Chapter 2: The Missing Archivist

The rainy season in Surabaya always carries a thick, sweet rot in the air, like the stench of crushed banana skins mixed with the fishy reek of tar saturated by rain. Nur Hadi sat on the balcony of the second-floor dorm room, the Broken Blade wrapped in a black cloth worn white by countless washes, resting quietly on his lap. Rainwater dripped down from the tin roof, the tapping sound monotonous and urgent, like a countdown. He stared at the unfinished root of the word on the hilt of the Broken Blade, his fingertips trembling slightly.

"Witness..." he murmured the word, his voice so quiet it was nearly drowned out by the downpour. If this was a pointer, who was the witness it pointed to? Why was the name deliberately ground away? This silence suffocated him more than death would, because it meant someone was trying to scrub the very traces of a person’s existence off the timeline.

His phone screen lit up with a message from Sri Saputra. It was just a few short words: "Archive, eleven."

Nur Hadi took a deep breath and wrapped the Broken Blade tighter. He stood up and looked out at the city skyline of Surabaya, blurred into a gray smear by the rain curtain. The unease in his heart surged like a high tide, quickly drowning out his previously steadfast rationality.

10:30 AM, an old bookstore on the alley behind the National Archives.

Sri Saputra leaned against a beat-up red motorcycle, an unlit cigar dangling from his lips. His eyes were sharp as a hawk's. He wore an oversized hoodie, his wet hair plastered to his forehead. He looked a bit of a mess, but that sharp, alert vibe hadn't dimmed at all.

"You made it." Sri tapped the back seat of the bike, gesturing for Nur to get on. "Don't ask why we picked this spot. No cameras here, and the owner owes me a favor. He'll listen to some 'unofficial' history."

Nur straddled the back seat, his hands gripping Sri’s broad back, feeling the heat of the motorcycle engine against him. The wind from Sulawesi wasn't any more temperate than Surabaya's, but the humidity here felt heavier, pressing down on his lungs until it was hard to breathe.

"Three days ago," Sri twisted the handlebar, his voice distorted by the roar of the engine, "Bada Wirawani, the previous archivist, suddenly quit. Not some peaceful resignation—more like he got spooked out of his wits. His dorm room was picked clean, but I checked the property records. He never left the city. He's hiding at a relative's place in North Sulawesi, refusing to see anyone."

"He knows what we're looking for," Nur said, his voice low. "Or he knows what that sword means."

"No," Sri stopped at a roadside stall, handing the owner two fifty-thousand rupiah bills for two bowls of rice cake. "What he's afraid of is Lakeman Sudarmoko. In the week before Bada resigned, he was pulling digital backup files on the 1998 community purge incident. Those archives were supposed to be destroyed two years ago, but Bada backed up a key directory to his personal email before he was transferred. Now, that email account has been frozen."

Nur took the bowl; the steam from the rice cake blurred his vision. "Bada was an orphan living in the school dorms. He had a scholarship and a meager stipend, but that was all. He had nothing to lose unless his life was in danger."

"That's why we're going to crack open his office drawer," Sri said, tearing open a straw. His eyes were cold. "The school said his office is sealed, and the keys are with the academic director. But the director just had afternoon tea with Lakeman last week. You know what that means."

"So we're taking the 'unofficial' route." Nur set the bowl down and clutched the Broken Blade wrapped in the black cloth to his chest. "When I was restoring it, I found a layer of thin ceramic residue on the inside of the blade. It's not a casting flaw; it was embedded on purpose. If you know the history of pottery making in Sulawesi, it's a special 'Memory Pottery.' It only locks specific mineral structures into the matrix if it's cooled to a precise temperature range after high-heat firing. In other words, that sword holds a 'map' or a list."

Sri raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twisting into a mocking smile. "For someone with such a nerd aura, you fit right into the archaeological crowd. But guessing isn't going to cut it. We need proof. Without Bada's backup, we're just a bunch of students playing a guessing game."

"Then we get the proof." Nur stood up. Rain had soaked his shoulders, but he didn't seem to notice. "Sri, you crack the drawer. I'll trace Bada's whereabouts. If he's in North Sulawesi, we need to find that directory before we get there."

"Be careful," Sri jumped on the motorcycle, the engine roaring to life again. "Lakeman's people have been very active in the city lately. They even traced back to the school's scholarship distribution list. Do you know what that means? It means if you get marked, your scholarship, your dignity, even your future—those all become bargaining chips on their table."

Nur climbed onto the back seat, a chill rising up his spine. He’d worried about this before, but he never expected the tactics to be so direct. The scholarship was his only lifeline at this boarding school. If he lost it, he’d have to go back to that house with just a few family members and a leaky roof. But he also knew that the truth hidden behind that Broken Blade was enough to shake the foundations of the entire community.

"I don't do deals," Nur said, staring at the rain ahead. His voice was firm. "I restore records not for trade, but so the people who were erased can be developed again on the historical negative film. Even if it’s just a flash of light."

Sri didn't answer. He just slammed the throttle, and the motorcycle shot into the rain like an arrow from a bow.

2:00 PM, the archive room at the Provincial High School in Sulawesi.

It was a room at the far end of the teaching building’s basement, the air thick with the smell of old paper and mold mixed together. Sunlight couldn't pierce the heavy iron door; only a few fluorescent lights hissed with the buzz of current, casting a pale light on the dust-covered archive shelves.

Nur used a crowbar borrowed from the lab, sliding it gently into the lock's gap. His movements were practiced and cautious, his fingertips covered in calluses from long hours with metal and tools. He was the vice-president of the Student Council, so this kind of "private justice" was both his duty and a moral trial.

