At the age of six, Sengkala's steps were no longer just the typical running around of a small child, but began to leave traces on the soil of Trowulan. His body began to lengthen, his shoulders began to show thin lines from the shape of his bones, and his eyes began to look at the world with a curiosity that was no longer completely innocent. That morning, he stood at the threshold of the workshop, watching the capital slowly come to life: smoke rose from the kitchens, roosters crowed in unison, and from a distance came the faint sound of the palace guard's gong signaling the changing of the guard.
"Son," called Mpu Wira from inside the workshop, "starting today, you are no longer a boy who just chases chickens. You are old enough to hold a small hammer."
Sengkala turned quickly. "Really, father? Seriously? Not just carrying charcoal?"
Mpu Wira came out, carrying a hammer half the size of the one he usually used. The handle was made of polished sapodilla wood, and the head was made of old iron that was no longer used for heavy work. "This is a training hammer. It's not for hitting hot iron, but for training your hands and breath. And you must know that a hammer is not just a tool made of iron. It is your breath and intention that move the hammer."
Dewi Laras, who was drying sinjang on a bamboo rope, glanced over worriedly. "Don't hit too hard, Wira. He's only six years old. His bones are still soft."
Mpu Wira smiled. "I know his limits, Laras. I won't light the fire too close to him." He crouched in front of Sengkala. "Ready?"
Sengkala nodded firmly. "Ready, father."
Inside the workshop, the air had been thick with the smell of charcoal and metal since dawn. The large furnace was still out, only a small ember remaining in the corner—deliberately left to die slowly after being used during the night's work. In another corner, iron anvils and several half-finished keris blades were neatly arranged. Mpu Wira placed a piece of cold iron on a flat stone.
"Hold the hammer like this," he said, adjusting Sengkala's grip. "Don't grip it so tightly that your hand becomes stiff. Be relaxed but steady. It's like making a decision: don't hesitate, but don't rush."
"Like this, father?" Sengkala gripped the hammer handle, his small fingers trying to mimic his father's position.
Mpu Wira nodded. "Now strike. But remember, it's not your arm strength you're using, but your whole body. Lower your shoulders, following the rhythm of your breath."
Sengkala raised the hammer, then brought it down. *Tak.* The sound was thin, not as deep as his father's hammering.
"Slowly. Feel it," said Mpu Wira. "Once more."
*Tak. Tak. Tak.*
Small but regular sounds began to be heard. Sengkala set the rhythm: lift, inhale, strike, exhale. Small beads of sweat began to appear on his forehead.
"Father, does every master start like this?" asked Sengkala, pausing to rub his palms, which were beginning to hurt.
"All of them," replied Mpu Wira. "Your great-grandfather even started by striking wood, not iron. The most important thing is not how quickly you become strong, but how patiently you persevere."
From the doorway, Dewi Laras watched, her face a mixture of worry and pride. "Son, if your hands hurt, tell Mother. Don't push yourself too hard."
Sengkala smiled, slightly out of breath. "They don't hurt yet, Mom. I'm still strong."
Towards noon, after practicing how to use a hammer, Sengkala changed roles to become a student in Guru Damar's hall. This time, the lesson was not just about bowing and the etiquette of facing the palace, but began to touch on the great stories of Majapahit: how the previous kings united to establish the kingdom, how the oath of a prime minister shook distant islands.
The hall was as usual: made of cool teak flooring, sturdy pillars, and in the middle sat an old teacher cross-legged with a lontar palm leaf in front of him. The wind blew in from the south, carrying the sound of gamelan practice from the palace complex.
"Children," said Guru Damar, "today we will talk about the great promise that made Majapahit respected across the seas."
"Whose promise, He Guru?" asked Raden Bima, who sat upright wearing his new silk robe.
"The promise of a prime minister," replied Guru Damar, his eyes sharp. "An oath not to enjoy palapa—spices, comfort—until the entire archipelago was under the banner of Majapahit."
Sengkala swallowed hard. The word 'archipelago' felt vast, much larger than the rivers and rice fields he had known all his life. "So... the islands that send trading ships, He Guru?" He pointed toward the abstract place where trading ships usually passed.
"That's right, Sengkala," said Guru Damar. "Islands you have never seen, but whose names are already in your heart: Sumatra, Borneo, Bali, and many more. The oath made Majapahit great, but it also made it heavier. The greater the kingdom, the greater the burden on the shoulders of the king and his people."
"So, was the oath good or bad?" asked Mbok Sari softly.
Guru Damar sighed. "The oath is like fire, child. In the hands of a wise person, it warms and illuminates. But in the hands of a careless person, it will burn. Our job is not to judge the oath, but to understand that every greatness always has a shadow."
The children fell silent. Only the sound of coconut leaves rustling and birds chirping on the roof could be heard.
