The sky over Desa Waringin was beginning to turn orange when Arga pedaled his bicycle along the path lined with towering trees.
Arga was only eleven years old, but his curiosity was far greater than that of the other children. He loved reading adventure books, collecting unusual stones, and often drawing maps of places his friends had never visited.
“Don’t come home too late!” his mother called from the yard.
“Okay, Mom!” Arga called back, waving.
But as usual, Arga didn’t go straight home.
Instead, he headed for the old house at the edge of the village.
The house had been empty for years.
Moss covered the roof.
The windows were broken.
Vines crawled up and covered part of the door.
The village children always avoided it.
According to legend, the house had belonged to an explorer named Grandpa Mahesa.
“They say it’s haunted,” Arga muttered with a small smile.
He didn’t really believe stories like that.
What truly intrigued him were the explorer’s leftover books.
That day, the door to the house was slightly open.
Even though it had still been tightly locked the week before.
“Strange...”
Arga pushed the door open slowly.
Creeeak...
The old wood groaned and echoed.
Dust swirled through the sunlight streaming in through cracks in the walls.
The room was filled with bookshelves.
Ancient maps.
Masks from various regions.
Small statues.
And a large, faded globe.
Suddenly...
Crash!
A book fell from the very top shelf all by itself.
Arga jumped.
“Probably the wind.”
He picked up the book.
Its cover read:
Mahesa’s Travel Journal
When he opened the first page...
An old envelope slid out.
Written across the front were the words:
For the Child Brave Enough to Read This.
Arga’s heart began beating faster.
He opened the envelope carefully.
Inside was a letter.
If you are reading this letter, it means the compass has chosen you.
Do not be afraid of ghosts.
Be afraid of humans who have forgotten their history.
Many of the supernatural guardians of Nusantara are beginning to lose their power because humans have stopped remembering their stories.
If this compass ever begins to glow, follow its direction.
You will not be alone.
Arga frowned.
“The compass?”
Before he could think any further...
He heard the sound of metal chiming.
Ting... ting...
He turned around.
On the old table, a small wooden box was trembling gently.
Arga stepped closer.
His hands trembled as he opened the box.
Inside lay an ancient compass with a golden sheen.
The moment his finger touched it...
Fwoosh!
Green light filled the room.
The compass needle spun incredibly fast.
Suddenly, wind blew from every direction, even though all the windows were closed.
The bookshelves shook.
The pages of the books began turning by themselves.
As if the entire house were waking from a long sleep.
Then...
The compass needle stopped.
It pointed north.
Straight toward the old banyan forest on the edge of the village.
At the same moment, the sound of flapping wings came from behind the window.
A small bird with blue-green feathers landed on the windowsill.
Its round eyes gleamed like beads.
The bird stared at Arga without blinking.
Then...
It spoke.
“Thank goodness.”
Arga froze.
“At last... you’ve come.”
The hairs on the back of Arga’s neck stood on end.
He rubbed both eyes.
The bird was still there.
Still staring at him.
And this time it spoke in a quieter voice.
“We don’t have much time.”
“The Beringin Guardian... has disappeared.”
The bird flapped its wings.
Several glowing feathers fell to the floor.
Then, from the direction of the forest, came a sound unlike the wind’s usual whisper.
It wasn’t the rustling of leaves.
It was something that sounded like...
...singing.
Arga gripped the compass tightly.
He still didn’t know who the bird was.
He still didn’t know what the Beringin Guardian meant.
But one thing was certain.
His greatest adventure had just begun.