Banana Storage (Snippets, Drafts, Ideas, etc)

[wanara009]

0.0
End of One Journey
[Zakaria]


​

12th, Verdant Rain, 1167
You are so stupid.

I didn't react to the disembodied reprimand as I propped myself up on my spear. My heart fluttered in my chest as I tried to breathe. Yet no matter how much I heaved and huffed, my lungs seemed to refuse to actually use the air inside it. I could feel my grip weakening and my knees buckling.

Your heart's is failing. You need to take down this field and re—

I gritted my teeth as I composed a quick verse and mouthed it while channelling magic, heedless of mangled syntax and forced rhyming. A fragile spell took hold of my heart. Like a decrepit puppeteer taking hold of a limp marionette, it forced my dying heart to pump. It eased my breathing slightly, allowing me to re-sync with the World to mitigate the weakness in my muscles.

Listen to me, you cockroach-brained idiot! You are dying and—

"'Shut up, you overgrown worm," I whispered as I straightened up, glaring at the raiders who stood uncertainly a distance away. "There are more important things than my life."

After three days of attacks and counterattacks, the town guards and I finally managed to trap the majority of the Dagdan raiding forces in an enchanted field of my devising. Now they couldn't advance toward the town behind me unless they kill me. Pretty flimsy all things considered, but it was the best I could whip up with materials and time at hand. I was never too great at Hanacaraka anyway so it was a miracle that I managed to get this far. Nonetheless, it'd let the Maclir town guard to shore up their defences and take care of the stragglers.

The raiders didn't give up so easily though. They quickly worked out the requirement to leave and did their damnedest to fulfil it. If it weren't for Klinting's guidance and the superhuman boost provided by tenaga dalam, I would've died hours ago. Even so, the prolonged fight had taken its toll on my aged body and there were still around 25 raiders—half of the numbers I trapped—I need to deal with.

I took a stance, spear pointing downward and feet wide apart. "C'mon you fucks. I'm just 'one old man', right?" I forced out breathlessly, smiling with as much smugness as I could muster.

One of them snapped at my taunt and charged forward despite his comrades' effort. He found Klinting's wavy spearhead twisting into his throat as soon as he entered my range. His death triggered a reaction and his comrades charged. Three more died as I danced through their attacks.

As I killed the fourth, a sharp pain lanced through left arm as the hasty Hanacaraka spell on my heart wavered. It called for a change of tactic.

I mouthed a two-count Hanacaraka knew like the back of my hand while drawing a lungful of air. A spray of oil left my mouth as I exhaled, washing over the rushing raiders and causing them to rear back. An opening I exploited by reciting a different two-count spell and swinging my spear. A wave of fire surge forth from the arc. Weak but sufficient to ignite five oil-soaked raiders. That still left three that managed to dodge the spray and the remaining eighteen behind them.

The spell on my heart failed at that moment. Even if I reinstate it, it wouldn't last long enough.

I ground my teeth. No choice then.

Finally you see reason. Too late for that.

I know.

Here's to your grandson being a better wielder than you. Then again, its not high bar to pass.

I know.

I jumped back but one of the raiders still caught me, opening a large gash along my arm. Powering through the pain and tightening of my chest, I started a Hanacaraka spell. A nine-line poem. One to the acceptance of mortality. One give permission of temporary freedom. Seven served as keys to release seven restraints.

I only managed to utter three lines before two swords pierced my chest. However, that was enough. The chains had been loosened and the Serpent can come out to play for a few moment. I grinned a bloody smile as I threw my spear high in the air. It earned me an axe to my back that forced me to my knees.

Futile.

"The thing about trump cards, is that you can only use them once," I mouthed, lacking the breath to actually make sound. A great shadow fell upon us, making the raiders look up. I relished the look of horror that blossomed on their faces, "Now witness mine. Devour! Dewata Naga Baru Klinting!"

X
​

I came to in a dark abyss. I knew this place. I came here a long time ago, after my first death. It also replaced my dreams ever since. A reminder that I would inevitably return here to face my judgement.

Then light pierced the darkness. It came from a lantern held by a large man clad in gold, red, and black regalia. He had the complexion of a storm cloud with protruding fangs and wild waist-length hair. One of his four arms held the aforementioned lantern, one carried a scroll as big as a wine barrel underarm, and another gripped a jet-black iron staff.

I smiled and bowed respectfully toward him. "Well met, Lord Yamaraja."

The fanged grey man inclined his head. "Well met."

"I take it that I'm not getting a third chance?" I joked cheekily. Unbelievably, the fanged man smiled back with good humour.

"No. You have broken the karmic deadlock that necessitated your transference," he said as he offered his free hand. "You did well, mortal. Exceeding all of my expectations. You've accomplished more good in less than fifty years than some in this world did in centuries. Now the time have come for you to rest."

I moved to take his hand, but hesitated mere moment before contact.

"Your daughter and grandson are safe, if that's what you're wondering. Your sacrifice ensured that," Yama assured me. "Naga Klinting will keep them safe. Even if his motivation is twisted and questionable, you can trust him in this at least. What happen next... well, that is up to the Living."

I sighed, smiled, and took the proffered hand. The God of Death/Justice was right. Go fucking figure. The Dead has no business with the Living. Whatever my family make of their lives is their choice and theirs alone. No matter what they do however, I would be waiting for them with open arms. Though hopefully they won't come for a long time.

I closed my eyes as Yama moved to tap my head with his staff. When I opened them again, I found myself laid upon a bed of flowers. Seated by my side was the woman I hadn't seen for what felt like an eternity. The woman who gave me her heart, and received mine in turn.

I smiled, she returned it.

"I'm home."

"Welcome home."​

 

[wanara009]

So. I finally gathered enough courage to show off what I've been writing lately.

Background for the Naga Klinting:

It's essentially a whim. I want to write an SI with cheat power. Said cheat is the legendary Naga Baru Klinting spear of Javanese Myth. A naga transformed into a spear that grant its wielder magical powers. The first draft of the story is just the standard SI shenanigans. Then my self-hatred kick in when I reread the chapters around new year.

So, I scrapped everything I've worked out so far and restarted. This time, the story will focus on the grandson of the SI.

As of now, work on this story has pretty much stopped. I'm still working out the timeline for the story and researching on how to properly portray the inhuman mindset of Naga Klinting.

 

[wanara009]

Disciple
1-1
<>

​

In a world where 80 percent of humanity possesses unique abilities, there would be those who won the lottery and those who lost. For every All Might born, twenty nobodies entered the world at the same time—not even counting for the Quirkless. This was the sad reality of this world and one accepted by society.

I was one of the losers.

When I first told my peers about my Quirk, they outright laughed at me. Looking back, I should've expected that. We were kindergarteners and even I thought Quirk was rather lame back then. That reputation unfortunately stuck with me even as I moved up the ladder of educations because I lived in a small town where everyone knows everyone.

Even though I found solace in the Art, I would be lying if the bullying and social shunning didn't get to me at times. Sadness turned to resentment. Resentment turned into spite. Perhaps that was why I filled in applications for U.A. High School Hero Course. Followed by Shiketsu High School's Heroics Program and Kebutsu Academy's Heroics Class.

Silence hung in the dojo once I finished relaying what I had done that day. For the longest time, the only other person in the room remained silent, eyes closed and unmoved. After an eternity, he finally spoke.