"Now, we will practice how to sit at a grand ceremony," said Guru Damar, breaking the silence. "The king sits in the middle, the priest sits on his side, the prime minister sits on his right, and the duke sits on his left. The people bow in the back row, but that doesn't mean they are invisible. You, even though you are the children of a master craftsman and a farmer, are still part of that circle."
He drew a simple circle on the ground with a stick: the center point as the king, small dots around it as officials, and the outer circle as the people.
"If the outer circle breaks, what will happen, He Guru?" asked Sengkala.
"The inner circle will falter," he replied calmly. "The kingdom is not just about the palace, son. Your father's workshop, Jaka's father's rice fields, Sari's mother's woven cloth... all the threads that hold together the great fabric called Majapahit."
After school that afternoon, Sengkala sat on the porch of his house, his eyes gazing at the silhouette of the royal city in the distance. The sky was orange, and from there he could vaguely see the peaks of temples and towering paduraksa gates, as if cutting through the sky.
"Father," Sengkala called out when Mpu Wira sat down next to him, carrying a cup of ginger tea. "Guru Damar told me about the great oath. Why would people make a promise that makes their lives so difficult?"
Mpu Wira sipped his drink slowly. "Because some people feel that only with a great promise does their life become meaningful, son. Some promise for the kingdom, some promise for their family."
"What about you, father? What is your promise?" Sengkala tilted his head.
Mpu Wira was silent for a moment. "I have never made a vow in front of many people. But in my heart, I promise: as long as these hands are still strong enough to hold a hammer, I will use this skill to make honest weapons."
"Honest weapons?" Sengkala furrowed his brow. "Are there dishonest weapons?"
"Yes," replied Mpu Wira softly. "Weapons that are made only for show, to intimidate their own people, or for empty pride. Honest weapons are those made to protect, not to oppress."
"What if someone evil uses your keris?" Sengkala asked again, his voice soft.
"That is a burden that a master must bear," said Mpu Wira. "That is also what you must think about if one day you want to become a true master."
Dewi Laras, who had just finished pounding spices in the kitchen, sat down with them. "But remember, son," she said, "life is not just a burden. There is also gratitude, laughter, and blessings from every good deed we do. Don't be afraid of shadows and forget about the sun."
Sengkala nodded, trying to store those words in his young mind.
At night, when the stars gathered in the dark sky and the sounds of insects replaced the bustle of the market, Sengkala lay on a mat, staring at the bamboo ceiling. Outside, the faint sound of gamelan music from the palace could be heard: the beating of drums, saron, and gongs accompanying a dance or perhaps rehearsing for an upcoming ceremony.
"Mom," he called softly. "When Sengkala goes to the palace to deliver the keris, can Sengkala see the king up close?"
Dewi Laras smiled, stroking her son's hair. "Maybe, if the time is right. But remember, seeing the king is not your purpose in life. The most important thing is that you know where you stand and who you work for."
"For Father and Mother?" asked Sengkala.
"For your family, for the village, and... if you are capable, for the land you stand on," replied Dewi Laras.
The night breeze carried the scent of incense from a neighbor's house, where a small celebration was being held. A baby had just been born in the corner of the village. The sound of prayers could be heard softly mixed with laughter.
At the age of six, Sengkala's life was still full of warmth: practicing how to use a hammer, learning customs, playing in the fields, and bedtime stories. However, behind all that, he slowly began to see the big picture: how vast Majapahit was, how heavy the promises made by adults were, and how each small blow of his hammer seemed to mark his first steps towards a world that would later rage.
Sengkala hugged his small hammer before bed, as if it were a toy, though secretly, it was the first inheritance that would one day bind him to history.
***
The morning sun began to rise and warmth enveloped the city of Trowulan. The sound of gamelan from the palace mingled with the clanging of hammers in the metal workshop, marking a new day in the center of the Majapahit kingdom. In a simple house on the outskirts of the city, seven-year-old Sengkala woke up with renewed enthusiasm. His hands were getting stronger, and his steps were more confident as he ran to his father's workshop.
"Good morning, son!" greeted Mpu Wira, lifting a heavy hammer. "Are you ready to show your progress today?"
"Yes, father!" replied Sengkala enthusiastically, then he picked up a training hammer that was bigger than the previous one. He began to strike slowly, trying to synchronize his breathing and movements with his father's teachings. Small sparks danced in the air as his hammer struck the hot iron.
After several strikes, Mpu Wira said, "Good, son. But remember, sharpness comes not only from the hammer, but also from the mind and heart."
Sengkala nodded, then shifted his seat to the corner of the workshop, his eyes following the agile movements of the blacksmiths who were carving keris with intricate patterns. "Father, why are the keris decorated with patterns like flowing water?" he asked.
