"Ah, Senior Brother… where is the Sensei?" asked Zara, her eyes gleaming with quiet anticipation.
Dadan inclined his head gently, "He is within," he replied, though his words carried a sombre weight, as if veiled beneath the gravity of unspoken memories.
A brief silence fell between them. His expression darkened, shadowed by something old and unresolved, an echo of the past not yet laid to rest.
Zara, ever perceptive, caught the shift at once, "What is it, Senior Brother?" she inquired softly, concern tightening her voice.
Dadan drew a long, deliberate breath before speaking, his tone hushed, "The Sensei’s old wounds have begun to trouble him once more. He seldom leaves his quarters now. Most days, he remains within, alone with his thoughts and his pain."
"Injuries… within?" murmured Dr Zein, his brow furrowed, the physician in him stirred.
Dadan turned his gaze upon him with quiet respect, "Indeed, sir. It happened some twenty years past. The Sensei faced a formidable swordswoman from Japan."
"Some say she was no less than a shadow warrior, a ninja. Their duel was the stuff of legend. He very nearly lost his life that day."
Zara turned towards Zein, her expression solemn as she affirmed, “It’s true, Zein.”
Zein’s gaze drifted far into the distance, eyes clouded as if straining to pierce time itself.
His voice, when it came, was scarcely more than a breath, “A ninja… from Japan… Two decades ago? No… it couldn’t be...”
“Sir? Are you quite well?” Dadan’s voice cut through the fog of recollection.
Zein blinked, then offered a courteous smile, carefully composed, “Yes, forgive me. I’m quite all right. We ought to see your Sensei. I am, after all, a doctor. With your leave, I’d like to examine him.”
Hope flashed visibly across Dadan’s face, softening the worry etched into his brow, “Would you truly? That would be a great kindness. This way, please, follow me,” he said with renewed energy, turning to lead them towards the inner sanctum of the dojo.
The trio proceeded in silence, Dadan at the fore. His gait sure-footed, though imbued with a quiet deference.
Contrary to its modest façade, the dojo unfolded into a vast, intricate sanctuary once past its threshold.
Within, long corridors stretched endlessly, their walls clad in seasoned wood and woven bamboo, forming a labyrinth steeped in age and purpose.
Lanterns, crafted in the old Japanese tradition, hung solemnly above them, casting muted pools of amber light that danced across the gleaming wooden floorboards.
Each step echoed faintly, like a whisper in a shrine, deepening the stillness with a reverence that bordered on the sacred.
From time to time, the passage forked two ways, sometimes three, each guarded by tightly drawn sliding doors, concealing spaces whose purpose might range from martial discipline to silent contemplation, or the safekeeping of weapons honed by history.
The air was heavy with the scent of incense rich and woody, entwined with the musk of ancient timber, conjuring a sense of lineage far older than any living soul within.
Dr Zein cast a glance over his shoulder, attempting to trace their path, but the corridors twisted like memory itself, unreliable and elusive.
“This place,” he murmured, half to himself, “feels as though it breathes.”
Zara’s lips curled into a knowing smile, “They say the dojo chooses who may know its way. Without devotion, one is always a stranger here.”
Dadan turned slightly, his voice calm but certain, “We call this part the Silent Forest. Here, your path reveals itself only when your heart is still and your intent unwavering.”
They pressed on, the corridor tightening as though ushering them toward something. The air grew denser, charged with unseen gravity.
And somewhere ahead in the hush of lacquered wood and ancient incense, a presence waited.
And at long last, they arrived.
They paused before a door ancient, weathered by time, and yet unlike any other they had passed.
It bore delicate carvings of a tiger mid-roar, its form half-shrouded in mist rising from imagined mountain peaks.
Above the frame, a black wooden plaque hung solemnly, inscribed in gold leaf with the characters Shinden no Kokoro, The Heart of the Sacred Hall.
Dadan drew a long breath and rapped upon the door three times, the rhythm deliberate, almost ceremonial.
Moments passed in silence, broken only by the soft glide of wood upon wood as the door slid open, revealing a room bathed in a gentle hush.
It was a space suspended in stillness, lit not by lanterns or electric bulbs, but by the filtered light of morning slipping through latticed windows.
The air was thick with the scent of old sandalwood and crushed herbs, an aroma at once medicinal and holy.
It cloaked the room like an unseen shroud, invoking reverence before a single word was spoken.
At the centre of the chamber, upon a woven tatami mat, sat an elderly man, cross-legged and robed in unadorned white.
His presence was quiet, yet resolute like a mountain that had watched centuries pass.
His face was a map of years and wounds, each line and scar a testament to battles fought, choices made, burdens borne.
His eyes remained closed until the visitors crossed the threshold.
Then, slowly, deliberately, they opened twin embers beneath age-worn lids, eyes that had once beheld death and now saw everything.
Zara fell to her knees and bowed low, her palms flat against the mat.
Dadan followed in kind, his movements precise, reverent.
Even Dr Zein, who bore no ties to the old master, inclined himself respectfully, as though he too had stepped into a temple, not a room.
“Welcome home, Zara,” the old man intoned, his voice gravelled with years, but carried on a current of unwavering authority.
This was Master Eman Suhendar, a name scarcely known in public arenas, but whispered with deep respect in dojos across the archipelago.
Not famed, but revered. Not celebrated, but remembered by those who mattered.
To the world, he might have been a relic. To those who trained beneath his gaze, he was the forge itself.
Zara rose and, with the spontaneity of a child returning to her grandfather, rushed into his embrace.
She clung to him with the unfiltered affection of someone who had carried longing too long and too quietly.
“I’ve missed you, sensei,” she murmured, her voice trembling like a leaf caught in an old wind.
Eman Suhendar let out a quiet chuckle, soft as rustling silk.
The lines at the corners of his eyes deepened not from age, but from fondness.
“Where have you been hiding, little one?” he asked, his hand coming to rest gently atop her head. “Have you forgotten your old sensei, growing greyer by the day?”
To him, Zara had never been merely a student.
In a house grown silent with absence. His wife buried, his children scattered and unreachable.
Zara had been the flicker of warmth in the tatami hush. A presence that had made the wooden beams feel less alone.
“I’ve been living in Derisa,” she replied softly. “With my beloved.”
A glint of mischief touched her eyes as she added, “He’s here, actually.”
Eman’s brows arched slowly, “Your beloved?”
Zara nodded and gestured gently behind her, “That’s him. Over there.”
The old master turned.
And in the instant his gaze landed on the figure standing quietly in the doorway, the atmosphere shifted.
The air thickened. His spine straightened, his face drained of colour. The silence grew heavier.
His eyes, now wide and disbelieving, studied the man as though memory had broken free of time’s prison.
“You…” he whispered, his voice scarcely audible.
Then, with the weight of memory crashing through each syllable, he murmured.
His voice hoarse and breaking, “You are the one… who saved my life.”