"I have been your teacher for nine years. I have taught you the Art to the best of my ability," he said. His low rumbling voice filling the dojo like thunder. Then he turned his eyes toward me and I couldn't move from the sudden spike of fear. "Yet, you wish to dishonour me so? To spit on the Art that have raised you?"

I took a deep breath, swallowing my nervousness while keeping my eyes on the floor. "I meant no disrespect, master."

"Then why have you stepped into the one path I forbade you from walking?"

Another deep breath. Shallow reasoning won't sway my master, but I had to try. "Because I want to prove them wrong," I said, finally looking up to the lion-like bearded visage of my master. "Those who derided our Art and make light of it. I want to prove them wrong and give it the recognition it deserve."

"The Art need not the recognition of the ignorant masses to be the Truth. Its practitioner dictates its worth," my master dismissed, shutting down my argument with two sentences. "Do not conflate your selfish desires with a greater purpose. State your true reason."

".... I wish to prove them wrong," I reiterated, before elaborating on my true reason. "I wish to prove those who called me weak wrong. I wish to show them that I can be stronger than any of them combined. I wish to spite them and their petty insults."

"And most of all, I wish to savour the look on their faces when they realise their own ineptitude."

Beady inscrutable eyes looked into mine for an eternity. Finally, he let out a huge breath through his nose. "Stand up and take your stance. I shall test your conviction."

I obliged his command, getting up to my feet and entered a back stance while my master took his favoured cat stance. I knew this was an unwinnable fight. It'd be like a three-legged kitten trying to fight a sabre-toothed tiger. Yet I had to try and fight like my life depended on it.

With that, my mind—with the help of Flow—worked overtime constructing plans of actions. I know master tend to start fights defensively until he got his opponent's timings and habits down. I was his students though, so he won't do that. In fact, he—

Master's fist crashed against my arms as I barely got them over my chest. It felt, no joke, like being hit by a sledge hammer and I swore I heard my arm bone creak. I almost instinctively went into sanchin—defensive stance—but stopped. Going on the defensive against a master is a fatal mistake.

My left hand flashed up, barely pushing away master's follow up. I stepped into his space and—

CRASH

I nearly hacked out a lung as my back hit the dojo wall, a throbbing right arm held over my sternum. Master had closed in, right arm cocked for the finishing blow. I gritted my teeth. No time to think. Act. Act. Act!

Overclock.

My heart went into overdrive and gave me the speed I needed to duck his punch. Then I tripped over my own feet, sending me tumbling on the dojo's floor. I got up and rolled away just in time to avoid master's sweeping kick for my head.

I deactivated the Overclock as I jumped back to my feet just in time to block a straight punch. While it made me exponentially faster, Overclock took its toll on my fine motor skill. Not to mention the internal damages I incurred from overworking my heart and the resulting massive blood pressure spike. Even now I could already feel the gnawing stings at my extremities.

Before I could fully asses the damage, master was upon me once more. I blocked his punches as best I could and redirecting those I couldn't to less painful targets like my shoulders and hips. I have no chance if I just react to the strikes, so my mind worked overtime predicting the blindingly fast strikes. I managed, but only just.

But I knew I couldn't do this forever. No fight is won on the defence. I needed to attack. How though? Even if I could put him on the defence, Master was like a fortress. Damn-near impregnable, and the more one commit to attacking him, the more devastating the counterattack he'd launch. The only way I could possibly defeat him is to land a single overwhelmingly powerful decisive strike.

It would seem I had no choice but to use that unfinished technique. It probably wouldn't work, but I had to try. If I could land just one blow. One blow to convey my will and conviction.

Shutoff. The pain in my body blinked out of existence as I assumed sanchin stance, arms close to my chest, head behind my hands, and legs rotated inward to brace. Release. Then I tightened my muscles, compressing their unrestrained power into my core as I weathered Master's relentless blows. Like a steel spring being wound tighter and tighter. Then I saw it. Master's left arm lowered slightly. Bus—

CRACK.

For an instant, I wondered what that sound was. Then I realised that I couldn't feel my right arm. Looking down, I saw why: Master had said limb in a wrist lock and it was visibly broken. An eternity passed as I tried to comprehend what just happened. My ace in the hole, shut down like it was nothing.

"I've seen enough," Master said as he let go of my broken arm. "Though your reasoning is petty, I cannot deny you have the seeds of conviction behind your actions."

He stood straight, looking down on me. "From today onward, you are no longer my student. If you wish to walk down that path, then do so on your own," he declared. "However, I am still your guardian. If you ever feel that you need guidance in any matter outside of the Art, then do not hesitate to come to me."

I nodded silently, partly devastated by master's declaration but also relieved that he didn't outright disown me.

"Now come. Let us tend to your injury," he continued, turning on his heel. "I expect that you keep up your training even without my guidance."

"I understand, Mas—"

"I am not your Master anymore."

I bit my lip. "Pardon me, Ma—Gensei-san," I rectified before falling in step behind him.

"What was that technique?" he asked as we made our way to the home proper. I knew what he was referring to even without clarification.

"It's... it's something I came up with a few months back. I'd hoped that it'd let me land at least one punch on you," I said. "It worked by compre—"

"I know the mechanics. I am not blind. I simply want to hear the reason behind it," Master cut me off. "Admirable, but foolish. You know better than anyone that I would not fall to a half-baked improvised technique. Complete it before you use it again."

Master—I could still call him that in my head, right?—power of observation still awed me even after ten years of living with him. Then again, should I expect anything less from a man who stood at the zenith of martial art?

He tended to my injuries quickly and efficiently, decades of studying how to break people translating into an extensive know-how in putting them back together again. He perfectly reset my arm in a single move, somehow realigning all the tiny bones of my wrist with one firm twist. A firm message accompanied by strong-smelling ointment addressed my bruising and prepared my muscles for healing. Lastly he gave me a bitter herbal tea that would deal with the internal damage.

If he wanted, he could make a fortune if he decided to go to traditional medicine. Alas his heart was set for the modest lifestyle of a martial artist.

Master left once he finished tending to my wound and warned me to stay in bed for the rest of the day. Probably to resume his daily training. Meanwhile I slowly reawakened my pain receptors while sipping the medicinal tea and contemplating my abilities.

Neurological Control. The ability to control one's nervous system. A Quirk derided as weak and useless because it doesn't have any immediate flashy effects. Through training and lots of research into neuroscience, I managed to wrangle some useful abilities out of it.

Flow: manual inducement of the 'flow state'. Shutoff: turning off pain receptors. Overclock: overclocking my heart's output to boost movement speed. Release: remove the limiters on muscular output to increase strength. Lastly, Archival: manual management of memories.

Combined with Master's teaching of Kensei-style Karate, I had thought that I was ready to tread my own path. Yet today's confrontation showed that I was greener than spring grass. My conditioning inadequate, my techniques incomplete, and my experience lacking. Weak, weak, weak.

…. No matter. I simply need to get better. Get stronger. Strong enough to prove my detractors wrong forevermore. I swear it upon the graves of my parents.​

 

[wanara009]

This one is relatively old piece of work. Planned and written in late 2019 - early 2020.

As you can infer from the work, the unnamed protagonist's main motivation is to prove his detractors wrong. That his non-flashy Quirk doesn't mean that he is weak and he sought to prove it by joining the Pro-Hero Industry. I planned him to have an underlying obsession with strength, which manifest as Blood-Knight tendencies and a berserk button revolving 'undeserved claim to strength'. This, in my planning, will set up confrontation with Monoma and Shinsho.