Mpu Wira smiled, "It's called pamor. Every pattern has a meaning and a prayer. Like a river that flows continuously, life must also flow without stopping."
After finishing practice, Dewi Laras called out, "Sengkala, have you eaten breakfast? We're going to the central market today."
The trip to the market was an adventure and a pleasure for Sengkala. The streets were filled with people from various tribes, foreign traders from Tumasik and China, and gallant royal soldiers with spears and keris at their waists. The smell of spices, coffee, and cooking smoke mixed into a distinctive aroma.
At the market, Sengkala saw wooden toys that he had never had before. "Mom, can I buy this spinning top?" he asked Dewi Laras with sparkling eyes.
Dewi Laras smiled warmly, "If you help your father diligently tomorrow, I'll give you some money."
"Promise, Mom!" replied Sengkala enthusiastically.
They walked to a stall selling batik and situs fabrics. Dewi Laras chose several pieces of fabric for their sinjang, while Sengkala was busy playing with his new spinning top, joining the other children around him.
Towards evening, on their way home, Sengkala passed a group of soldiers. He was fascinated by the keris tied to the waist of one of the soldiers, which looked elegant and dignified. "Father, does that keris have a story like the ones you make?"
Mpu Wira nodded, "Every keris has a story. Sometimes the story is sweet, sometimes bitter. The responsibility of a master craftsman is to make weapons that can be protectors and not a source of conflict."
At home, as the fire in the kitchen stove began to die down, Sengkala sat with his family. He recounted his experiences that day with enthusiasm, mixed with questions and awe at the vast and mysterious world. His mother smiled as she stroked her son's head.
"Don't forget, son, in every step, the heart must remain calm and the gaze must look far ahead," said Mpu Wira wisely.
Sengkala looked at his small hammer, which now felt heavy in his hand, realizing that his small footprint in the royal city had only just begun, and his path was still long under the majestic shadow of Majapahit, which never ceased to be silent.
***
Sengkala is now eight years old, years in which he has begun to feel both the pressure and pride of being part of a tradition of masters who not only forge iron, but also shape destiny. His body has grown taller, and although his face remains that of a child, his eyes hold a sharp gleam full of a sharpness that is different from other children his age.
One bright morning in Trowulan, Sengkala was helping his father in the workshop, striking his small hammer with an increasingly steady rhythm, shaping a thin and beautiful keris blade.
"Le, look at this," said Mpu Wira, holding a keris blade whose pattern was beginning to appear faintly. "This is not just any keris. It will become a heirloom that will be passed down from one generation to the next. You must remember, it is not just iron that you are shaping, but also hopes and promises."
Sengkala watched intently, his now strong hands slowly swinging the small hammer above the anvil. "Father, when can I make my own keris?"
Mpu Wira smiled warmly, "Soon, son. But it's not just a matter of skill, but also of heart. You must be prepared to bear the burden of every keris you make."
That afternoon, Sengkala walked to the market with Dewi Laras. The streets were already crowded with traders from all over the archipelago, as well as foreign traders. Intricately patterned batik fabrics hung beautifully, colorful spices and various fragrances filled the market, permeating the air.
"Son, look at that," Dewi Laras pointed to a young batik craftsman who was painting on fabric with red and brown colors. "It's a different art from iron, but it also produces something beautiful and has a story."
"Can I learn to paint like that someday?" asked Sengkala curiously.
"Everyone has their own path," replied his mother with a smile. "You walk with fire and iron, but don't forget to see the beauty around you."
A few blocks away at the market, Sengkala met Jaka and his friends. They were playing gobak sodor, a game that Sengkala thought trained agility and strategy—two things that would be very useful in more difficult times.
"La, hurry to this line!" shouted Jaka as they busily avoided their opponents.
After playing tirelessly, they sat under a large, leafy banyan tree. Sengkala overheard the adults talking about small uprisings in several areas and the tensions that were beginning to arise between the coastal kingdoms that were gaining influence.
"The great kingdoms may seem strong," said a middle-aged man, "but the shadow of competition looms in every corner."
Sengkala asked Jaka, "Do you think we will see war, Jaka?"
Jaka held Sengkala's hand tightly. "Hopefully not, La. But if we do, then we must be ready."
That night, on the porch of the house, Sengkala sat listening to Dewi Laras's stories about the kingdom's past and the legends of their ancestors. Stories of courage, betrayal, and inevitable change.
"Son, remember," said his mother, "this world is not only about power, but also about choices and how we deal with them."
Sengkala looked up at the stars that were beginning to appear in the sky. Within him, the seeds of determination and awareness began to grow strong.
At the age of eight, Sengkala increasingly understood that every second of his life was intertwined with the great destiny held by the kingdom that still stood strong, but would one day face trials he could not yet imagine.
