like it could be sliced with a blade.
At the northern edge of the table sat Udin. He was still in his school uniform, though the top buttons were undone, revealing a glimpse of a white undershirt soaked in post-practice sweat. His hands—rough, calloused, and scarred from thousands of hours of striking—were folded on the table. He remained motionless, his gaze fixed forward like a stone statue of a war general.
To his right sat Raka, the Captain of the Taekwondo club. The contrast was a sharp 180 degrees. Raka had already changed into casual designer wear: a black Supreme hoodie, expensive joggers, and hair meticulously styled with high-end pomade. He sat with one leg crossed over the other, idly twirling the keys to his Honda Civic Turbo. His posture was relaxed, almost bored, but his eyes flashed with a sharp, piercing arrogance.
To Udin's left sat Amir, the Captain of the Pencak Silat club. Amir was smaller in stature than either Udin or Raka, but he possessed a 'slippery' aura. He wore a black Silat team jacket with gold accents. He didn't look at his counterparts directly; instead, he was occupied with slowly rotating a large agate ring on his finger. His movements were fluid and serpentine, like a viper coiled and waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
The three of them had been summoned by the Student Council to resolve one critical issue: The Schedule and Location Assignment for the Pre-Study Tour Joint Training.
"So," Raka broke the silence, his tone dripping with boredom. He flicked a printed schedule proposal into the center of the table. "I think it's pretty clear, right? Taekwondo needs the Main Hall every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday afternoon. We need the polished parquet floors for our spin-kick drills. Plus, the cheerleading squad practices there, so we can coordinate our routines."
Udin glanced at the proposal without touching it. "The Main Hall is on a rotation, Raka. Karate needs that space to lay down the mats. The GOR dojo is currently being used as a temporary warehouse for the library renovation. You can't just monopoly the Hall three days a week."
"The dojo is a warehouse because the school doesn't prioritize Karate, Udin," Raka countered sharply, a sneer tugging at his lips. "Know your place. Taekwondo brought home the provincial gold last year. What did Karate bring home? Broken bones?"
"Watch your mouth," Udin growled. His voice was a low-frequency vibration, like a heavy diesel engine idling. "Your gold was earned because your opponent was disqualified on a technicality. Not because you were better."
"Easy now, Kang Mas," Amir suddenly interjected. His voice was smooth, carrying a thick Javanese accent that was deceptively polite but laced with venom. "Let's not fight over the Main Hall just yet. Silat needs its space too. We wanted to use the back field, but I heard Taekwondo wants it for 'outdoor conditioning.' Don't be too greedy, Mas Raka. Just because you're the school's golden boy."
Raka turned his gaze toward Amir, his expression one of pure disgust. "The back field? Be my guest. That muddy patch of grass is perfect for people whose entire martial art involves rolling around in the dirt. Primitive style."
Amir's eyes narrowed into slits. The polite smile didn't leave his face, but the aura around him shifted from slippery to murderous. "Primitive? Calling the nation's cultural heritage primitive? Careful with your tongue, Mas. Those long legs of yours might just snap if they get caught in our 'rolling around'."
"Try me and see if you can even get close," Raka challenged.
"Enough!" Udin slammed his palm onto the table. The impact was thunderous, making the vase in the center rattle violently. "We aren't here to show off our styles. We're here to divide the schedule. The GOR is full, the Hall is the only option. What's the solution?"
"The solution," Raka said, straightening his posture and locking eyes with Udin, "is for Karate to step down. Use the outdoor basketball court. A little sun won't kill you—Karate is supposed to be about 'tempering the self,' isn't it? Consider it a sun-drying session for crackers."
Udin stood up abruptly. His chair screeched across the carpet, pushed back by the force of his movement. "You're really looking for a fight, Raka."
Raka stood up as well, refusing to be towered over. He was taller than Udin by a few inches, but Udin's shoulders were twice as broad. "What if I am? You want to kumite right here? I'll oblige you."
Amir chuckled softly, remaining seated. However, his hand slid beneath his jacket, his fingers twitching in a way that suggested he was ready for a much darker kind of confrontation. "My, my. Two giants about to clash. The mouse will just watch while sipping his coffee."
