Re-In-Creation

Chapter 4 - Something That Matters

Timeskip

3rd Person P.O.V

Morning light found Jaka helping his father repair tools, tighten cart wheels, or oil rusted hinges. Wirajaya rarely spoke, but when he did, it mattered.

“He’s not like other boys,” Sekar said one morning as she watched Jaka carry two heavy sacks to the storage shed.

Wirajaya glanced up from the half-fixed plow. “He’s focused and motivated.”

“He’s too serious, Wirajaya. He didn't like other kids,” Sekar sighed, brushing flour off her hands. “Most boys sneak snacks. He tightens door hinges. Most chase chickens. He’s chasing something else.”

Wirajaya didn’t answer immediately. He hammered in silence for a moment. “He reminds me of someone.”

Sekar gave him a look.

Wirajaya coughed. “Okay, okay, he reminds me of you when we were younger.”

Sekar laughed softly, shaking her head. “I just worry, you know? He helps you at the forge, helps me in the fields, carries the harvest to the market, trains in the woods, fishes in the river… When does he ever get to just play with other kids?”

“Well, there is a girl he plays with,” Wirajaya replied with a smile. “Laksita, right? Smart kid. One of the brightest around here.”

"But still..."

Even with worry still lingering, they both knew—Jaka wasn’t just playing. He was training, chasing something neither Wirajaya nor Sekar could name. His questions weren’t like those of other children. There was a weight to them, a depth.

His maturity didn’t match his age.

“Actually,” Wirajaya sighed, “Jaka told me something that’s been on his mind… and I think we need to talk.”

“What is it?” Sekar asked, her voice low with concern.

As the sky blushed orange and the village settled into quiet, Jaka returned home with a few fish in his sack. His father was waiting by the forge.

Without a word, Wirajaya handed him a bundle wrapped in white cloth. Jaka unfolded it carefully—inside was a wooden sword, sturdy and well-balanced.

The grip was wrapped in dried grass twine. Beside it lay a small bow and a bundle of hand-carved arrows.

“Use these for your training,” Wirajaya said, his voice steady but soft. “You’ll need them when you travel. The world out there… it’s cruel, son. But remember—no matter what happens, I’ll always be proud of you.”

Then he turned back to the anvil, the fire casting flickering shadows on his face.

Jaka gripped the gift as if it were part of his very soul. A small, grateful smile touched his face before he turned and made his way to his room—only to find another bundle waiting near his mat.

Training clothes. Sleeveless. Flexible. Sewn with care. Not new—his parents didn’t have the luxury for that—but clean and stitched with steady hands. Folded beside it was a headband embroidered with simple thread.

He picked them up, confused, and turned.

Sekar stood at the doorway, arms crossed.

“You keep tearing your shirts in your training,” she said, voice soft. “These won’t.”

Jaka held the fabric close. “Thanks, Mother.”

She didn’t answer. Just stepped into the room, sat beside him.

“You’re different than any children,” she said quietly. “You always have been.”

He didn’t speak. Neither did she—for a long moment.

Then she asked, “Do you remember what you told your father?”

He blinked. “About… traveling?”

She stay silent. Her face's showing worry even if the voice didn’t tremble, her fingers tightened slightly on her knees.

Jaka looked down. “I didn’t mean—”

“You did,” she interrupted, gently. “And it’s alright.”

She took a deep breath.

“I knew from the moment you learned to walk faster than you spoke. From the way you looked at the stars. From how you asked questions that didn’t belong to children.”

She smiled—small, tired.

“Your path won’t end here, Jaka.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it. What could he say? He hadn’t been the kind of person who worried like a parent. He didn't had that kind of experience.

But… maybe he’d been something close.

Jaka had created so many characters. Too many, maybe. Farmers who grumbled when it rained. Soldiers who missed home. Healers who sat beside empty beds long after battles ended.

Each one stitched together from logic and emotion, code and instinct.

He hadn’t meant for them to be reflections. But looking back, he saw them differently now.

The quiet ones who waited by doors. The ones who offered warnings—not out of doubt, but out of care. The ones who stayed, even when the player didn’t notice.

He hadn’t grown up knowing how to name those feelings. Worry had felt like control. Silence, like distance. Love… like something meant for other people, something he couldn’t quite reach.

And yet, when he was designing AI routines—sculpting lines of dialogue meant to comfort, to protect, to forgive—he understood it in his own way.

He understood what it meant to stay up late, adjusting every possible outcome just to make sure a player never felt alone.

It was only now, sitting beside his mother in another world, hearing her soft words, that the connection clicked.

All this time, he’d been learning what love looked like through code.

“Just promise me something,” Sekar said gently.

“Anything.”

“When it’s time for you to go…” Her voice faltered for just a second. “Don’t forget where you started.”

“I won’t,” he said, the words burning with certainty. “I promise, Mother.”

She nodded, eyes shining. She pulled him close and held him longer than usual.

And Jaka, for the first time in both his worlds, finally understood what it meant to be someone’s son.