Of course, I stepped away from this project after only this chapter due to RL concerns (namely work, uni, and COVID). Then MHA started losing me and this project become buried in my hard-drive.

 

[wanara009]

Shark
1.1​

"Suraso!"

In the wake of the incantation, something in me diminished slightly as two asymmetrical daggers materialized in my hands in a flash of navy-blue light. Each was about forty centimetres long from pommel to tip and bore an uncanny resemblance to shark's teeth, serration and all. Aside from its materialization from thin air and odd shape, it seemed mundane in all aspect.

'Seemed'.

I sighed as I dismissed the daggers, letting them shatter into motes of light, before rubbing my face. It only added more questions I had about my situation.

My surrounding was certainly no help. A small apartment with a sliding window on one side, a bathroom on the other, and a door. Aside from a bed, a stool, and a mirror, the place was empty. Yet it was also startlingly clean. Not a single speck of dust or mould could be found. The window gave no clue, since it faced directly into a brick wall.

My memory was obviously damaged, but not wholly it seemed. My semantic memory felt mostly intact—hence why I know what semantic memory was in the first place. My episodic memory on the other hand was a lost cause and my identity was also amongst the lost pieces of information.

Then there was the matter of the spells. I currently had two floating in my mind: The Teeth Dagger Spell and The Linear Charge Spell. Aside from the clue I could gather from their name, what they do exactly was part of the missing semantic memories.

I studied myself in the mirror. I had the build of a swimmer: lean and long with broad shoulders and muscular arms. The last bit I know because my top—a dark blue double-breasted shirt with stiff raised collar—didn't have sleeves. When standing up, my head was a hair away from brushing the top of the doorframe, which put me a little over two metres. Speaking of hair, most of mine was hidden under a tight turban-like headdress with two long 'tails' behind me. The hair themselves was mostly short save for the two chest-length locks framing my face.

Aside from my sleeveless top, I also have loose black trousers that reached mid-knee and a tightly wound red sash acting as belt. Looped around my forearms were leather bracers. Lastly, my footwear were a pair of tough sandals bound to my ankles with leather straps

My face was… well, to summarize in one word: scary. I had literally grey skin, for starter. Sharp, narrow-set yellow eyes stared back from the mirror with laser intensity. They lacked whites and had ovoid pupils, making them appear simultaneously animalistic and dead. My forehead had a slight crease even at rest and when combined with my down-turned mouth gave me a natural scowling glare. When I opened said mouth, I saw that most of my teeth were triangular and serrated.

I shouldn't look like that… or did I? Parts of me said yes, but the rest maintained a resounding no. Then the former offered a compromise. Closing my eyes, I reached deep into my mind and flicked a mental switch.

When I opened my eyes, I no longer have grey skin, animal eyes, and serrated chompers. Running my tongue over my teeth told me that they were still sharp as ever though. Some sort of illusion to disguise my look? Whatever it was, it was using up the energy in the reservoir I used to cast spell. Very tiny amount of it, yes, but I instinctively disliked it all the same. In the end, my disapproval won out and I reverted to my inhuman appearance.

… Was I human? Just another question without answer. I got that a lot in that past few minutes.

Well, I wasn't going to get anything staying inside. With that in mind, I opened the door and stepped out of the room.

Unlike the apartment I woke up in, the hallway was grimy and dirty. Vulgar graffiti and mould dominated wall. The floor had multitude of stains, some of which looked suspiciously like drag marks in dried blood. Incidentally, I found that my nose was quite keen when I made the mistake of breathing deeply. The smell of old blood, dried semen, fermented puke, old urine, and hidden excrement did their best to make me empty my stomach.

Closing my hands over my nose, I half-ran half-jumped toward the nearest staircase and barrelled down, skipping over three to four steps at a time. Soon enough, I came into the entrance hall after five sets of stairs. Unfortunately for me, the double doors didn't budge when I try opening it with one hand.

The other spell floating in my head forced its way out of my mouth just as I prepared to kick the door down. "Uruzu!"

Energy surged through my body and the world blurred as The Linear Charge Spell propelled me forward at mindboggling speed. My leading foot met the wooden portal, and the door lost explosively.

I skidded to a stop on an asphalt road, my feet digging long furrows onto the rough surface as I instinctively assumed a fighting stance and prepared spell at the tip of my tongue. After several second of conspicuously not getting attacked, I let loose a long sigh and straightened up.

To see people staring at me.

"Uruzu!" I shouted on impulse. This time, the spell took nearly half of my reservoir and propelled me into the night sky high above the city.

At this height, I saw the skyline of a large city. Many of the buildings looked old and sported characteristics of Gothic architectures and an abundance of demonic gargoyles. Jutting between the squat buildings were skyscrapers and towers that gleamed in the moonlight, each a testament to the civilization of mankind.

The feeling of gravity re-establishing her grip snapped me out of my contemplation.

"Uruzu!" I yelled.

Nothing happened.

I blinked and tried again. This time, putting more emotion and determination into it "Uruzu!"

No drain to my reservoir. Still falling.

… A thought occurred to me. I used Uruzu four times. It worked twice and failed twice. What changed between them? I was on the ground for the former, and mid-air for the latter. Ergo, Uruzu require solid surface under my feet to work.

Wish I knew that before I decided to jump.

I spread my limbs out to catch as much air as I could. Think. Think. Solid surface under my feet… Would that work? The ground was coming closer, no harm in trying.

"Suraso!"

The teeth daggers immediately materialized in my hands. Doubling over, I put the one in my right hand under the sole of my feet while focusing up. Please work. Please work. Please—"Uruzu!"

I lost grip on the dagger and went rocketing up. It wasn't far, not even a metre, but it cancelled my downward momentum. Yes. This would work.

I made my way down toward a rooftop, incrementally falling then cancelling the momentum with short-range Uruzu until I could fall safely. I landed into a roll to bleed off excess momentum before finally coming to a stop.

I stayed on my back, letting my heartbeat slow and adrenaline get out of my system as I stared into the murky night sky. I closed my eyes—noticing for the first time that I had two set of eyelids, one of them transparent.

I think that was enough excitement for one day.

 

[wanara009]

This story was written a while back. Back when the Lantern YJ SI was just beginning to catch on.

The story itself was planned to be the bog-standard 'SI join Young Justice Team'. The 'fun' however, come mostly from the research. The mess that is DC universe aside, Gash Bell has a very vague but simultaneously well-defined magic system. The spells the character used may seem gibberish, but there is a rather strict rule of nomenclature that dictates what spells does what based on stem, prefixes, suffixes, and spell category.

I confess that out of the snips I unearthed, this one held a rather special place in my heart. I may just continue it one day if I need a break from my current project.

 

[wanara009]

My inner force reservoir had refilled somewhat by the time they reached the bandit's first battle line. Time to act.

I leapt high, aiming to fall on the leader. To his credit, the bandit leader dodged backward suddenly, probably driven by instinct. Just fast enough to avoid me completely.

"Who the he…ll…" his yell petered out as I rose from my crouched landing position. His face also paled significantly. Perhaps it was my mask. Perhaps it was my glowing eyes, achieved by a trickle of inner force flowing through my eyes to enhance my sight. It mattered not.

Shock and fear quickly turned to anger and aggression. With a roar, one of the bandits charged and swung his axe at me. The leader however, retreated.

