The darkness that enveloped the soul of Ki Bungkuk Jagad following the cataclysmic explosion at the peak of Mount Lawu was no ordinary shadow. It was an ontological void—an absolute vacuum where time seemed to cease its ticking and the very concept of human existence was reduced to a mere, flickering spark of consciousness. In that terrifying nothingness, the soul of the Grand Shaman drifted, tossed between the lingering embers of his burning rage and the bitter, jagged shards of memory from his betrayal.
Yet, the silence was not destined to be eternal. Slowly, with an irresistible and primordial force, a massive spiritual gravity began to pull at his essence.
The sensation was akin to being forced through an impossibly narrow, searingly hot tunnel. Ki Bungkuk's soul, which had once felt as expansive as the heavens themselves, was now being squeezed and compressed with agonizing precision. Every fiber of his wisdom, every ounce of his centuries-old power, was being pressed into a singular point of density, destined to be poured into a new, unfamiliar vessel.
The transition was a symphony of pain. It felt as if every jengkal of his consciousness were being sliced by thousands of ethereal blades. He wanted to roar, to unleash an incantation of protection to ward off this intrusive fate, but his voice was swallowed by the crushing pressure of the dimensions.
Accursed fate... What is this? Why does my soul feel like it is being imprisoned in a cage of flesh? Ki Bungkuk thought, his mind reeling in a state of unprecedented confusion.
Suddenly, the suffocating pressure vanished, replaced by a blinding explosion of white light that seared his vision. A chaotic cacophony of sounds assaulted his new senses. There were the frantic, high-pitched cries of women, the rhythmic clinking of metallic instruments, and the splashing of warm water.
The first thing he truly felt was the temperature—a biting, piercing cold that stung his skin, which now felt incredibly thin, hyper-sensitive, and raw. Instinctively, his tiny lungs, still wet with the fluids of the womb, drew air for the first time. The oxygen burned like fire, triggering a biological reflex that he could not suppress.
"Oweee... Oweeee! Oweee!"
Ki Bungkuk was horrified. He heard the sound—the high-pitched, pathetic wail of a newborn infant. He tried to clamp his mouth shut, to maintain the dignity of the legend he once was, but this new body possessed its own primal commands. Every time he attempted to breathe, a louder, more desperate wail erupted. His arms felt short, pudgy, and utterly powerless. His legs could only kick at the cold air with useless, infantile frustration.
To be reborn... as a mere babe?! The realization hit him like a physical blow.
The Legendary Shaman of Nusantara, a man capable of toppling mountains and commanding the very spirits of the earth, was now in the most vulnerable state possible in the human cycle. He wanted to curse the heavens for this irony, but his sticky eyes could only capture blurred, towering shadows moving around him like titans.
"Congratulations, Lord Ragil! The birth was a success! It is a son!" a middle-aged woman's voice exclaimed, her tone dripping with palpable relief.
Ki Bungkuk, now bearing a new and unwanted identity, was forced to view this new world through eyes that had yet to find their focus. His first visuals were not the lush, emerald forests of Lawu scented with ceremonial incense, but a vast, cold room with a soaring stone ceiling. The architecture was of a classic Western style, featuring sturdy pillars adorned with intricate, unfamiliar carvings. Most striking were the crystal chandeliers—they emitted no smoke or oil scent; instead, they radiated a clear, pale blue light, powered by the very essence of this world: Mana.
A pair of large, calloused hands lifted him with a surprising, albeit rigid, gentleness. Little Razzaq—as he would soon be known—looked up to see a man with a face carved from granite. The man possessed shimmering silver-gray hair, matching the fine wisps of hair already growing on Razzaq's small head. His eyes were sharp, radiating an authority that demanded absolute obedience, yet behind that cold, military gaze was a flicker of suppressed pride.
This was Count Ragil Graymore.
The sovereign of the Graymore territories, the kingdom's ultimate fortress on the northern frontier. Ragil gazed intensely at his third son, his eyes searching for a spark of the family's legacy.
"The pure gray hair of a Graymore... and his eyes... they show a tranquility quite alien to a babe," Count Ragil murmured, his deep baritone vibrating through Razzaq's small chest. "You shall be the pride of this house. Your name is Razzaq Graymore."
Razzaq, in his adult, cerebral mind, could only give a mental snort. Razzaq Graymore? A name for a knight's pawn. Do not expect me to be some dull-witted soldier who only knows how to swing a blunt piece of iron, old man.
Following the exhausting ordeal, he was transferred into arms that were significantly softer. The fresh scent of Western roses and high-end powder immediately greeted his nose. The woman holding him possessed a face of exquisite beauty and serenity, her blue eyes sparkling like rare gems beneath the light of the mana-crystals.
She was Countess Nayla Graymore, Razzaq's mother. Unlike her rigid husband, Nayla radiated a warmth that caused Razzaq's vengeance-filled soul to soften, if only for a fleeting second. Nayla was a high-tier mage, and Razzaq could feel the stable, powerful flow of Mana resonating within her body like a calm river.
"My sweet child... my little Razzaq," Nayla whispered, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. "You are the most precious gift. I promise to shield you from the darkness of this world."
Razzaq stared at his mother in silence. A strange warmth bloomed in his heart—something he hadn't felt in his previous life, where he was chased by nothing but ambition, duty, and eventually, betrayal. However, the sentimental moment was quickly shattered by biological reality. He felt a gnawing, insatiable hunger. His infant instincts took over, and he was forced to perform the most humiliating act in his history: he had to nurse.
