The humidity in Mojokerto was a physical weight, a wet wool blanket draped over the shoulders of anyone foolish enough to be outside at 2:00 PM. But for Bimasakti Prasetyo, heat was an old friend. He sat on a weathered stone block near the Tikus Temple ruins, his calloused fingers tracing the intricate carvings of the red bricks.
Bima was thirty-two, but his eyes—dark, restless, and perpetually scanning for exits—belonged to a man who had seen too many sunsets in the jungles of Papua and the deserts of the Middle East. He wore a faded black t-shirt that strained against his broad chest and cargo pants that had seen better days. On his right wrist was a simple paracord bracelet; on his left, a cheap Casio watch that ticked with mechanical indifference.
He wasn't here for a history lesson. He was here because the voices of the city—the screeching tires of Jakarta, the political shouting on the news, the screams of the men he couldn't save—had become too loud. Trowulan, the ancient heart of the Majapahit Empire, was supposed to be quiet.
"Should've brought more water," Bima muttered, his voice a low rasp.
He stood up, his knees popping—a reminder of a high-altitude jump gone wrong three years ago. As he turned to head back to his rented motorbike, the air changed.
It didn't just get hotter; it became electric. The hair on Bima's arms stood up. The silence of the archaeological site shifted from a peaceful lull to an oppressive, vacuum-like void. The birds stopped chirping. The distant hum of a farmer's tractor vanished.
Combat instinct: Tier 1 Activated.
Bima's posture shifted instantly. The weary backpacker disappeared, replaced by the ghost of the Special Forces operator. He dropped his center of gravity, eyes darting.
"What the hell..."
In the center of the temple courtyard, the air began to ripple like heat haze over asphalt. But it wasn't transparent. It was bleeding gold. Thin, vein-like fractures appeared in mid-air, spreading like shattering glass. From these cracks, a scent wafted out—not the smell of dry dust, but the overwhelming aroma of burning incense, jasmine, and... ozone.
Then came the sound. It wasn't an explosion. It was a hum, a deep, guttural vibration that resonated in Bima's marrow.
[SYSTEM INITIALIZING...]
Bima froze. The words didn't appear in the air—they appeared inside his retinas, glowing in a sharp, neon-batik blue.
[SYNCHRONIZING WITH THE LAST DHARMA...]
[HOST: BIMASAKTI PRASETYO]
[COORDINATES LOCKED: WILWATIKTA DIMENSION]
"I'm having a stroke," Bima hissed, rubbing his eyes. "Too much sun. I'm finally losing it."
But the "hallucination" didn't fade. The golden cracks widened, forming a circular aperture—a Gate. Through the shimmering veil, Bima didn't see the ruins of Mojokerto. He saw a sprawling city of red brick and gold leaf. He saw towering gateways (Candi Bentar) that reached toward a sky so blue it looked painted. He saw people—thousands of them—dressed in intricate sarongs and shimmering silks, moving through a market that smelled of spices he couldn't name.
And then, the Gate pulled.
The gravitational force was immense. Bima dug his boots into the dirt, his fingers clawing at the ancient bricks of the Tikus Temple. "No! Not like this!"
He reached for the combat knife he kept concealed in his waistband, but his fingers felt like lead. The blue text in his vision flickered violently.
[WARNING: TEMPORAL STABILITY AT 12%]
[EMERGENCY EXTRACTION INITIATED]
The world turned into a kaleidoscope of gold and blood-red. Bima felt his body being stretched, his molecules vibrating at a frequency that felt like screaming. He felt the sensation of falling upward, a sickening lurch of the stomach, and then—
Blackout.
Bima woke up to the sound of a wooden flute.
It was a soft, melancholy melody that danced through the air, accompanied by the distant rhythmic thumping of a rice pestle. He didn't open his eyes immediately. His training took over: Assess. Breathe. Listen.
He was lying on something hard but covered with a thin mat. The air was cool, smelling of damp earth and roasting peanuts. No sound of engines. No electricity hum.
He slowly cracked his eyes open.
He was inside a small wooden hut with a thatched roof of palm leaves. Sunlight filtered through the gaps in the walls, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. In the corner, a clay pot sat over a cold hearth.
Bima sat up, his muscles screaming in protest. He looked at his hands. They were still his—scarred, tan, and steady. But his clothes... his black t-shirt was gone. In its place was a simple tunic of rough, unbleached cotton, tied at the waist with a hemp cord. His cargo pants had been replaced by a heavy sarong of deep indigo.