Like the snapping bite of Baya, my right hand lashed forward and caught the bandit by his wrist as I stepped inside his wide-open guard, stopping his attack dead in its track. A twist made him drop his axe. Then my free hand struck, parting cloth, skin, flesh, and viscera before stopping on bone.

How far I have fallen. Once upon a time, my Tangan Tadjam technique could cut through plate steel. Now, without hatred and rage to drive them, even bone stopped me.

I detached from the dead bandit and avoided a sword swing at the same time. Instinct sharpened by experience found a clear path amongst the slashing swords and swinging axes while muscle memories guided me through the corridor of blades. As I moved, my hands flowed around me just like a pair of bloodthirsty Sura, delivering rapid bone-cracking strikes through narrow openings before retreating from retaliation.

I weaved my way through the hairball, downing every combatants, before moving toward the retreating leader. I bent low to avoid a thrown hand-axe before lunging forward, hands outstretched like the powerful paws of Macan lunging for prey. Claws of inner force grazed the bandit's flesh, carving four furrows across his naked painted chest.

The bandit leader stopped cold as the pain registered to his brain. He glared at me with loathing, which I met with calm and focus. I have no more hatred to wield, no more anger to stoke, but focus and purpose I still had aplenty.

From his eyes, I could read his character and his past. My opponent was a cruel man, one driven by his base desires. A man who preyed upon the innocent. A man who enjoyed dangling hope to his victim, only to snatch them away at the last second.

I have judged him, and I sentenced him to despair before I send him off to Yama.

"You… I'm going to kill you, you bastard!" the bandit roared before running forward.

When he reached me, he unleashed a barrage of swings and chops. He was marginally more skilled that his underlings as his attacks were slightly tighter and had less opening. His mastery over his axe however, fell woefully short of the true masters of the weapon I had faced in the past. I quickly found a corridor in the attacks and blasted though. His nose deformed under my fist with a crack and he reeled backward in pain. Then I stomped on his leading foot, shattering bones and pulping flesh while keeping him in place, followed by a palm thrust to his gut.

Wheezing and hobbled, he didn't have time to react as I began to batter him in earnest. Head, neck, gut, joints. I held back my strength, ensuring pain without dealing much damage. Whenever he faltered, I quickly righted him back up before continuing the pummeling.

I stepped back and he immediately lashed out with a wild swing. Just as planned. I caught his arm, locked it into place—simultaneously disarming him of his axe, and punched at the elbow, bending it back further than it could until it popped off. His other arm came as I let go, and I treated it the same way.

Without his arms, he could do nothing as I delivered eight rapid strikes onto his torso before my hand closed around his throat. I saw that the cruelty and hatred that once filled his eyes had vanished. Fear, regret, and despair had taken its place.

"Give Yama my regard," I whispered before crushing his windpipe.

 

[wanara009]

Just a little snippet I wrote to practice my fight scene writing.

Panji Tengkorak (Skull Panji), also known as Pengemis Iblis dari Kidul (Demonic Beggar from Kidul) is a rather popular character in Indonesia. The brain child of the venerable Hans Jaladara, who also created Walet Merah (Red Swallow). Alongside Si Buta dari Gua Hantu (The Blind Man from the Ghost Cave) by Ganes T. H., the three character essentially created the genre of martial art comics in Indonesia.

The character itself, in the source material, are driven by revenge. This little snippet takes place after Panji has finished his revenge. If I ever expand it, it'd probably be a story about how a man who based most of his existence of vengeance live on after he achieve it.

Spoiler: Panji Tengkorak

 

[wanara009]

1
The Gift
<>​

"Pardon me, but is this seat taken?"​

Aono Tsukune looked up from his hands. The one asking the questioned was a tall, solidly built older gentleman. A foreigner, judging by his complexion and facial features. Though his face was lined with age and his windswept hair and beard had turned completely silver, he carried himself like a man many years younger. His sharp gold-trimmed black formal suit, matching short cape, white gloves, and ebony cane added an air of refinement about him.​

The black-haired boy shook his head, "No sir. Feel free to sit down," he said as he scooted along the bus stop's metal bench to make room.​

"Thank you, young man. My legs aren't what it used to be," the older male laughed as he sat down and stretched his legs out. "Ahh, that's the stuff."​

"You're welcome sir," Tsukune replied with a smile. "Are you... waiting for the bus too?"​

"Me? Naaah. I just need a bit of rest. I'm old, but I don't need the bus for a few kilos just yet," he grinned. "What about you?"

"I'm going to Yokai Academy, sir. I'm starting high school this year," Tsukune answered. "I'm nervous, to be honest. Yokai's a boarding school and it'd be my first time away from home for so long."

"It's all part of growing up, young man. At least with boarding school, you get to do it in a nice, controlled environment," he said with a low chuckle. "Still, Yokai huh? It's a rather... selective institution when it comes to admission. Four people out of every hundred, last I heard."​

Tsukune blinked. That was the first time he heard about that. "I... Wow. I'd no idea that Yokai is so prestigious," he scratched his head.​

"Now, now. Fretting over it won't do you any good. I find that keeping your head high and walking with confidence does wonders in a lot of situations," the old man assured the boy before pulling out a golden watch from beneath his cape. "Well, I better go."​

Tsukune nodded, smiling lightly. The elder's words did a lot in lifting up his spirit. "Take care sir."​

"I will, I will. Old I am, helpless I am not," the man grinned. "Ah, before I leave, here."​

The man produced what appeared to be a custom-made leather card case and handed to Tsukune. Though the boy knew little about leather in general, he watched enough TV to know expensive stuff by sight, let alone touch. The gold trims and buttons really gave it away. It shocked him enough to propel him to his feet. "I-I, wha--? I can't, sir! This is too—"​

The man raised a hand to stop the boy's stammer. For a moment, the man's bearing changed, going from easygoing to grave and sad. "Don't worry about it young man. I meant to give that to someone else but... I was too late," he said with a sigh. "I personally had no use for it, but maybe it will help you in the future."​

"But..." Tsukune started but trailed as he saw the grim look on the elder male's red eyes. "I... I guess I'll take it. Thank you sir."​

The grave air vanished at the boy's answer and the older man smile returned. "Thank you for indulging this old man's whimsy," he said, bowing slightly. Tsukune returned suit. "I must be off. Good luck in Yokai."​

"Good luck to you too sir," Tsukune replied, clutching the card case close to his chest. He watched as the man continued walking down the street before taking a turn and disappearing from his sight. Only then did the boy sat back down, still cradling the gift given to him.​

Gingerly, he opened the case. Truth be told, the content confused him greatly. Within the expensive leather holster was seven cards. Made of metal—something with gold, judging by the colour and sheen—pressed enough that they were almost paper thin yet sturdy enough that they didn't bend at all. One side of the cards depicted a complex arrangement of magic circle embossed into the flawless gleaming surface. The other however were blank save for their elaborate borders.​

How would something like this help him out?​

The sound of engine and rolling wheels broke Tsukune out of his thought. The bus that would carry him to Yokai just arrived. He quickly stuffed the card case into his pocket and boarded. As he sat down in one of the many empty seats, nervousness began eating at his heart again. It was then that the old man's words echoed his ears and soothed it somewhat.​

Head held high, walk with confidence. Maybe he should put it into practice.​

​

X|X​

Tsukune crashed painfully against a gravestone. The impact caused blood to spill from his mouth.​

"Weak scums like you should know your place," Saizo Komiya sneered. His monstrous form towered over Tsukune's prone form.​

Tsukune could do little but cough. Everything hurt. He could hear Moka screaming his name and her hands on his shoulder. He wanted to comfort her, to tell her that he'd be fine, but his mouth refused to move. His lungs seized painfully, sending another torrent of blood up his throat.

