The Footprints Left Behind
The sky over Komodo Island was still draped in morning mist when Rendra left the small wooden hut where he had been hiding for the past three weeks. He walked slowly, carrying a worn-out backpack and a crumpled map. His chest was heavy with secrets he couldn't share with anyone—about Mateo's team, about what truly happened on Rinjani.
He wasn't just a randomly assigned field guide. He had witnessed something—a deviation so deep, too dark to ignore. Mateo never truly intended to rescue Hulio. He saw that now. Their mission to Rinjani wasn't to find, but to erase.
What chilled Rendra to the bone wasn't the unseen entities of the mountain—it was Mateo's team itself. They didn't behave like search-and-rescue personnel. They carried long-barreled guns, grenade launchers, and military-grade communications gear. Their steps were coordinated, their formation precise.
"Oh God," Rendra whispered as he saw them descend a narrow trail in assault formation. "They're not SAR. They're executioners."
Rendra's fear was no longer about mythical beings that misled hikers or shook tents at night. His fear now had a name and a purpose. His fear was human, masked behind a mission of mercy.
When the small boat he boarded docked back in Lombok, Rendra stood at the stern, staring at Mount Rinjani from afar. Its peak was shrouded in gray clouds, as if trying to conceal something waiting to be found... or buried even deeper.
The Meeting That Changed His Course
In the dense border of a tropical forest, Rendra ran into Diah Saraswati by chance. The woman was collecting soil and moss samples when their paths crossed. Rendra nearly turned away, but Diah fixed him with sharp eyes, full of recognition.
"I know who you are," she said, removing her lab gloves. "You were with Mateo's team, weren't you?"
Rendra didn't answer. But his rigid posture was an answer in itself.
"I don't work for him," Diah continued. "I work for the boy's father. For Antonio Moreira."
There was a pause. The forest seemed to hold its breath.
"You believe the boy's still alive?" Rendra finally asked.
Diah nodded slowly. "I'm not talking about miracles. I'm talking about anomalies. About unexplained geospatial data. About something... moving beneath us."
Rendra lowered his gaze, his mind in turmoil. "I'll help you find him," he said firmly.
"Really?!" Diah could barely believe it.
"I was the one who told Mateo about Hulio," he whispered. "Now I'm going to make it right."
The Torean Trail
Mount Rinjani has many faces. Torean is the face hidden from those who come just to take photos. This trail isn't featured in tourist brochures. Torean is wild, silent, slippery, and at times feels like a portal to another dimension. It's not just a physical path, but a spiritual journey.
Rendra walked alone. His steps were not just movements of the body, but acts of commitment. Along the narrow path flanked by cliffs and moss-covered stone walls, he was challenging more than the weather or terrain—he was confronting his own doubts.
He wasn't fearless. Not because he was brave, but because something stronger than fear was pulling him: a calling.
Not from a voice. Not from a light. But from something deeper. An ancient memory suddenly awakened.
A myth.
Whispers of the Guardian Goddess
On the third night of his climb, Rendra dreamed.
He stood by the edge of Segara Anak Lake. But the lake was no longer blue. Its waters glowed crimson like embers, and the sky above swirled slowly, as if the world were exhaling a long breath. Across the lake stood a woman draped in a white shawl. She hovered above the water, her form light as smoke, her voice cutting through the air.
"Not all who are lost must be found. Some are being called."
"Who are you?" Rendra asked in the dream.
"People call me Anjani. But I am only a guardian. You, who come without vengeance but carry honesty… I will show you the way."
Rendra awoke drenched in sweat. The mist still hung in the air, but before his eyes were faint glimmers on the stones. Not natural light, but a phosphorescent glow from the earth.
That morning, his steps were no longer just a climb—they followed a sign. He knew then: he was not walking alone.
The Mountain That Speaks
Elsewhere on the mountain, deep within the earth's womb, Hulio was also receiving signs. But they didn't frighten him. They were shaping him.
His breath was steady. His movements flowed. He spun, struck, and leapt as if the air carried him. His body followed patterns he had never learned.
"Is this… silat?" he whispered.
He remembered a ceremony in Ubud before leaving for Lombok. There, men had performed ancient silat dances during a ritual. Their movements flowed like brushstrokes in the air. Now, Hulio himself moved that way—but not from memory. It felt like something rising from his blood.
Techniques like Majapahit Lightning Step, Garuda-Dragon Strike, and Sriwijaya Shadow Stance emerged from his bones, not his thoughts.
Hulio stumbled, then laughed. It was strange—but exhilarating.
For the first time, he didn't want to run. He wanted to stay. Not to survive, but to discover who he truly was.
"To whom do I owe this? The wind? The earth?"
He bowed, pressing his forehead to the warm ground. "If I must choose a home… let this be my home."
Not a Hero, But a Keeper
Rendra never saw himself as a hero. He was just a guide who had seen too much to stay silent.
Mateo announced Hulio's death twice. But he never sought truth—he erased it. Rendra understood now: it wasn't Hulio's body they wanted destroyed. It was his trail. His name. His legacy.
But the truth often lingers in those who survive. Rendra carried that fragment. And he refused to be quiet.
If Mateo returned, it would no longer be just footprints that were erased. It would be the voice of conscience, the voice of those who chose not to obey.
Footsteps That Stir the Mountain
On the fifth day, Rendra reached a large rocky crevice that, according to the map, was a dead end. But the night before, he had dreamed again—of glowing roots and fire threading through stone veins.
That morning, the crevice had slightly opened. As if welcoming him.
He touched the surface. Cold. But pulsing. Like the skin of a sleeping creature.
Then he heard… a voice. But not the voice of the Goddess. Not a human voice either.
A voice from the soul's depths. A voice once known but long forgotten by the world.
"I'm still here."
Rendra gripped his backpack straps tightly. He didn't know whether he was entering a legend—or becoming part of a history being rewritten.
But one thing he knew: he was not alone.
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Behind Rinjani's mist, it was not only the body that was tested, but the soul.
Rendra discovered that true courage doesn't come from bravery itself—but from remorse finally meeting a chance to be redeemed.
Meanwhile, Hulio—who once only wished to survive—had now surrendered his ego to the land that embraced him unconditionally. He no longer searched for a way out. He was learning to walk inward.
What saved him wasn't weaponry. Not technology. But the pulse that rose from the earth and the echo that resonated deep in his own soul.
And at the lowest point, all a human can say is, "Thank you, Mountain. Thank you, Nature. I hear you."