Chapter 3: The Hunt of the Striped Shadow
The jungle of Kinabalu Peak woke with a chorus of screeches and rustles, the dawn light filtering through the canopy in slivers of gold. Rentap Buana, stood at the edge of the clearing, his body a map of bruises from the previous day's trials. His green shirt, now more tears than fabric, clung to his sweat-slicked skin, and his hands, blistered from gripping the staff, ached with every flex. The fisherman's knife at his belt, stained with the blood of his first tiger, felt like a talisman of survival, but today's challenge loomed larger. Mira's coral pendant pulsed against his chest, its warmth a quiet anchor as he faced the jungle, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and wild orchids. Guru Harimau Jati stood beside him, his tiger pelt cloak catching the light, his scarred frame radiating a predator's calm. "A real hunt today, boy," he said, his voice a low growl. "A striped shadow stalks these slopes. Find it. Kill it. Or it kills you."
Rentap's heart thudded, the memory of the previous tiger's claws flashing in his mind—its weight, its fury, the raw pulse of strength that had saved him. "I'm ready," he said, his voice steady despite the tremor in his hands. He adjusted the staff Harimau Jati had given him, its wood worn smooth by years of use, and checked the knife at his belt. The guru's lessons from yesterday—balance, the flow of Tiger Martial Art, the *Tiger Claw Slash*—echoed in his movements as he squared his shoulders.
Harimau Jati's eyes glinted, sharp as flint. "Read the jungle, not just the beast. It'll speak if you listen." He pointed to a faint trail of broken ferns leading into the green. "Start there. I'll watch—but I won't save you." With that, he melted into the shadows, leaving Rentap alone with the jungle's pulse.
Rentap stepped onto the trail, his senses sharp from years on Blood Island. He noted the snapped twigs, the faint claw marks on a tree trunk, the subtle press of weight in the soft soil—signs Tok Bayu had taught him to see. The jungle hummed around him, birds flitting through the canopy, insects buzzing in the undergrowth. But beneath the noise, a deeper silence lurked, the kind that precedes a predator's strike. Rentap's grip on the staff tightened, his body coiled, ready. Mira's giggle echoed in his mind—her tiny hand in his, her scream as the pirates came. "I won't fail you," he whispered, the pendant warm against his skin.
Hours passed as he tracked the beast, the trail leading deeper into Kinabalu's heart. The terrain grew treacherous—steep slopes slick with moss, roots snaking across the path like traps. Rentap moved with care, his balance honed from the rope bridge trial, his steps light to avoid betraying his presence. The air grew heavier, the scent of decay mixing with something sharper, muskier. He froze at a clearing where the grass was flattened, a fresh kill—a deer—lying half-eaten, its blood still wet. Claw marks raked the earth, deep and wide. This tiger was no cub. It was a killer, larger than the last, its presence a weight in the air.
A low growl rumbled from the shadows, vibrating through Rentap's chest. He turned, staff raised, as the striped shadow emerged—a massive tiger, its fur a blaze of orange and black, its gold eyes locked on him. At least 300 kilograms, its muscles rippled with each step, its claws glinting like daggers. Rentap's breath caught, but he held his ground, the guru's words echoing: *Fear's a chain. Break it.* The tiger circled, its tail flicking, sizing him up. Rentap mirrored its movements, staff in one hand, knife in the other, his body low, ready to spring.
The beast lunged, a blur of stripes and teeth, its roar shaking the clearing. Rentap dove aside, the *Tiger Claw Slash* flowing instinctively—a sweeping strike with the staff that grazed the tiger's flank. The beast snarled, pivoting with terrifying speed, its claws raking the air where Rentap had stood a heartbeat before. He rolled, coming up in a crouch, and struck again, aiming for the tiger's legs. The staff cracked against bone, but the tiger barely flinched, its paw swiping at Rentap's chest. He twisted, the claws tearing through his shirt, leaving shallow gashes across his ribs. Pain seared, but Mira's face burned brighter—her smile, her scream. Rentap roared, his inner strength flaring, that raw pulse from his first fight surging through him.
He switched tactics, using the jungle as Harimau Jati had taught. He darted behind a tree, forcing the tiger to chase, its bulk slowing it in the tight space. Rentap struck from the side, the staff slamming into the beast's shoulder, then rolled away as its jaws snapped inches from his arm. The tiger's frustration grew, its roars deafening, but Rentap kept moving, weaving through vines, striking and retreating. His breath came in ragged gasps, his body screaming, but he couldn't stop—not with Mira's memory driving him, not with the guru's eyes watching from the shadows.
The fight stretched on, a brutal dance of predator and prey. Rentap's staff splintered under a particularly vicious swipe, forcing him to rely on the knife. He ducked a claw, the tiger's paw smashing a boulder to shards, and lunged, driving the blade into the beast's side. Blood sprayed, hot against his skin, and the tiger staggered, its roar turning to a pained snarl. Rentap didn't let up—he tackled the beast, using his weight to pin its injured leg, and stabbed again, aiming for the shoulder. The tiger thrashed, its claws raking his back, but Rentap held on, his strength—that untamed spark—burning brighter. With a final thrust, he drove the knife into the tiger's throat, twisting until the beast's struggles ceased, its gold eyes dimming as it fell still.
Rentap collapsed beside the carcass, panting, blood—his and the tiger's—staining the earth. His back burned, his ribs ached, but he was alive. Mira's pendant pulsed, warm as a heartbeat, and he clutched it, whispering, "I did it, Mira." The jungle seemed to exhale, its silence lifting as birds resumed their chatter.
Harimau Jati emerged from the trees, his expression unreadable. He knelt beside the tiger, running a hand over its fur, then looked at Rentap. "You've got the heart of a tiger," he said, his voice gruff but laced with approval. "But you're still a cub. That strength you felt—it's raw, wild. Tiger Martial Art will tame it." He stood, gesturing to the carcass. "Skin it. The pelt's yours. A reminder of what you've survived."
Rentap nodded, his hands trembling as he set to work, the guru guiding him with a flint knife. The task was grueling, his wounds stinging with every movement, but he finished as the sun dipped low, the pelt draped over his shoulders like a heavy mantle. Harimau Jati watched, then pointed to a stream nearby. "Clean yourself. Tomorrow, we train harder. You've tasted blood. Now you'll learn to crave it."
That night, Rentap sat by the fire in the clearing, the tiger pelt wrapped around him, its weight both a burden and a trophy. The stone pillars loomed, their tiger carvings glinting in the firelight, as if alive. Harimau Jati sat across from him, chewing on dried meat, his gaze distant. "You fought for someone," the guru said, his eyes flicking to the pendant. "That's your strength. But it can also be your weakness. Never let it blind you."
Rentap clutched the pendant, Mira's laugh echoing in his mind. "It's what keeps me going," he said, his voice soft but firm.
Harimau Jati grunted, tossing him a piece of meat. "Then let it fuel you. But don't let it consume you." The fire crackled, its shadows dancing across the clearing, and Rentap felt the spark within him grow—a flame kindled by blood and memory, a step closer to the power of Taming Jiwa, though its whispers remained faint, far beyond his reach.
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