Was this... it? Would he die here?

But... if he die... then Saizo.... No.... Moka....​

Despair filled Tsukune's heart. In that moment, he cursed his mediocrity. His powerlessness. He prayed to gods, any one that would listen, to save his friend. Then his despair turned to rage. He raged against Saizo, against the school, at the cruel world.​

But most of all, he raged at his own helplessness.​

Something in him clicked.​

HatehatehateragewhywhywhyhatehatehatehateKillKillKilldestroyhatehatehatehatewhywhywhyhelphelpkilldestroydestroyragerageRAGE​

Unbidden, his mouth opened. Lost in his own rage, he ignored his convulsing lungs and the blood pooling in his throat.​

"Berserker!"

Power flooded his body upon uttering those words, propelling him back to his feet. His pale skin turned ashen as his muscles bulged and his eyes changed from brown to mismatched amber and red. Two blunt spikes sprouted from his elbows with sickening cracks. His Yokai Academy uniform dissolved into motes of light and reformed into a loincloth, an armoured skirt held by a metal belt, and a matching set of wrist braces and anklets.

More importantly, his wounds healed. Torn skin knitted close. Fractured bones renewed. Burst blood vessels reformed.​

"Ha! So you're a monstrel like me!" Saizo laughed gleefully. "Good! Now you—"​

He did not finish his taunt. In the space of a blink, Tsukune had launched forward, leaving a crater where he had pushed off, and crashed against Saizo with a shoulder tackle. The impact sent the monstrel flying head-over-heels until he crashed against a tree.​

When Saizo looked up, in agony and concussed, he saw that his once-prey loomed over him, right arm raised high to the sky. For a split second, he saw the huge stone axe-sword materialised in Tsukune's hand just before the blade descended. The stone sword did not cut him. Rather, it splattered him, like a dropped watermelon.​

Tsukune roared to the sky as he stood over the liquefied remain of his once-tormentor. All over Yokai Academy, youkai of various kind cowered in fear. Their baser instincts recognised the arrival of something that threaten them all.​

Back with Tsukune, Moka was already running toward him, heedless of her own fear. All the sealed vampire wanted was for her friend to calm down. To go back to being the kind boy that accepted her instead of this terrifying titan. As she drew close, her instinct screamed at her and she threw herself backward without hesitation. In doing so she avoided death by the skin of her teeth. For a moment, her green eyes locked with Tsukune's mismatched ones.​

In that moment, she understood that there was no reasoning with the being that replaced Tsukune.​

She narrowly dodged another axe swing, but was still thrown away from the wind pressure alone. She crashed against a tree. The sealed vampire got up painfully only to see Tsukune looming over her, left hand outstretched to grab her. In desperation, she threw her body sideways, hoping against hope to avoid his crushing grasp.​

She half succeed. Tsukune missed her neck, but he caught the silver rosary that was the centrepiece of her seal. He tugged it sharply to pull her back only for it to came off.

Moka lost her consciousness then as her Inner Self took over. Pink hair gave way to silver and green eyes turned blood red with cat-like slits. Raw yoki spilled forth from the unleashed vampire, enough to blast the raging Tsukune away by sheer volume.​

"I do not know what you are, but I know that you need to be put down," the unleashed vampire remarked. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry for dragging you into this situation."

Tsukune's replied with a maddened roar. He leapt to her, axe-sword unerringly swinging down onto Moka's head.​

Moka took a step back, anchoring herself using yoki to withstand the wind pressure, and stomped down on the axe-sword as it hit the ground. The stone weapon sunk deep into the hard dirt, causing enough delay for the vampire to make her attack. A single kick, reinforced with yoki, sailed toward Tsukune's head. Packing enough force to take off his head.​

Much to her surprise, Tsukune let go of the sword and dodged by bending backward. He caught himself into a spinning handstand, forcing Moka to back away, only to caught two kicks to her gut as he got back to his feet and retaliated. Only the lack of proper leverage on his part saved her from serious damage.

That wasn't to say that it didn't hurt.​

She caught herself midair and landed on her feet. Just in time to see her opponent retrieving his weapon and turning his attention back to her. Her eyes narrowed as the titan grasped his axe-sword with both hands. Her instinct screamed and she obeyed.​

Just in time too. A wave of debris and shrapnel blasted where she once stood, kicked up by a mighty golf swing by Tsukune. Her instinct screamed again and she kicked up, meeting the maddened male's follow-up downswing. Gritting her teeth, she forced her yoki to her leg, redirecting the axe-sword away from her body and giving her the chance to land a few blow to Tsukune's side before disengaging.​

Moka couldn't but help but think that the whole situation was absurd. The human—and he was human, her senses confirmed that—very nearly outstripped her in both strength and—despite his bulked up muscles—speed. Moreover, the stunt he did when she immobilised his sword showed keen instincts despite his apparent insanity.​

Her thought was broken as the maddened human resumed his attacks. Moka retaliated with all her might. Blows after blows exchanged, but both sides refused to give grounds.

After what felt like an eternity, Moka saw her chance. She ducked under a wild horizontal swing, condensing every scrap of yoki she had left into her hand, and shot forward, aiming for the maddened human's chest.​

Tsukune's ashen skin stopped her thrust dead. Gritting her teeth, she willed her yoki to continue forward, blasting forth like a laser from her outstretched knifehand. The beam pierced through the tough skin and through his back, cutting the human's torso nearly in half.​

She panted as the maddened human slumped to his knees, dead. That, hands down, was the hardest fight in her life. She silently praised her fallen foe as she stepped away from the human—no, Tsukune's—body and wished him peace in the afterlife

A burst of power made her look up and she could barely believe her eyes. The two halves of the wound was coming back together. It was as if the clock was winding back rather than run-of-the-mill regeneration.​

"You have to be kidding me!" she couldn't help but cry out as she jumped back.​

Fortunately for her, Tsukune seemed to abruptly ran out of steam. He fell onto his face, his muscles deflating and normal colour flooding back onto his skin. Before long, Moka beheld not a mad raging titan, but the meek scrawny boy her Outer Self had befriended. All that remained of their encounter was the deep scar over his torso, visible under the tattered uniform that had reformed over his body.​

Moka maintained her guard as she approached Tsukune's prone form. Considering the human had seemingly came back from death, she felt that her caution was warranted. She only relaxed once she determined that he was harmless.

Part of her wanted to kill him. Her vampire pride couldn't handle the fact that a human nearly bested her. Yet that same pride also stayed her hand. To kill a downed opponent, especially one that gave her such a fight, was beneath her.​

"You owe me for this," she murmured as she picked up the unconscious boy.

XX​

"You are out of line."​

"On the contrary, I'm perfectly within line."​

Mikogami Tenmei, one of the Three Dark Lords and Chairman of Yokai Academy, glared at the being that had thrown a wrench in his plan. Kischur Zelretch Schweinorg, The Wizard Marshall and sole master of the magic known as Kaleidoscope, took the glower calmly.​

"Do you know what you have done, Kaleidoscope?" Mikogami seethed. "Plans that took centuries to perfect, ruined. All because you feel the need to meddle in affairs that does not concern you."​

"Your plans affect humanity of this world. That alone makes it my concern," the Wizard Marshall scoffed. "And I have told you that I will take action if your little case study fail."​

"Nevertheless, giving Aono Tsukune those cards will upset the balance of power of the monster world. I cannot even begin to imagine the ramifications of your action."​

"I know that my action saved this worldline from needless sacrifices."​

"Sacrifices must be made to progress forward."

