Three years had passed since that day—the day when whispers of war first reached the ears of Elora Hamlet's villagers. Though the village remained quiet, the shadow of the outside world slowly crept closer, and Bima knew that peace would not last forever.
But he did not wait for war to arrive. He chose to prepare.
Every morning before the sun kissed the tops of pine trees, Bima was already shouldering a large basket filled with heavy stones he had gathered from the riverbed. His once thin frame was now forming into a strong build—broad shoulders, solid arms, and legs that climbed slopes with ease.
His chosen path wasn't an easy one. He climbed Mount Lodra's rugged trail, slick with moss and steep with loose rocks. Up there, surrounded by mist and cold wind, Bima honed himself.
At a small clearing near the summit, there was only a lone tree and a wooden sword he had carved himself. Every day he swung it hundreds of times—controlling his breathing, posture, and footwork.
Pak Tanu often said, "It's not the number of swings that matters, but how deeply you understand each one."
For three years, Bima listened.
He trained through rain, heat, even thunderous storms. Sometimes he came home with bleeding hands, sometimes so exhausted that he fell asleep by the fireplace. Yet his resolve never faded.
Now at fifteen, Bima had become a young man with a sturdy body and sharp eyes. He still lived with Pak Tanu, still carried the basket, still cleaned medicinal roots. But the village elders had started to notice him with a quiet sense of awe.
"That boy... he's not just hardworking. He carries something great within," one elder whispered.
But to Bima, it still wasn't enough. He knew he was strong, and his sword skills were improving, but he wanted more. He wanted to learn the battlefield, understand tactics, and one day step beyond Elora Hamlet.
And that desire… was about to be tested.
---
That day, after finishing his sword drills on Mount Lodra, Bima descended early. The sky was overcast, and the wind carried a strange scent—the smell of smoke and road dust. When he reached a fork near the village's small market path, his eyes caught something unfamiliar.
A bulletin board stood by the road, and on it, a large poster was pinned:
"THE NATION CALLS – SOLDIERS FOR KORASIUM.
For honor, protection, and the future.
Training begins in the Capital in 45 days."
Below it, an image of a soldier proudly holding the kingdom's flag.
Bima stopped in his tracks. His eyes scanned the lines, then his hand reached up slowly to tear down one of the remaining posters.
He didn't head straight home. Instead, he sat behind some bushes near an empty field, reading the poster again and again, fingers clutching the paper tightly.
His heart raced. Could this be it? But then Pak Tanu's face came to mind.
Three years I trained in the mountains, and Pak Tanu always stayed home. Who would pound the roots? Who would help him walk to the river when his knees hurt?
That evening, Bima returned with more than just an empty basket—he carried a heavy choice. Once home, he folded the poster neatly and tucked it under a pile of clothes in his wooden drawer. He said nothing.
---
The next day went on as usual. Bima woke early, carried his basket, and headed up the mountain. Meanwhile, Pak Tanu stayed home, tidying up and cleaning. While picking up Bima's worn clothes, he accidentally knocked over the pile and uncovered the folded poster.
He slowly opened it and read.
His eyes didn't move. His breath paused. Then he looked toward the window, toward the trail Bima always used to climb the mountain.
In his heart, he knew. The boy had held back his desire for the sake of the old man in this house. But Bima's dream wasn't something that could be held back forever.
Pak Tanu gently crumpled the edge of the poster, not out of anger—but out of a mix of pride and fear.
"You really do want to go..." he whispered.
And from that moment on, he began to think: maybe... the time had come.