Damn it all! If the kings of Nusantara knew I was reduced to this, they would laugh until their souls withered! He thought, filled with absolute self-disgust as he gave in to the needs of the flesh.
The first few weeks in Castle Graymore were a period of transition filled with mental agony. He had to adapt to the profound limitations of his physical form. Every day was spent lying in a luxurious cradle, wrapped in soft silks. Yet, behind his cute facade, his mind worked tirelessly. He observed everyone who entered the room, studied the foreign language they spoke, and analyzed the energy system of this new world.
It was during this time that he met the girl who would become his primary caretaker.
"Young Master Razzaq! Good morning! Oh, look who's awake and looking so handsome today!"
A young girl in a clean black-and-white maid's uniform entered the room with light, cheerful steps. She had brown hair tied in a ponytail and a wide smile that seemed permanently etched on her face. This was Clara, the personal maid appointed by Countess Nayla.
Clara was a whirlwind of chatter. To her, Razzaq was the most adorable baby in all of Asyama. "Come now, Young Master, it's time for a warm bath! Don't pout like that, or those cute cheeks might freeze that way!"
Razzaq looked at Clara with a flat, unimpressed stare. To him, Clara was a noisy distraction. However, he couldn't deny her competence. The girl possessed an almost supernatural sense for knowing when he was hungry or when his diapers were uncomfortable.
Whenever Razzaq felt a specific discomfort, he would let out a measured, rhythmic grunt. In his head, he was commanding her, "Hey, servant! Cleanse my body immediately, this is repulsive!" Yet, to Clara's ears, it was just a soft "Nguuu... hnnng!"
Amazingly, Clara understood. "Oh, is the Young Master feeling a bit warm? Wait a moment, Clara will wipe you down with a fresh, cool towel."
Razzaq could only surrender to the care. His power to resist was zero. He allowed Clara to clean him and occasionally pinch his cheeks with delight. The pride of the Grand Shaman was tested every second as she treated him like a cherished toy.
However, amidst the mundane routine of infancy, Razzaq was not idle. Every night, when the castle fell silent and Clara drifted off to sleep on the small sofa, Razzaq began his true work. With great effort, he tried to move his limp body into a meditative position—though he often ended up toppling over because his baby head was disproportionately heavy.
He would close his eyes and begin to sense the energy surrounding him. This world was saturated with Mana. To Razzaq, this Mana was fundamentally similar to the Ancestral Breath or Prana he had mastered. However, the quality of Mana here was far more dense, aggressive, and unrefined. He tried to draw just a tiny amount into his body.
Screech!
A sharp pain struck his energy circuits. This baby body was still too pure, too fragile. Channeling raw Mana without a filter into his current physique was like pouring boiling oil into a thin plastic bottle. The bottle would melt.
I cannot use the magic methods of this world yet. I must use my own occult arts to temper this vessel first, he reasoned.
He began practicing a micro-version of Tapa Pendem (The Buried Meditation). Instead of absorbing external Mana, he manipulated the original life-force of his own infant body, causing it to circulate slowly through his chakra pathways. He focused this energy on his spine and heart, ensuring that his physical foundation would be far stronger than any normal human's by the time he grew up.
However, this training had side effects. Because he was so focused on meditation, he rarely expressed himself like a normal baby. He didn't laugh, he didn't crawl after toys, and he rarely cried unless absolutely necessary. This began to trigger hushed, fearful gossip among the castle's servants.
One afternoon, while Clara was doing laundry, she overheard the senior maids whispering.
"Have you heard about the baby Clara is guarding? Young Master Razzaq?" whispered a stout maid. "I heard he's a cursed child. He never laughs. His eyes... they look like they're staring through you, straight at ghosts."
"Yes, I've heard it too. The midwife said his aura was freezing cold. Perhaps a spirit from the Void has inhabited the body," another maid added.
Clara, hearing this, slammed her laundry basket down. Her cheerful face turned a deep shade of red with anger. "Hey! Watch your tongues! Young Master Razzaq is just very calm and wise. He is a brilliant baby! If I hear you slandering him again, I'll report you directly to Countess Nayla!"
The maids immediately silenced themselves and scattered. They knew Clara was a favorite of the Countess.
Razzaq, who was actually monitoring the conversation using the remnants of his spiritual hearing, could only offer a faint mental smile. Good, Clara. You are a noisy protector, but I appreciate your loyalty.
One night, as a silver moon shone brightly through his window, Razzaq attempted to access the one thing he had brought with him from his death: the World Diamond Essence (Mustika Intan Jagat). He could feel it pulsing within the core of his soul. It carried the residual energy of Nusantara. However, when he tried to touch it, he was hit by a wave of intense dizziness. The artifact was still sealed by the physical weakness of his baby body.
Too soon... he hissed internally.
He turned his gaze toward the window, looking at the dense forest that stretched beyond Castle Graymore. He knew that in this world, strength was everything. In a world filled with monsters, swords, and magic, he wouldn't survive just by being a noble baby.
"You traitorous kings... you thought my death was your victory," Razzaq stared at the moon with gray eyes that were cold and sharp. "Laugh while you can. I will grow up here. I will forge this body into the deadliest weapon ever known. And when the time comes, the cosmos will tremble at the return of Ki Bungkuk Jagad."
He closed his eyes, re-entering a deep state of ancestral breath meditation, ignoring Clara as she entered the room to tuck him in, kissing his cheek once more. His journey of vengeance had just begun, starting from a luxurious crib in a high-walled castle.