"Not when the sacrifice outweigh the gain earned from it!" snapped the Wizard. "I've told you that conservation and consolidation of resources is paramount. Your plan would rob the world of most of its fighting strength. Fighting strength that it will need when It came into the field."​

The Exorcist frowned. In the end, 'It' was the root of their disagreement. The sleeping threat secured beneath a certain military base somewhere in the Western Hemisphere. A threat far greater than Alucard could ever be. Mikogami knew of It, of course, and had factored it into his plans. Then Kaleidoscope appeared and told him that his estimates was wrong and It would come into play much sooner than he predicted.​

"To your credit, had you chosen a better candidate for your previous 'case study', I wouldn't have raised a finger," Kaleidoscope continued, either ignoring or unaware of the Exorcist's inner musing. "But you chose that little puke and he failed hard, so I am putting my foot down. Get onboard, get out of the way, or be stomped."​

Some part of Mikogami bristled at the threat, but he held that urge down. He reminded himself that Zelretch had the same goals as him and swallowed his pride.​

"Fine. We'll see how this experiment of yours goes."​

 

[wanara009]

And here we go. The last of the presentable snippets I unearthed from my hard-drive. This was written around the time I got into FGO. Back then, I was but a casual fan of Nasuverse (still am now), and I'm betting my left kidney that it showed in my writing.

The plan here, as one could tell from the title, is to give Tsukune nothing but Berserkers. And since Tsukune was such a weak-willed kid at the start of the R+V, he'll succumb to the Madness Enhancement the moment he invoke them. Over the course of the story, he'll progressively get better control while also unlocking 'saner' Berserker.

 

[NuclearBirb]

Really loked the rosaria vampire fic the most, honestly. Great fun!

 

[wanara009]

0.1

The Girl and Her Bird​

Eight-year-old Byleth Eisner looked to the left, then to the right. Just to be sure, she looked behind her as well before returning her eyes to the treasure she just found. Namely, the large egg laying on the riverbank.

The egg was big, the size of her head, and made of gold. Not only that, it had a red belt-thing around its middle encurs-- encurust-- decorated with gems as big as her thumb in every colour she could name. Part of her wondered why people would bother making jewel-covered gold egg but she decided that the 'why' didn't really matter. What mattered was the jewel-covered golden egg that must be worth a lot of money just left out here for her to take. A lot of money equal a lot of food.

With that in mind, she reached out and picked up the egg—.

'What the... hey!'

—and promptly dropped it.

'Ow! Hey, be careful, whoever are! Just because my prison's indestructible doesn't mean my skull is too!... I think.... well, at least if I have one, that is,' Byleth frowned at that, sha- sea- putting her dagger back in its case. Whatever inside the egg must've heard that too. 'What was that?'

"Nothing," the young teal-haired girl answered placidly before squatting next to the egg and poked it with her covered dagger. "What are you? I never heard an egg talk before."

'I don't know. All I know is that I'm trapped inside something,' the egg admitted, sounding rather miserable. 'Thanks for telling me what it is, by the way. Anyhow I've been in here for so long that I forget if I was ever anything else.'

Byleth tried to imagine what that was like and shuddered. Nobody deserved that. "Is there anything I can do to get you out?"

'If there is, I don't know it. I sorta kinda gave up, after a while,' the egg replied. 'You're welcome to try though.'

Byleth nodded resolutely, unsea— unsha— taking out her dagger once again. She grabbed the egg, holding it down as well as she could, before stabbing down. Much to her chagrin, the dagger's sharp tip slid off the golden shell without leaving so much as a mark.

She tried again, just to make sure. This time however, she made a mistake and her dagger sliced into her finger. The pain made her recoil and hurriedly inspect the wound. The cut wasn't deep, thankfully, but she'd better see Jenna—the healer of her father's company—just in case.

A loud crack snapped her out of her thought. Looking back at the egg, she saw a large jagged gash at its surface, from which bright light poured out.

'Oh. Oh, wow. You did it kid. I don't know what you did, but you did it,' the egg said, sounding very awed. Then the awe turned into excitement. 'You might want to step back a bit. I got the feeling this is gonna be explosive.'

Byleth obliged without a word, backing away until she was nearly fifty paces away. Just in time too as the egg exploded with a deafening boom the moment she finished her retreat.

A great ball of fire bloomed from the broken egg, yet there was no heat. Silver, gold, and red flame swirled and danced in the ball, creating beautiful patterns, before extending upward and outward into a tall pillar. For a moment, Byleth thought she saw something in the fire. A giant bird with fanged beak screeching soundlessly to the sky with its wing spread wide.

Then the fire shrunk rapidly, sucked into a single point, until nothing remained but a small yellow speck at the centre of a blasted crater. Jogging over, Byleth found that said speck turned out to be a small black-eyed baby bird the size of a newborn kitten. A baby eagle, going by the hooked beak. Lastly, there was a spiked golden circle floating behind the chick's head, though it quickly disappeared into spots of light.

'Cute,' was Byleth's first thought.

The baby bird looked down at its own body, twisting around to see everything, before looking up to Byleth. It squawked once before pausing. Byleth swore it was frowning.

'Thanks, kid,' said the voice, now coming from the baby eagle.

"I don't think you should call me 'kid' anymore," Byleth retorted as she knelt down and picked up the little bird. So fluffy and warm.

'I'm older than you, you know,' it—no, he, since the voice sounded like a boy now—protested. 'Well, at least I think I am. Pretty sure I am. Like, 80 percent sure. I've been trapped in that bloody egg for so goddamned long.'

"You're still a baby bird. Don't call me 'kid'," Byleth said firmly.

'Fine. What do you want me to call you then?'

"My name's Byleth. Byleth Eisner," she answered, taking care to not mip- misspo- say her name wrong. A lot of people does that and it made her mad every time. "Do you have a name?"

'I think... I think I do,' said the bird, a strange tone in his head-voice. 'Gaganeswara. I think my name's Gaganeswara.'

Byleth repeated the name in her head several times and spoke it out loud just as many times. Strange name. Muth- Moutfu-- big name and really hard to pronounce. Still, she wasn't about to question it and she'd just shorten it to 'Gaga'. It sound a lot cuter and also much easier to say. No risk of biting her tongue here.

Her thought was interrupted by shouts and rapid footsteps. Looking around, she saw her father and four of his mercenaries running toward her direction. She felt a little guilty when she saw the look of fear and worry on the large man's face.

She hugged Gaga close to her chest as she waited for her father to reach her. When he did, she held the baby bird out toward him and asked:

"Can I keep him?"


AN:
So. This one is a very recent snippet. As in, I started writing this on early Monday morning just to get it out of my head. The impetus is me unearthing the comic Garudayana by Is Yuniarto while cleaning my room on Sunday.

The idea behind the fic is simple: Fire Emblem as a whole is a franchise troubled by dragons. What if I introduce the natural enemy of dragons?

Unlike the previous snippets, there is very little research and planning that went into this. However, if I were to expand this, the story would probably be based on Crimson Flower Path.