"My watch," he whispered.
His left wrist was bare. His Casio was gone. But as he thought of it, a flicker of light appeared in his peripheral vision.
[DAILY LOG: DAY 1 IN WILWATIKTA]
[STATUS: RECOVERING]
[EQUIPMENT: 1X DAMAGED COMBAT KNIFE (INVENTORY), 1X RATION PACK]
"So it wasn't a stroke," Bima said, his voice echoing in the small room. He looked at the empty air. "System? Status?"
A translucent window expanded.
NAME: Bimasakti Prasetyo
CLASS: The Last Dharma (Locked)
TITLE: The Outsider / The Ghost of Trowulan
VITALITY: 85/100
PRANA (ENERGY): 10/500 (Suppressed)
SKILLS:
Modern Warfare (Passive): Expert proficiency in firearms, CQC, and tactics. (Note: Firearms are unavailable in this realm).
Survivalist Instinct (Level Max): You can find water in a desert and a threat in a crowd.
The Eye of Gajah Mada (Locked): Requirement: Earn 1,000 Reputation in Wilwatikta.
Bima stared at the screen. "Wilwatikta... that's the formal name for Majapahit. I'm in the 14th century? Or a version of it?"
The door of the hut creaked open.
Bima instinctively rolled off the bed, dropping into a low crouch, his hands forming fists. He didn't have his knife, but he knew forty-two ways to kill a man with a wooden spoon.
A young girl, no older than twelve, stood in the doorway. She wore a simple sarong and had a flower tucked behind her ear. She was carrying a wooden tray with a steaming bowl of porridge and a peeled mango.
She stopped dead, her eyes wide as saucers as she stared at the strange man in a combat stance.
"Tuan... Tuan sudah bangun?" (Sir... you are awake?)
Her accent was strange—older, more melodic—but Bima understood it. It was a proto-Javanese dialect, yet the "System" translated it seamlessly into his mind.
Bima slowly stood up, smoothing out his indigo sarong. He tried to look as non-threatening as a 190-pound wall of muscle could look. "Yes. I'm awake. Where am I?"
The girl bowed her head deeply, her hands trembling slightly. "This is the village of Pagutan, Tuan. On the outskirts of the Great City. My father found you by the river. He said you fell from the sky like a shooting star."
"Fell from the sky," Bima repeated. Great. He was a literal alien here.
"What is your name?" he asked.
"Sari, Tuan."
"Sari. I'm Bima." He gestured to the bowl. "Is that for me?"
She nodded vigorously and placed the tray on the floor, retreating toward the door as if he might explode. "Father says you must eat. You have the 'Star-Sickness.' Your eyes glowed red when he found you."
Bima touched his face. His eyes? He looked at his reflection in a basin of water near the corner. For a split second, a flash of crimson light flickered in his pupils—the "Modern System" interface reacting to his thoughts.
"Daily life," Bima sighed, sitting back down and taking a spoonful of the porridge. It was savory, flavored with ginger and coconut. "I just wanted some peace and quiet. Now I'm a shooting star in the middle of the greatest empire in Southeast Asian history."
He looked at the System window floating near the girl's head.
[NEW QUEST: SURVIVE THE FIRST SUNSET]
[OBJECTIVE: Blend in. Do not reveal your origins to the Village Head.]
[REWARD: 50 XP, Translation Pack (Advanced), 1x Bronze Coin]
Bima chewed the mango slowly. He could feel the weight of his past pulling at him—the shadows of the wars he'd fought. But as he looked out the hut's small window, he saw a world of vibrant green, a world untouched by concrete and smog. He saw a man walking a water buffalo, and women carrying baskets of fruit on their heads, laughing.
This was his "Another World."
The redemption he had been looking for wasn't in a bottle or a therapy session. It was here, in the dust and the Dharma.
"Sari," Bima called out as the girl reached the door.
"Yes, Tuan?"
"Does your father need help with the buffalo?"
The girl blinked, surprised. "Tuan is a warrior. Warriors do not work the fields."
Bima smiled, a genuine one that didn't quite reach his scarred eyes, but softened them nonetheless. "In my home, everyone works. Lead the way."
As he stepped out of the hut, the sun of the 14th century hit his face. The "System" chimed in his ear, a digital ghost in an ancient land.
[REPUTATION WITH PAGUTAN VILLAGE: 1/100 (STRANGER)]
Bima took a deep breath. The air was clean. The journey had begun.