The tension reached its breaking point. Raka stepped forward, chest puffed out. Udin clenched his fists, the veins in his neck bulging like thick cables. This wasn't about schedules anymore. This was about three years of accumulated resentment. Taekwondo, the pampered favorite; Karate, the neglected middle child; and Silat, the 'traditional' art always looked down upon as rural and outdated.
"You think your spinning kicks are useful at this range?" Udin hissed, his face inches from Raka's.
"I don't need a kick to take you down," Raka spat back, his hand moving quickly to shove Udin's shoulder.
But before Raka's hand could make contact, a blur of motion occurred.
Amir, who had been sitting calmly a second ago, was suddenly standing between them. With a lightning-fast motion, his left hand intercepted Raka's wrist in a deceptive, soft joint-lock, while his right hand pressed firmly against a pressure point on Udin's shoulder.
"Patience, brothers," Amir whispered. His eyes were no longer smiling. They were hollow, cold, and predatory. "If you wreck this room, it won't just be the Principal who gets angry. The 'Queen' will have your heads."
Udin and Raka froze. Amir's grip on Raka looked light, but Raka winced, his face contorting as he felt the intense pressure on his tendons. Amir's Silat wasn't for show; he was a technician of the human anatomy.
"Let go of me, Amir," Raka growled, trying to pull back, but found his arm trapped in a vacuum of leverage.
"Sit. We use our brains here, not our meat. Have some respect for the uniform," Amir said, releasing both of them with a sharp, flicking motion.
The three of them sat back down, their breathing heavy and ragged. The atmosphere remained volatile, but a physical brawl had been averted.
"I still won't accept Karate being shoved onto the basketball court," Udin said firmly, trying to stabilize his breathing. "My mats will melt on the hot asphalt. I need an indoor space."
"And I won't share the Hall with you," Raka countered stubbornly. "The smell of Karate sweat lingers in the curtains. It makes the cheerleaders lose their appetite."
"The smell can be managed," Amir said airily. "The problem is your egos. Tell you what, let's play Rock-Paper-Scissors. Winner takes the Hall."
"Like hell we will!" Raka barked. "This is about achievement, not a gamble!"
Just as Raka's shout echoed through the room, the double doors of the RRO swung open with a heavy, authoritative thud.
A gust of cold air from the corridor swept in, bringing with it an absolute, chilling silence. Then came the sound of footsteps. Click. Click. Click. The rhythmic, measured strike of a woman's heels on the floor.
Enter Salma.
The Student Council President.
Trailing behind her were her two vice-presidents, Dimas and Adel, carrying stacks of folders. But no one looked at them. Every eye was fixed on Salma.
She wasn't large. She didn't have Udin's muscle, Raka's height, or Amir's serpentine grace. But as she entered, her presence exerted a gravitational pull that crushed the room's tension. Her gaze, framed by thin spectacles, was as sharp as a scalpel. Her hair was pulled back into a perfect bun, her uniform was flawless, and the "PRESIDENT" armband on her left sleeve gleamed like a badge of absolute authority.
"I could hear the shouting all the way from the Faculty Room," Salma said softly. Her voice was flat, devoid of emotion, but it made even the arrogant Raka instinctively fix his posture.
Salma walked to the head of the table and set a blue folder down. She didn't sit. She stood, her gaze moving from one club leader to the next.
"Udin. Raka. Amir," she called their names like a judge reading a verdict. "Are you here to resolve the schedule, or are you here to become my latest problem?"
"Raka started it, Sal," Udin defended himself. "He's trying to monopoly the Hall."
"I'm not monopolizing; I'm stating the facts of our achievements!" Raka cut in.
"Achievements?" Salma cut him off with a single word. Her gaze pivoted to Raka. "Your achievement rating dropped by 15% in the regional championships this year, Raka. The performance evaluation report is on my desk. You're all flash and no practice. And you're demanding premium facilities?"
Raka's face turned a brilliant shade of red. He wanted to argue, but Salma held the data. Arguing with Salma was a losing battle.