 

[wanara009]

0.1
Lawman

​

Warden Bartholomeus Van Dijk stood in attention as Inspector Adelbert Wilhelm Van Hinne disembarked from the dogcart. The inspector was a tall, broad-shouldered, and fair-skinned man with a head of blonde hair worn neat and short and piercing blue eyes. Though in his late fifties, the man didn't look a day older than 30. No sign of wrinkles on his handsome face or grey hair on his head. Furthermore, he had the body like those of Greek statues, evident even through his crisp white shirt, grey waistcoat, and black trousers. A gold-trimmed dark blue greatcoat sat upon his shoulder like a cape secured against the morning breeze with two fasteners in the shape of silver eagles. Finally, a holstered revolver and two cruciform longswords hung from a black leather belt around his waist.

A superb exemplar to what all Dutch men could and should become.

The inspector stood in place for a moment, surveying his surrounding with cold piercing eyes. His gaze rested upon each of the guards that composed his welcoming party and without fail they would straighten up as if someone just pressed red-hot poker against their spine. Even Van Dijk found himself doing the same on reflex when the inspector's frigid eyes rested on him.

The so-called 'Fang of the Koninklijk Bataljon' certainly live up to his reputation.

The warden saluted the inspector. "Welcome to Oud Batavia Gaol, inspector. I trust that the journey from Bovenstad was pleasant."

The inspector returned his salute before gesturing him to stand down. "Have you prepared Prisoner #2224?"

Van Dijk blinked at the question. It appeared that the inspector wasn't one for small talks. "Of course, sir. All you need to do is sign the paperwork and we can begin the transport process."

The inspector's face didn't so much as twitch as he nodded. "Lead the way."

The warden saluted again before he led the inspector into the administrative office of the prison-fort. Once there, Van Dijk quickly handed all pertinent documents to the inspector and the blond man made sure to read through all of them before signing. It made the warden smile approvingly at the inspector's diligence. Many nowadays—including the governor-general—would sign any paper put in front of them so long they looked official.

Once they put the bureaucracy matters in order, the warden led the inspector and a contingent of four guards into depth of the gaol. They walked through dim, low hallways lit only by lanterns flanked by small dinghy cells, the unfortunate necessity of artillery-proof construction. Most of the cells had at least two occupants—native criminals—and combined with the lack of ventilation caused the air to smell heavily of mould and human refuse.

Even after fifteen years of working here, Van Dijk still felt uncomfortably hemmed in by the thick walls and repulsed by the disgusting smell. Today was especially bad for some reason, with the thump of the infantry boots echoing ominously in ears and the stiffing air being almost choking. The uncharacteristically harsh glares from the prisoners they passed didn't help matter either.

In a bid to stop the unease, Van Dijk spoke up, "So, is it true that you can match Prisoner #2224 one-on-one?"

The inspector didn't reply immediately, but he did eventually, "It is."

"That's quite impressive. I mean, he's one of those pendekar, right? I've seen some of them in Lanfang and Jambi back when I'm in the army," the warden said, shaking his head. "Bunch of blasphemous savages. All of them. How else can a man ruin cannon barrel bare-handed and outrun horses unless they've sold their soul to the devil himself?"

Once again, the inspector didn't reply immediately. When he did however, ice formed in Van Dijk's stomach.
​

"I am capable of those feats as well. So does a good majority of the Koninklijk Bataljon's members."

The warden sputtered, struggling to form words between his horror that he just insulted the inspector and the shock of the revelation. He could faintly heard the surprised murmurs of his men. Before he could say anything meaningful however, the inspector continued.

"It is not widely known, but the Bataljon was founded specifically to counter the threat of native 'martial fighters'—the likes of pesilat, pendekar, wushu-jia, kshatriya, and so on—through equivalent methodologies," said the blond man, his voice as dispassionate as ever. "Be careful in the future, warden. Some of my colleagues are more sensitive about accusation of heresy and blasphemy than I."

"O-of course, sir," Van Dijk stuttered out.

The warden quickened his pace. The revelation had been disturbing, to say the least. To know that his beloved country made good Christian men engage in some unknown heretical rite shook the warden down to his very core. It also made him curse the savages and their blasphemous practices more for forcing the hands of his countrymen.

Then again, he understood why it had been done. When weighted against the well-being of the empire, what was a few damned souls?

After what felt like an eternity, they finally arrived to their destination. A lonely unfurnished cell, barely bigger than a broom closet with bars as thick as grown man's arm, situated in the deepest part of the prison-fort. A cell reserved for the most dangerous and violent of criminal. Unlike the others, it only had one occupants, a native man in his twenties currently asleep in a seated position. He was restrained with the strongest chains available with his arms behind his back and legs bound together to prevent him from standing up straight.

Of course, the man remained the most dangerous thing in the entire gaol. The last person who dropped his guard around the prisoner found himself missing his lower jaw.

"Open the cell."

The four guards moved forward, squeezing past the inspector and the warden in the narrow hallway to stand before the small chamber. Three drew their pistols and aimed at the sleeping native while the last man unlocked the cell door and slide it open. The sound made the prisoner to stir, causing the guards to stiffen in anticipation.

The inspector walked past the guards, ignoring their and the warden's vocal objection. He loomed over the still-sleeping prisoner and gave him a nudge with his foot. "Salihoen, I know that you're awake."

The prisoner grunted and opened his eyes with a yawn. He said something in the the lower native tongue before switching to Dutch. Horribly enunciated, but still more tolerable than the native's dirty dialect. "Is it time already?"

"Yes."

"Pity. It's been a good long while since I slept with a proper roof over my head," the prisoner laughed, his cheery voice grating on Van Dijk's ear. How could he still be so happy? "Am I to hang or be shot?"

"You are to hang," Inspector Hinne stated.

The criminal barked out a laugh. "The governor never learn, does he?"

"I shall not comment," replied the inspector as he unsheathed a sword and widened his footing. Before Van Dijk or any of his men could intervene, the inspector's blade lashed out like lightning. His blade cut through the chains around the prisoner's legs, originally meant to secure fishing boats, as if they were rotten papers.

Truly, Hinne was a man damned.

The prisoner smiled cheekily as he jumped onto his feet and flexing his legs and neck with audible cracks. "What about my arms?"

"Do it yourself," said the inspector as he sheathed his sword.

The prisoner barked out a laugh. It transitioned into grunts of exertion that lasted for a few seconds before the chains retraining his arms fell to the floor, much to Van Dijk's horror. Even in the dim lantern light, the warden could see that the prisoner had somehow managed to pry apart some of the chain's thick steel links.

While the warden and his men tensed, the blonde inspector remained unfazed. He produced a standard police handcuffs his greatcoat and, much to Van Dijk's amazement, the prisoner voluntarily let the inspector put them around his wrists. It looked flimsy compared to his previous bond yet the native man made no move to escape.

One tense return journey later and Van Dijk had never been happier to be in the courtyard of his place of work. At least out here he had riflemen posted on the battlements, ready to shoot the prisoner if he tried to escape.

"Shouldn't we use an armoured transport?" asked the warden to the inspector as inspector summoned for the dogcart he had arrived in. "Just in case."

"No," replied the inspector curtly as he gestured to his charge to board the cart.

The prisoner heaved an exaggerated sigh. "Hinne, you gotta explain things to people," he said before turning to the warden. "If you used an armoured transport, it'd bound to be attacked. Hiding in plain sight is the better option."

The warden sneered at the condescending tone the native had used. "What do you know about operational security, you savage?"

