Date: September 1984
Location: Lawang, Matur District, West Sumatra
Rakha – Age 2
Rakha sat cross-legged on the dirt floor, surrounded by firewood, a broken wall clock, and three stalks of sugarcane stripped of their sweetness.
He wasn't playing — he was experimenting.
The old clock had stopped ticking long before he was born. Rusted screws, a cracked glass face, and a bent copper gear lay scattered across the bamboo mat. To anyone else, it was junk.
But to Rakha, it was a puzzle. A question. A test.
With a rock in one hand and a salvaged copper wire in the other, he carefully tried again to connect the loosened mechanism. His tiny fingers trembled with the effort — not from fear, but from the frustrating limits of his infant muscles.
Still, his eyes were steady. Focused. Analytical.
He had spent the last three days — or what passed for days in the mind of a toddler — trying to "rebuild" what his father had thrown away.
It's not about fixing time, he thought again. It's about proving I can.If I can repair something as delicate as this… maybe I can fix what broke my country.
In the corner of his consciousness, the Garuda System pulsed like a second heartbeat.
[Skill Progress: Mechanical Comprehension +1]Passive Trait: Cognitive Flex evolving — Early STEM Development engaged.
A village rooster crowed in the distance. Somewhere beyond the sugarcane fields, children screamed in play. Rakha didn't flinch.
He was too deep in thought — not the drifting imagination of a child, but the concentrated silence of a mind far older than its shell.
🧠 And then the questions returned…
Why me?Why now?Why this exact day — August 17th — the day of independence?
Who decided this? God? Fate? The System itself?
I should be dead. I remember the cold. I remember choking on blood. I remember my final thought before everything went black:"I should have done more."
He paused, copper wire dangling from his fingers. His small chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, but his thoughts spiraled.
What happened between death and rebirth? Was I chosen? Was it punishment… or mercy?
No… not punishment. It feels like a second chance.
His jaw tightened. As much as a child's could.
There were others smarter than me. Richer. With better connections. But they bowed. They compromised. I never did — and I died for it.
But maybe… that's why I'm here.
His grip firmed on the clock's inner plate.
This time, I won't just fight corruption. I'll uproot it.I'll learn. Build. Influence. From the ground up.
And this time, I'll make sure I'm not alone.
Somewhere in the shadows of his mind, the Garuda System stirred again.
[Thought Milestone Detected]"Philosophical Reflection: Purpose and Rebirth"Bonus Granted: +2 INT, +1 Faith
The clock mechanism clicked into place — not working, not yet. But close. Much closer than yesterday.
Rakha exhaled, sweat beading at his temple.
The clock may never tick again… but I will.And this time, I'll move forward without ever looking back.
From the kitchen doorway, Siti Halimah stood quietly, her hands dusted with rice flour, the smell of frying banana leaves wafting behind her. Her eyes, however, were locked on the small figure crouched in the yard — her son, Rakha.
Only two years old. Barely tall enough to reach the edge of the kitchen table. And yet, he sat like a tiny scholar, surrounded by pieces of metal, sticks of sugarcane, and the broken shell of a clock he had no business understanding.
Not playing, she thought. Thinking.
Rakha's brow was furrowed, his small fingers moving with careful precision. No tantrums. No whining. Just quiet focus — a focus that didn't belong in a child still learning to pronounce full sentences.
And then there were the questions.
"Mak, why does the moon follow us?""Mak, why does fire eat wood but not metal?""Mak… if Allah created time, why does a clock break?"
Each one struck her like a stone dropped in still water — small at first, but rippling with deeper meaning.
At first, she had laughed. Hugged him. Called him pintar, clever, and kissed his head. But then came the day he sat cross-legged in front of the old boiled radio, staring at it like it was a dying animal. He had studied it for minutes, not moving.
And then he whispered, "It's scared. It doesn't want to die."
That was the first time she felt a shiver run through her.
Not fear. Not exactly. But something deeper. A mixture of wonder… and uncertainty. The way you feel when the air changes before a storm.
He's not just smart. He sees the world differently.
Her friends had started to whisper.That Rakha was "aneh."Too quiet. Too serious. Too curious.
"He's a child, not a kiai," someone had joked in the warung.
But Siti had said nothing. Because deep down, she knew they didn't see what she saw.
They didn't see the way he watched clouds move as if calculating rainfall.Or the way he stared into the fire, not in fear — but as if he were remembering something older than himself.They didn't hear the dreams he mumbled in his sleep, in languages he had never been taught.
She blinked back a tear. Not of sadness. Not of fear. But of something closer to awe.
What kind of child did Allah send me?
She remembered the day he was born — August 17th, Hari Kemerdekaan. The midwife had called it "a lucky omen."
Now, she wasn't so sure it was luck.It felt like intention.
She stepped outside, wiping her hands on her sarung, and walked slowly toward him.
"Rakha," she called gently. "Nak, what are you building now?"
He looked up. His eyes — far too calm for a toddler — blinked slowly.
"Time," he said.
She smiled and crouched beside him.
"No one can build time, sayang."
Rakha tilted his head.
"I'm not building it," he said softly. "I'm trying to make it fair."