"Hurry," Sri’s low voice came from inside. He was lying on the floor, using the beam of a flashlight to inspect the underside of the desk. "The floorboards are loose here."

Nur took a deep breath and gave a hard twist. The lock core snapped with a crisp click. The iron door creaked open a crack.

They squeezed into the dim room. Sri quickly pulled a pair of rubber gloves from his pocket. After putting them on, he started checking the locked drawer. There was no lock, but the drawer was glued shut tight.

"Don't rush," Nur walked to the desk, sweeping the flashlight beam over the yellowed folders. "Look here. There are fresh scratches on the drawer sliders. Someone forced them recently. Bada must have tried to open it before he left, but failed."

Sri pulled out a pocket knife and carefully scraped the edge of the glue. Black glue oozed out, carrying a sharp chemical smell. A few minutes later, the drawer was pulled out with a grating sound that made teeth ache.

There were no files inside, just a black metal box.

Sri opened the metal box. Inside, neatly stacked, was a folded paper agreement and a floppy disk.

Nur picked up the agreement. The paper was brittle, but under the flashlight, the bold characters were still clearly visible.

"Donation Agreement," Nur read the title, his voice dry. "Donor: Sudarmoko Palm Plantation Ltd. Recipient: Surabaya Historical Heritage Protection Center. Date: November 15, 1998."

"Wait," Sri leaned in, his gaze turning sharp. "November 1998? Wasn't that the worst of the '98 financial crisis? The government was tightening budgets. How could they possibly accept a massive donation to protect some 'heritage sites'?"

"And," Nur pointed at the signature block at the bottom of the document, his finger trembling. "Look at the signatory. Lakeman Sudarmoko. Below his signature is the red stamp of Sudarmoko’s company. But there’s a tiny addendum next to it, barely visible."

Sri took the document and squinted to read it, then let out a cold laugh. "Addendum, Article Three: 'The donor retains the final right of interpretation, disposition, and archiving destruction of the donated cultural relics.' This isn't a donation. It’s a buyout. They bought the relics and, in the same stroke, bought the history attached to them."

"What’s the floppy disk for?" Nur asked.

"Bada's backup." Sri stared at the disk, excitement flashing in his eyes. "The format is old, but if it’s the raw data from before digitization, it might contain the complete roster of the 1998 community purge incident. Bada knew those people’s names, so he needed to leave evidence. But he didn't have time. Lakeman chased him off."

"Do we take it?" Nur looked at the Broken Blade wrapped in the black cloth, then at the agreement.

"Of course." Sri shoved the agreement and the disk into his waterproof bag. "But now we need a cover story. If we’re seen holding these openly at the school, Lakeman’s legal team will send a letter within twenty-four hours demanding the school 'handle' these illegally seized items itself. We need to hide them somewhere they can’t legally reach."

"Right here in the archive room's 'dead zone'," Nur pointed to a small corner behind the bookshelves. "That’s the failure point for the constant temperature and humidity system. It’s always off, and the cameras are broken. We can seal the Broken Blade and these files in the wall void there."

"Smart." Sri stood up and clapped his hands. "Let’s go. Before the academic director clocks out. Remember, we just 'wandered' in to organize some clutter. Anything we find? That was just a 'hallucination'."

They cleaned up the scene, hiding the crowbar in the vent, and prepared to leave. Just as they reached the door, they heard footsteps at the end of the corridor. Heavy and rhythmic.

Both of them quickly ducked behind the archive room door.

A tall figure appeared at the end of the hall. He wore a dark gray suit, his tie knotted perfectly, but his eyes were empty, like a corpse’s. Behind him walked two burly bodyguards, carrying black briefcases full of cash.

"Did Bada leave anything of value?" the tall figure asked in Indonesian, his voice processed to sound emotionless.

"He’s clean," one of the bodyguards replied. "Even his personal computer was formatted three times. Just some unimportant student activity logs."

"Useless." The tall figure let out a cold snort. "I paid you to clear out the trash, not to be a babysitter. If he’s hiding in North Sulawesi, keep monitoring him. If he touches those archives again, make him 'disappear.' Leave no body. Mr. Sudarmoko doesn’t want dirty things."

Nur held his breath, his heart hammering against his ribs like it was about to burst. He gripped Sri’s arm, his knuckles white.

"Disappear?" Sri whispered in his ear, his lips barely moving. "Do you know what that means?"

"It means Bada might already be dead, or he’s being kidnapped," Nur’s voice was raspy. "That tall guy... I’ve seen him. Last week when Lakeman inspected the school, he was standing half a step behind Lakeman. That’s his head of security. Code name: Shadow."

"We run." Sri said quietly.

They turned and sprinted toward the far exit of the archive room, which connected to an abandoned ventilation shaft. The moment they pushed open the iron door, the footsteps behind them stopped abruptly.

"Who's in there?" the tall figure’s voice suddenly rang out, ice-cold.

Nur and Sri crawled into the ventilation shaft; the iron door slammed shut behind them. The duct was narrow and dark, the dust choking, forcing them to crawl on their hands and knees.

"They're coming in," Sri said from the front, his voice trembling slightly, but mostly with anger.

"Keep it down." Nur pressed against the sliding wall of the duct, the metal icy cold against his skin. "Wait for them to finish searching. We’ll climb out through the roof. There’s a maintenance window there that opens onto the playground."

"And if they find us in there?"

The storm was still howling, but the real Broken Blade had only just been unsheathed.