"No. He is correct," the inspector cut in as he produced a conical straw hat—the kind that native rice-farmer wear—and a blanket from the dogcart's baggage trunk. He handed them to the prisoner, who promptly donned the former on his head and used the latter to hide his handcuffs. "Like it or not, Salihoen is a symbol to the natives and they know that he is to die today. An armoured transport is a conspicuous target that will attract their attention."

"But... but what if you're attacked anyway? Or if this... scum, decided that he can escape?" the warden questioned.

"Then I shall handle it," replied the blond man in a tone that brokered no more argument.

The warden watched as the dogcart departed. As it disappeared from sight, Van Dijk uttered a quick prayer for the inspector's immortal soul and thanked him for his sacrifice for the empire, before turning to his men.

He still have an entire prison to administrate, after all, and he had to do his part for the empire.
​

X
​

"You know, it's been quite the journey."

Sarip listened quietly as the prisoner and the Belanda officer conversed quietly as he navigated the horse-drawn carriage the streets of Batavia. The Banten-born driver didn't quite know how to feel about the situation. One one hand, he was delivering Si Pitung to his death. He would be complicit in snuffing out the beacon of hope, the man who fought for the downtrodden and the poor and reignited the dream of freedom. Sure, he did it through brutal banditry, but Sarip doubted anybody except the Belanda and their collaborators cared about that.

Unfortunately, that latter category included him. If the his people didn't hate him already for taking the knee before the foreigners, then this would certainly seal the deal. On the other hand, he depended on the Belanda. The well-being and safety of his family rested on his obedience to the foreign overlords.

"It is."

"Just 'It is'? Come now Hinne, you must have more thought about our escapades than just 'It is'."

"I would not call a 20 year pursuit mere 'escapades', Salihoen," Inspector Hinne said. "And I have many thoughts about it. Many of which are unflattering."

"Really? I had such a good time. Like the time you hounded me all the way to Solo before I gave you the slip. Or that time tortured my family and friends into betraying me, then using them as bait to draw me out," the prisoner, Salihoen, laughed with good humour. "Or that time you shot me in the gut with a golden bullet. By the way, what was that about?"

"Order from the governor-general. I remain unsure of his logic even to this day," replied the blonde inspector, his voice still flat and dispassionate as ever. "And for what it is worth, I apologise."

Sarip almost let go of the reins. A Belanda apologising to a native? Even he never had that happen to him in the ten years he spent working under them.

"I appreciate the sentiment, but apology not accepted," said the Bandit of Liberation, still sounding jovial despite the topic. "The fact that you didn't agree with the deed doesn't change the fact that you did it."

The inspector didn't reply immediately. "All I can offer is apologies," he finally answered after a long silence, an edge of resolve tinting his flat voice. "I've long since learned that regret changes nothing."

"Of course it doesn't," Si Pitung said softly. "If anything, it's kinda funny looking back. A fourteen year old got scammed and somehow he became a huge threat to the Belanda dominion. Sound like something out of wayang or tall tales, don't you think?"

"If it helps, we managed to track down that particular officer. He was reprimanded, demoted and reassigned to a handelspost in Port Marthurin."

"I don't know where that is."

"Nowhere near anything of importance," spoke the inspector. "Little chance of him causing another you."

Silence fell between the two, filled in with the sound of the cart's wheel rolling against the stone road and the bustle of the street. "I am glad to have known you," said the inspector suddenly. For once, his voice lost its flat inflection, replaced by a wholehearted sincerity. "Looking back, you are the closest thing I had to a friend."

"Me too. Even if we speak mostly with fists, but that's our lot in life, I suppose," laughed Si Pitung. "Still, even if regret changes nothing, I still have one about our 'friendship'."

"And that is?"

"We never had a fight to the death," said Si Pitung. "Decide once and for all whose style is better. Your Sword of Enforcement style, or my Formless style."

"... My swordsmanship doesn't have a name."

"Well, I just gave it name. It's either that, or Resolute Blade style. Your fault for not doing so first," the prisoner replied. Sarip could almost hear the shrug. "But that's not the point. Can you honestly say that you don't regret it too?"

The inspector stayed silent for a good long while. When he speak, he sounded almost sad. "Trial by combat is no longer legal," he said finally. "And I prefer not to attach any significance to my swordsmanship."

"Aw, Sword of Enforcement alliterate in Betawi. Pedang Penegakan has such a nice ring to it, don't you think?" Si Pitung said teasingly before turning softening. "Why are you so resistant about this?"

The inspector sighed. "In the end, my swordsmanship is a tool. A mean for me to carry out my duty. It has no meaning and purpose other than to kill," he said. "Giving it a name is unnecessary and an insult to every man and woman I have cut down."

"Perhaps, but about about what you gave for it?"

"...Pardon?" the inspector questioned, honest confusion tinting his voice.

"God didn't just plant that style into your head. What about all the time your teacher spent teaching you? The effort you poured into conditioning your body? The countless hours of practice to master all your techniques? The errors you committed while honing your prowess?" Si Pitung said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Feel free to be ashamed of what you use it for, but at least take pride in what you did—what you sacrificed—in order to get where you are, Hinne."

The inspector stayed silent, no doubt digesting what the Bandit of Liberation had said. Then he began to laugh. Quietly at first but quickly gaining intensity. Before long, the inspector was howling with joyous and wholehearted mirth. It lasted for a good minute before the inspector finally quieted down, though small giggle still escape him.

"Uh... You okay there?" questioned Si Pitung worriedly. "Laughter without joke is a sign of insanity, you know."

"I am alright. I am more than alright, actually," said the inspector joyously. "You just solved a 50-year enigma for me."

"Well, I'm glad I can be of help then," Si Pitung said, still sounding uncertain. "So, after I'm dead, what will you do?"

"I have a few years before I am allowed to retire. After that, well, I suppose I shall go home," answered the inspector.

"To Holland? I always wondered what your homeland look like."

"No. Middenrijk, Tiongkok to your people. I was born in a handelspost there."

"Ooh, now that explains a lot. I thought I saw a lot of Kuntao in your style."

"Many of my techniques are based on Middenrijk's dao and Japan's katana techniques. Of course, they are tempered with German swordsmanship because—"

Sarip quickly found himself lost as his two passengers started speaking about martial art. A lot of big terms like 'aliran tenaga' and 'sphere boundary'. That, and they started telling personal stories too and Sarip felt really uncomfortable with listening to that. So he focused his full attention to the road ahead.

Castle Batavia was still a good ways away and he couldn't afford any accidents.


AN: Part 1 of a Prologue. Just want to get it out there before my assessment rush kill my inspiration.

This story is planned be an Isekai of figures based on the real historic personages of Salihoen 'Si Pitung' and A.W.V. Hinne. I'm cribbing from the wuxia genre and Kimetsu no Yaiba somewhat. In this story, there will be martial arts taken to the extreme. However, there won't be Xianxia-style landscape flattening farts.

This story is still in its very early planning stages. I haven't even decided whether the Isekai world would be a 'generic' sword-and-sorcery or should I recycle the setting of an old project (titled 'In Gods' Wake'). However, at least this part of the prologue happens entirely in this the 'real world' so I can spit it out now.

This first part of the up the relationship between Hinne and Salihoen. The second part (which only have about 500+ words written) will deals with how Hinne's life after Salihoen's death up to his own death. The third part would be Hinne's rebirth and upbringing in the new world.​