“Ha! You’re dead!” cried Vimala, aiming the wooden sword to Indravarman’s neck after parrying all of his attacks.
“Oh, come on! Can’t you go easy on me for once?” protested the Rajaputra.
Senopati Vimala looked down on him and said: “Look, boy. If you engaged in a real battle, your enemy will never go easy on you. Every time you held sword in hand, with an opponent in sight, always give your best shot, as if your live depended on it. Even if it’s just a training with a wooden sword. Remember that.”
“Yes, uncle,” the prince looked down embarrassed. “Hold on a minute, I need to drink. Don’t go anywhere!” Indravarman then sprinted off the palace’s training grounds.
The young Senopati looked around. From where he stood, he could see several eyes glanced in his direction. He then spotted Amretasari who was walking toward him accompanied by her daughter, Tribhuaneswari.
“Maharatu, Rajaputri,” greeted Vimala.
“Senopati,” Amretasari greeted back. “You’re being here is indeed good news—especially for the marsi.”
Vimala chuckled. “Glad to serve as good news between the barrage of bad ones.”
Tall, immensely good-looking, and always kind to everyone—those were what made Vimala so popular. Every time he visits the palace of Palembang, the young marsi will busy themselves out, in the hope to take a glimpse of the flamboyant Senopati.
The young Senopati was a distant cousin of Maharaja Sumatrabhumi. The royal blood run deep in his vein—he got the distinctive brown eyes and the fair skin. As one of the high-ranked Syailendran in Srivijaya, he was the heir of the ancient great Syailendran warships.
“How was Indra? He did good?” asked Amretasari.
“Hmm, let me put it this way. Your twelve-year-old son is far better on swordplay compared to a fifteen-year-old Sumatrabhumi.”
“Seriously?”