Chapter 2: Shadows of Kinabalu
The morning sun pierced the jungle canopy above Kinabalu Peak, its golden rays slicing through the mist like blades. Rentap Buana, stood at the cave's entrance, the taste of yesterday's battle lingering—blood, sweat, and the tiger's musk. His shoulder throbbed where claws had grazed him, the torn green shirt hanging off his frame like a tattered banner. The fisherman's knife at his belt, now stained with the beast's blood, felt heavier, as if it carried the weight of the fight. Mira's coral pendant rested warm against his chest, a quiet reminder of why he stood here, bruised but unbowed. Tok Bayu, the shaman, sat cross-legged by the fire, his frayed cap tilted back, his eyes glinting with a mix of approval and challenge. "You survived," he said, his voice a low rasp, like wind over dry leaves. "But survival isn't strength. Not yet."
Rentap nodded, his jaw tight. The tiger's roar still echoed in his ears, its gold eyes a haunting mirror of his own resolve. He had fought alone, driven by instinct and Mira's memory, but the raw pulse of strength he'd felt—the one that let him push back against the beast—still simmered inside him, untamed, waiting. "What's next?" he asked, his voice steady despite the ache in his bones.
Tok Bayu rose, his gnarled staff tapping the cave floor. "Guru Harimau Jati waits. He'll carve you into something more—or break you." The shaman's grin was sharp, a predator's smile, as he led Rentap deeper into the jungle, toward a clearing where the air thrummed with unseen energy.
The path wound through towering ferns and ancient trees, their roots twisting like serpents across the earth. Rentap's senses, honed from years on Blood Island, caught every snap of a twig, every rustle of leaves. Tok Bayu moved with a silence that belied his age, his staff barely stirring the undergrowth. "Kinabalu watches," the shaman said, glancing at the peak above, its summit still cloaked in mist. "It sees your heart. Hide nothing." Rentap clutched Mira's pendant, its warmth grounding him as they pressed on.
After an hour, they reached a clearing encircled by stone pillars, each carved with tiger motifs—snarling faces, extended claws, tails curled like whips. At the center stood Guru Harimau Jati, a man of fifty, his frame broad and unyielding as the mountain itself. His bare chest bore scars like a map of battles, and his eyes, sharp as a hawk's, locked onto Rentap with an intensity that made the air feel heavy. A tiger pelt draped his shoulders, its stripes stark against his weathered skin, and his hair, tied back in a tight knot, was streaked with gray. "Boy," he said, his voice a low growl, "Tok Bayu says you've got fire. Let's see if it burns."
Rentap bowed, his heart pounding. "I'm here to learn, sir."
Harimau Jati snorted, circling him like a beast sizing up prey. "Learning's pain. You'll bleed before you grow." He stopped, his gaze flicking to Rentap's knife, then to the pendant. "That trinket won't save you here. Strip away your past. Only then can you become more."
Rentap's grip on the pendant tightened, Mira's giggle flashing in his mind—her tiny hand in his, her scream as the pirates came. "It's all I have of her," he said, his voice low but firm. "I won't let it go."
The guru's eyes narrowed, but he nodded, a flicker of respect in his gaze. "Loyalty's a start. But it'll be tested." He gestured to the clearing's edge, where a wooden staff lay against a stone. "Pick it up. First lesson: Tiger Martial Art begins with balance."
Rentap retrieved the staff, its weight unfamiliar but solid in his hands. Harimau Jati took a stance, his own staff raised, and without warning, struck—a swift jab aimed at Rentap's chest. Rentap twisted, the staff grazing his ribs, and countered with a clumsy swing, years of village brawls guiding his instincts. The guru deflected it effortlessly, his staff cracking against Rentap's knuckles. Pain flared, but Rentap gritted his teeth, refusing to drop the weapon. "Slow," Harimau Jati barked. "You fight like a fisherman, not a tiger. Again."
For hours, they sparred under the sun's unrelenting glare, sweat soaking Rentap's shirt, his arms burning with each strike. Harimau Jati's movements were a dance—fluid, precise, every motion a lesson in power and control. Rentap's were raw, unpolished, but he adapted, learning to shift his weight, to anticipate the guru's strikes. By midday, his hands were blistered, his ribs bruised, but he landed his first clean hit—a glancing blow to Harimau Jati's thigh. The guru didn't flinch, but his lips twitched in a rare smirk. "Better," he said. "Now, the real test."
Harimau Jati led him to a narrow ridge overlooking a ravine, the drop below a dizzying plunge to jagged rocks. A rope bridge, frayed and swaying, stretched across the gap, its planks weathered by time. "Cross it," the guru said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Balance isn't just in your stance. It's in your mind."
Rentap stepped onto the bridge, the ropes creaking under his weight. The wind howled, tugging at his shirt, and the planks groaned with every step. His heart raced, Mira's voice whispering—*Brother, be brave*—as he gripped the staff for balance. Halfway across, the bridge shuddered, a plank snapping beneath his foot. He lunged forward, catching the ropes, his body dangling over the void. The ravine stared up at him, a hungry maw of stone, but he pulled himself up, inch by inch, his arms trembling. Harimau Jati watched from the ridge, his expression unreadable. Rentap reached the other side, collapsing onto solid ground, his chest heaving. "Fear's a chain," the guru called. "Break it, or it breaks you."
The day stretched on with more trials—climbing sheer cliffs to build endurance, striking boulders to harden his fists, mimicking Harimau Jati's stances to learn the flow of Tiger Martial Art. Each lesson was a grind, each failure a lesson in pain. Rentap's body screamed, but his spirit burned brighter, fueled by Mira's memory and the spark of strength he'd felt against the tiger. At dusk, Harimau Jati taught him the first move of Tiger Martial Art: *Tiger Claw Slash*—a sweeping strike that mimicked a tiger's swipe, meant to overwhelm an opponent with speed and force. Rentap practiced until his arms felt like lead, the motion awkward but growing smoother with each attempt.
As night fell, they sat by a fire in the clearing, the stone pillars casting long shadows. Harimau Jati chewed on dried meat, his gaze distant. "You've got potential, boy," he said, tossing Rentap a piece. "But potential's nothing without discipline. Tomorrow, we hunt. A real tiger—not a cub like yesterday. You'll use what you've learned, or you'll die."
Rentap nodded, the weight of the guru's words settling on him. He clutched Mira's pendant, its warmth a quiet promise. The fire crackled, its light dancing across the tiger carvings, their eyes seeming to glow in the dark. Rentap's body ached, his hands raw, but the spark within him grew, a flame kindling in the shadows of Kinabalu. Taming Jiwa, still far from his grasp, whispered in the distance, its power a mystery he wasn't yet ready to unravel.
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