That morning, Ponorogo was not awakened by the peaceful chirping of birds or the gentle rustling of teak leaves. Instead, it was roused by a rumor that spread like wildfire over sun-scorched grass. The news of Liu Mei and Jaka Pradana’s disappearance exploded in every corner of the town, triggering a tension so thick it felt like a physical weight upon the chest. The town, which usually thrived in the delicate harmony of two distinct cultures, had been transformed overnight into a powder keg, waiting for a single spark to ignite an inferno.
Inside the Liu residence, the atmosphere was so suffocating that even the steady ticking of the wall clock felt like an act of intimidation. Liu Lai stood motionless before the ancestral altar, the swirling clouds of joss stick smoke dancing before a face that had aged ten years in a single night. But in sharp contrast to the father’s frozen grief, Liu Ko paced the room with the frantic energy of a caged predator, his breath coming in ragged, heated gasps. His hands gripped his long teakwood staff—a tool usually reserved for the celebratory art of Wu Shi—with a white-knuckled ferocity that turned it into a lethal weapon.
"That Pembarong... that bastard must have kidnapped Mei!" Liu Ko spat, his voice raspy with an overflowing rage. To him, it was inconceivable that his obedient sister would ever leave of her own accord. The conviction that Dhana had committed a criminal act was the only logic his mind, currently clouded by a thick fog of hatred, could accept.
Meanwhile, at the Reog headquarters on the outskirts of town, a scene of equal heat was unfolding. Ki Sumo, the elder known for his stoic wisdom, was in the throes of a rare and terrible fury. He seized a large kendang drum—the heartbeat of the Reog performance—and smashed it against the floor until the wood splintered and the leather skin tore with a final, dying groan.
"How dare those people accuse us of being kidnappers! This is no longer just a matter of two foolish youths; this is a blatant intimidation of our dignity!" Ki Sumo roared, his voice echoing through the hall and forcing his disciples to bow their heads in terror. Dhana’s kin felt attacked at their most sensitive point: their honor. They counter-accused the Liu family of using their economic power and trade relations to suppress the locals and belittle the sacred art of Reog.
Amidst this emotional turmoil, there was one pair of eyes observing everything with a cold, calculated satisfaction. Sergeant Van Den Bosch, a cunning Dutch officer, sat relaxed in a mahogany leather chair within the Resident’s office. He sipped his cigar slowly, watching the smoke rise toward the ceiling with a twisted, chilling smile. To him, this social fracture was the perfect canvas for his Divide et Impera strategy.
He immediately dispatched shadowed messengers to both sides, each carrying a specifically brewed "poison". To Ki Sumo, the messenger whispered that the Wu Shi club was planning a monopoly on the arts market to marginalize and eventually kill off Reog. To Liu Lai, he sent false intelligence claiming that the Reog group was a secret paramilitary organization with anti-immigrant agendas, aiming to carry out ethnic violence. The venom worked with terrifying speed, incinerating whatever shreds of rationality remained.
THE STORM AT THE VILLAGE MARKET
The climax of this orchestration occurred at the village market—a place that usually served as a silent witness to peaceful transactions between merchant and buyer. The sun was directly overhead, casting no shadows, as two large groups approached from opposite directions. They had not come to trade; they had come to demand a distorted version of "justice".
Liu Lai and Liu Ko led approximately twenty members of the Wu Shi club. They were still clad in their striking red-and-yellow training uniforms, carrying performance attributes that now felt like battle standards. From the other direction, Ki Sumo arrived with a line of young martial artists dressed in jet black, complete with their udeng headcloths and wide belts that radiated a threatening aura.
"Return my sister!" Liu Ko screamed, stepping forward and slamming his staff against the ground, sending a cloud of dust into the air. "Dhana isn't here, and I know you’re hiding their foul plans behind those peacock masks of yours!"
"Go look in the forest yourself if you have the spine, Young Master Liu!" retorted one of the Reog practitioners with a mocking sneer. "Don't bring your army to our market as if you’re the company trying to colonize our livelihoods!"
Insults began to fly through the air, hot and wounding. In mere seconds, the provocation transformed into a brutal physical clash. The village market was instantly transformed into a bizarre yet horrifying battlefield—a symphony of combat, its vibrant colors cast by traditional costumes.
The collision between Kung Fu and Silat was inevitable. Liu Ko attacked with the surgical precision of his long staff. The tip of his weapon sliced through the air with a sharp hiss, moving like lightning toward his opponents. However, he was immediately intercepted by two veteran Reog practitioners using the Tiger Step technique. They moved low to the ground, closing the distance with explosive movements that made it hard for Ko to keep a safe distance.
The other Wu Shi players formed a solid Ma Bu stance, a low and unshakeable foundation. They attempted to withstand the wild onslaught of the Reog fighters, who attacked with powerful, high-velocity kicks. In one corner, a Wu Shi player instinctively used a silk lion head to parry a staff strike; it was a tragic sight to see the symbol of joy torn apart by the claws of rage. Nearby, a Pembarong executed a perfect Silat takedown, sending his opponent crashing into a poor merchant's stack of vegetable baskets.
"Stop! For God's sake, stop!" screamed an old merchant from behind his destroyed stall, but his voice was merely a whisper against the wind of clashing iron and wood. The fight was no longer about finding Mei or Dhana; it was an outpouring of collective hatred nurtured by Dutch slander.
Flowing, aesthetic Kung Fu met the practical, fast, and lethal strikes of Silat. The brilliant red of the Wu Shi costumes contrasted sharply with the jet-black of the Reog uniforms, creating a sorrowful visual chaos amid the market dust that rose to cover the mounting wounds.
For nearly an hour, the chaos reigned until their energy was finally drained by the very hatred that fueled them. The result was heart-wrenching. Both sides lay scattered across the market floor, severely injured. The ground, usually green with vegetables, was now stained with pools of blood and the tattered remnants of ruined costumes. Several men had collapsed from the impact of blunt weapons and sheer exhaustion.
Liu Ko sat slumped, blood seeping from his shoulder, his breath coming in desperate wheezes. Before him, Ki Sumo clutched his chest, his eyes still red and staring fiercely at the opponents who were now helping their own wounded comrades to their feet. The hatred had not been extinguished; it was merely paused by physical pain.
On a distant mountain slope, Mei and Dhana gazed toward the town of Ponorogo, which was now shrouded in a thin mist. They felt an overwhelming anxiety creeping into their chests—a dark foreboding they could not explain. They did not know that behind them, the bridge of friendship they had once tried to build had been incinerated by the fires of enmity. Their escape, which they thought was a path to freedom, had unwittingly opened the door to a tragedy that would change the face of Ponorogo forever.
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