Siti froze.
And in that moment, under the late afternoon sun, she did something she hadn't done in a long time.
She prayed.
Not for her son to be smart.Not for him to be safe.But for Allah to guide him.
Because a child like Rakha didn't belong to her alone.He belonged to something bigger.
And she prayed — with all the faith a mother could carry — that the world would be worthy of him.
POV: His Father — Haji Burhan Halim
Burhan crouched beside the rice paddies, sharpening his parang. From where he stood, he could just see Rakha in the yard — crouched beside the sugarcane, examining a broken wheelbarrow like it was a dead buffalo.
He had been like this since he could crawl. Observant. Focused. Too still for a toddler.
"Bapak," he had asked the other day, "why do adults pray with closed eyes?"
Burhan chuckled at the memory.
"Because sometimes, Nak… to see God clearly, we must close our eyes to the world."
But Rakha didn't nod like a normal child.
He had replied, "Then I want to learn how to close them… without losing sight of what's real."
Burhan said nothing that day. Just stared at his son — who now balanced knowledge like a farmer balances buckets of water on each shoulder. Carefully. Silently.
POV: Ustaz Mahmud — The Village Elder
Later that afternoon, Siti brought Rakha to the surau — the small prayer hall nestled between the sugarcane rows and the elementary school ruins. It was Thursday, and as usual, the older villagers gathered there before Maghrib to drink kopi, recite Yasin, and swap stories of "masa lalu."
Today, she brought her son. Not for prayer. Not yet.
But because Ustaz Mahmud was there.
A wiry man in his sixties, Ustaz Mahmud had been many things — teacher, imam, herbalist, and even one-time speechwriter for a long-forgotten regent. He walked with a cane now, but his mind was sharp as ever. He noticed everything. And he was watching Rakha.
The boy sat on the woven mat beside his mother, calm, alert, unusually still for someone his age. While the other children played outside, Rakha had his hands folded neatly on his lap — eyes tracking every word spoken between the elders.
Finally, Mahmud leaned forward.
"Nak Rakha," he said gently, "do you know how old the surau is?"
The boy blinked.
"If the wood is from the old banang tree that fell during the 1958 rains," Rakha replied slowly, "and if the carving on the pillar has the same pattern as the one in Bukittinggi built in 1960, then… this surau must be at least 24 years old."
The men around the circle fell silent.
Mahmud raised an eyebrow. "And how did you learn that?"
Rakha tilted his head.
"I heard Pak Ahmad say the banang tree stood for 40 years before it fell. And you told my father last month that you carved this post with your brother when you were still strong."
A beat passed. The only sound was a spoon clinking in a cup.
Then Mahmud smiled. A slow, crooked, knowing smile.
☕ The Test
"Alright then," the old man said. "If you're so clever, let me ask you something harder."
He reached into his bag and pulled out three stones of different sizes.
"If I place these three stones in the river," he said, "which one will reach the bottom fastest?"
Rakha didn't hesitate.
"The smallest one," he said.
A few of the elders chuckled.
"No, no," one said. "The big one is heavier, of course it sinks faster."
But Rakha shook his head.
"The biggest one creates resistance. It displaces more water. The smallest one cuts through faster."
He paused.
"Unless it's too light… then it will be pushed by the current."
Mahmud leaned forward.
"And what if I tell you the river is dry?"
Rakha grinned for the first time that day.
"Then I'd say you were trying to trick a child."
Laughter burst across the room — not mocking, but delighted. One of the old men clapped his knees and muttered, "Subhanallah…"
Mahmud, however, stayed quiet. His gaze was fixed on the boy's face — not amused, but intrigued.
This boy doesn't just answer. He listens. Thinks. Reconstructs.He doesn't guess — he calculates.
After the gathering ended and the men filtered out for Maghrib prayer, Mahmud pulled Siti aside.
"Halimah… your boy's mind is extraordinary."
She bowed her head. "I know."
He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder.
"Teach him well. Protect his heart. Because one day, people far beyond this village will know him for his mind."
Later That Day…
As sunset painted the sky gold and indigo, Rakha sat with his parents under the stilts of their home. He was holding a small banana leaf notebook his mother made for him — already filled with strange drawings and simple writing.
"I want to build something," Rakha said suddenly."A what, Nak?" his father asked."A tool for farmers. To measure rain. So we know when not to plant."
"At age two," Siti whispered under her breath.
Burhan reached over and ruffled his son's hair.
"Then build it, Nak," he said gently."But remember. The tools you build must serve people. Not control them."
Rakha looked up at his father.
And nodded.
[SYSTEM NOTICE]
Skill Unlocked: Grassroots Engineering (Prototype Tier)
Trait Progress: Reform Through Practical Tools +3
New Questline Branch Opened: "Innovation for the People"
That night, as Rakha stared up at the stars from his bamboo mat, he whispered to the ceiling:
Still weak. Still small. But my mind is growing.Give me five more years… and I'll change this village forever.
And one day — this nation.
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[Why does he keep asking question if he already knows, well if your kid out of the blue just make something, you will freak out too. So i kind of want to make him seem less weird to adults.]