Salma turned to Udin. "And you, Udin. You claim the mats will break outside? Your Karate mats are heavy-duty, industrial grade. The real reason you don't want to be outside is that you're embarrassed for the basketball team to see you practicing those 'boring' basics for three hours straight, isn't it?"
Udin went silent. Checkmate. Salma knew too much.
"And Amir," Salma looked at the Silat captain. "Don't think I don't know you've been secretly 'renting out' the Silat equipment room as a smoking lounge for the eleventh graders. I am currently considering a total freeze on your club's funding if I see one more cigarette butt near that wing."
Amir's slick smile vanished instantly. He went pale. "Mbak Salma... that's a misunderstanding..."
"The CCTV doesn't misunderstand, Amir," Salma said coldly.
She opened the blue folder and took out a pen, signing a document with a single, swift motion.
"This is the final decision from the Student Council. There will be no negotiations," Salma said, sliding the paper into the center of the table.
The three 'warriors' leaned in to see the contents:
Monday & Wednesday: Main Hall for Karate (15:00 – 17:00). Taekwondo uses the Indoor Basketball Court (alternating with the Basketball team).
Tuesday & Thursday: Main Hall for Taekwondo. Karate uses the GOR East Wing (Shared with the warehouse; clean it yourselves).
Friday: Silat has the Main Hall for the full day (due to Friday prayers, attendance is lower, ensuring less clutter).
Saturday: Main Hall is used for Joint Training in preparation for the Pre-Study Tour.
"Is it fair?" Salma asked, though the tone of her voice suggested it was a rhetorical question.
Raka read the schedule. He didn't get a monopoly, but he got the Hall for two days. Udin snorted; he'd have to clean a warehouse, but he also got the Hall for two days. Amir offered a wry smile; Friday was a short day, but at least he wasn't in the mud.
"If anyone has a complaint," Salma continued, gathering her files, "please submit your formal resignation as Club Captain. I have ten candidates for each of your positions who are ready to work without the drama."
Silence. No one dared to breathe.
"Good. Meeting adjourned," Salma concluded. She turned and walked out as quickly as she had arrived, her subordinates trailing behind her like shadows.
The doors thudded shut.
The three martial artists remained seated, silenced by the sheer power of a girl who couldn't even break a brick with her bare hands.
"Man..." Raka whispered eventually, leaning back. His arrogance had temporarily evaporated. "What does that girl eat? Magnets? Lead?"
"She doesn't eat iron," Amir muttered, returning to his ring. "She eats people's souls. Scary stuff. Scarier than my Silat techniques."
Udin took a long breath, taking the schedule paper. He folded it and tucked it into his pocket.
"At least we have a plan," Udin said, standing up. He looked at Raka and Amir. "Remember the Saturday slot. Joint training. Don't be late."
"Yeah, yeah, nag," Raka waved a dismissive hand, standing up and heading for the door. "Watch out, Udin. Saturday, I'll prove Taekwondo is superior."
"In your dreams," Udin shot back.
Amir stood up last, patting Udin's shoulder gently. "Udin, be careful with Raka. He's devious, but his deviousness is crude. Me? I'm subtle. Don't let your guard down, Kang Mas."
Amir winked, then glided out of the room with a silent, ghost-like step.
Udin was left alone in the RRO. He stared at the empty chair Salma had occupied.
There was a profound respect in Udin's heart for that girl. Salma was the only person in this school—besides Salim—who could make Udin bow without ever laying a hand on him. The power of logic and authority.
Salma has the brain. Raka has the speed. Amir has the cunning, Udin thought. And me? I just have this hard body.
Udin clenched his fist again, feeling the callouses on his knuckles.
If someday, for some reason, the laws of this school crumble and Salma's authority no longer exists... who would win among the three of us?
The question hung in the air—a dark, unexplainable premonition. Udin turned off the lights, leaving the room in darkness. He didn't know that this argument over a hall schedule was their final lesson in diplomacy.
Because where they were going, there were no halls, no mats, and no referees. There was only sand, blood, and one absolute rule: Kill or be Killed. And when that time came, Udin hoped his 'hard body' would be enough to protect the friends he held dear.