Rai never expected the invitation to come. Especially in the form of a worn brown envelope that Tama found lying in the training locker, without the sender's name, without a logo, just a small stamp in the shape of a shuttlecock and the words:
"Open Invitation - Special Selection - Phoenix Shuttle Club."
Venue: Mataram Sports Hall, Saturday 06:00.
Tama read it out loud during morning practice. "Phoenix Shuttle Club? That's the one based in South Jakarta, right? The one whose alumni are all in the national training center?"
Ayaka approached and snatched the letter from Tama's hand. She read it quickly, then looked at Rai with a look that couldn't be interpreted.
"You didn't tell me?" her voice was cold.
Rai shrugged. "I just found out too."
Tama turned to Ayaka. "That's cool, right? That means they're starting to notice Rai."
Ayaka was silent. Her gaze remained focused on the envelope, but not because she was impressed.
"Something's strange," she muttered.
That afternoon, the three of them sat on a long bench outside the hall. The sky was a dull orange, and the schoolyard was empty. Only the sound of the wind blowing and the dry shuttlecocks left on the floor.
"Elite clubs like Phoenix don't invite just anyone," Ayaka said. "They usually look for them through regional coaches or official tournaments."
Rai looked at her. "Maybe they saw my video."
"If so, why did they go through unofficial channels?"
"It could be a strategy," Tama added. "Maybe they're looking for wild seeds. Like a secret audition to see potential without media pressure."
Ayaka looked up at the sky. For a long time. "Or they want to take you down slowly."
Rai straightened his back. "Why do you always think everyone is out to take me down?"
"Because the elite world isn't about who's the most talented. It's about who's the most controllable."
Ayaka stood up. "If you come, you should know: they can make you believe you're on the rise… while they dig a hole beneath you."
But that night, Rai decided to come anyway.
He knew Ayaka didn't like him. But something inside him pushed harder: curiosity, a desire to prove himself, and the fear that if he turned down this opportunity, he would regret it for the rest of his life.
On Saturday morning, before the sun fully rose, Rai wore a plain black training uniform, put his new racket in his bag, and took the train to Mataram alone.
The Mataram GOR was not as elite as its name. From the outside it looked like a logistics warehouse: peeling paint, the smell of oil from the workshop next door, and slippery cement stairs. But inside, there were already more than twenty teenagers in the same white and blue uniform—the Phoenix Shuttle Club uniform.
Rai was the only one who was different.
A coach—bald, with a thick mustache, and wearing a stopwatch around his neck—looked at Rai from head to toe as if he were assessing goods at a market.
"Name?"
"Raihan Aksara."
For a moment, the coach's expression changed. But he quickly hid it.
"You're not from any club?"
"No."
"Who sent you this invitation?"
"Don't know."
The coach was silent. Then he nodded to one of the assistants behind him. "Take note. Independent track."
Rai was led to the side of the court, along with six other people. They were called "direct observation reserve players." Meaning: they would not take part in the main test. Only as observation material.
The first training began: footwork drills. Zig-zag movements, back and forth running, jumping shadow smashes.
Rai dominated. Even the assistant coach took notes several times when he saw him move with precision.
But when it was his turn for the technique drill—everything changed.
"Your grip is too free," said the coach.
"The smash is too deep," added another.
"You are more suited to street badminton than the national training system."
Comments came in. But not to the club kids. Only to Rai.
One of the other players—tall, short-cropped, flat-faced—said as he walked next to Rai, "I thought you were the son of that discarded player."
Rai turned his head.
"I'm also the son of an athlete," continued the guy. "But my father is a coach now. At PBSI. So you don't have to think about taking anyone's position here."
Rai didn't answer.
He just gripped his racket tighter.
In the sparring session, Rai was paired with a player from Sumedang who played fast and explosively. The match was fierce, but Rai managed to win narrowly 21–18. When the score was announced, there was no applause. No notes.
And Rai's name was not included in the final score list.
When all the participants were finished, the head coach stepped up to the podium.
"Of the 28 players, 6 will continue to the regional national training camp. We will monitor 3 more. The rest, please go home with your heads held high. All have potential, but not all fit our system."
Rai was not mentioned. His name did not appear even once.
He stood to the side, racket bag on his back, staring at the coach who never really looked at him.
As the participants began to file out of the hall, a staff member approached him.
"You didn't have to come," he said quietly. "The coaches already know who you are. But they also know who your father is."
Rai wanted to speak. But no words came out.
The train back to Karuna that afternoon was empty. Rai sat alone in the car, his racket in his lap, his hands empty.
He didn't feel like a failure.
He felt like an outcast.
When he arrived at school that night, Ayaka was sitting in the hall, filling out the club's weekly evaluation notes.
Rai set his bag down slowly.
"You're right," he said.
Ayaka didn't answer.
"They didn't invite me for the grades. But to see if I was still alive."
Still no response.
Rai sat on the floor. His voice was soft.
"I don't know… how to fight a system that has already decided on me before I even hit the first shuttlecock."
Ayaka closed her book. "By continuing to hit."
Rai looked at her.
"If the system doesn't see you, make yourself too bright to be ignored. But not in their way. In your own way."
Silence filled the hall.
Rai took a deep breath.
"You'll practice again tomorrow, right?"
Ayaka smiled thinly.
"Five o'clock. And don't be late."