His small steps were already beginning to tread the path that would lead him to the center of the coming turmoil.
***
A bright morning brought a new scent to the air in Trowulan, as dew still clung to the taro leaves. Sengkala, now nine years old, stood in front of his father's workshop wearing a casual brown jacket that was thicker than before because the morning wind was starting to blow cold. His small hammer was no longer too small, and his hands were becoming stronger with daily practice.
"Son, today you have to help Exact by preparing the materials before the iron is heated," said Mpu Wira as he arranged the charcoal and embers that were beginning to burn. "Start by cleaning up the charcoal residue and checking the carbon content."
Sengkala nodded, his charcoal-covered hands feeling the wood and stone base. He felt that he was no longer a child who only observed life around the workshop, but had begun to understand the very complex and sacred process of forging.
"Why does everything have to be so precise, father? Isn't iron still iron?" he asked.
Mpu Wira smiled patiently. "Iron is alive, son. When forged with heart and knowledge, it will become strong and useful. But if done carelessly, it will only become a sharp object that is easily broken and dangerous to its owner."
After cleaning up and preparing the furnace, Sengkala walked to the central market in Trowulan with his mother. The streets were busier than usual. Merchants from various tribes and nations offered their wares. There was a fragrant smell of sandalwood, candlenut, and spices mixed with the smoke from street food.
"Son, don't forget that we must remain neat and clean," she said. "The kingdom is not a place for careless people."
Sengkala looked around with watchful eyes but still full of curiosity. He saw a group of soldiers wearing leather clothes, and there was a statue of Garuda in front of the towering palace complex.
"Is Garuda a symbol of the sky, Mom?" he asked innocently.
"That's right, son. Garuda is the vehicle of Lord Vishnu, the God of law and justice," replied Dewi Laras.
At the market, Sengkala met his old friends Jaka and Mbok Sari. Then they sat near the well, sharing food and stories.
"La, there is a small rebellion in the eastern region," said Jaka seriously. "They say that no one there wants to pay taxes."
"Will Majapahit be angry?" asked Sengkala with wide eyes.
"Definitely. But I heard that some people support them and dislike the king's policies," replied Mbok Sari while chewing a piece of fried banana.
Sengkala was lost in thought. The world he had always seen from the workshop and the market was now beginning to show dark shadows that he did not fully understand.
One afternoon, while working in the workshop, Sengkala overheard a serious conversation between his father and a guest he did not know.
"The situation is becoming unstable, Mpu Wira," said the guest, a man wearing a wide-brimmed hat and a dark coat. "The prince, the king's brother, is planning something. The weapons you make will be used not only to protect the kingdom, but also to seize it."
Mpu Wira sighed. "I make weapons, not to take sides with anyone. But I know that iron is always a double-edged sword."
Sengkala, standing a little way away from them, hiding behind a door, stored those words in his memory. He began to understand that the hammer and fire were not just tools of the trade, but also silent witnesses to intrigue and power.
That evening, when the family gathered on the porch, Sengkala asked his mother what loyalty meant.
"Mom, do we always have to be loyal to the king even if he is wrong?"
Dewi Laras was silent for a moment, then replied softly, "Loyalty is important, son, but conscience is even more important. If something is wrong, you have to know which side you are on. Blind loyalty is dangerous, but wisdom will bring goodness."
Sengkala nodded slowly, promising himself that he would find his own path when the time came.
His small footprints in the king's city were shaping a boy who knew not only about fire and metal, but also about wisdom, struggle, and rage driven by ambition and self-interest. He did not yet know that his steps would lead him into the midst of a storm that would change everything.
***
At the age of ten, Sengkala could no longer be considered a child. He was growing tall, although not yet very big, and his eyes began to view the world with a mixture of curiosity and increasing maturity. The day began as usual in his father's workshop. Mpu Wira was examining the keris blades neatly arranged on a wooden table.
"Sengkala, please fetch the bucket from the corner over there. We have to clean all the bronze residue from the last batch," ordered Mpu Wira.
Sengkala hurried off, even though he was feeling a little tired from helping prepare the furnace and taking care of the firewood since early morning. His body was now getting stronger from regular exercise. His brown cotton shirt was looking worn in places, but he was still proud to wear it—a symbol of the life of a craftsman who never shied away from hard work.
As he lifted the bucket of water, he asked, "Father, when can I start forging my own keris?"
Mpu Wira paused for a moment, his eyes serious. "It's not just a matter of when, son. Forging is not just about hands and muscles. Your heart and mind must also be ready to bear all the consequences."
At noon, Sengkala attended a lesson at Guru Damar's pavilion. This lesson was about the history of the Majapahit kings and the meaning of the Palapa oath. The children sat cross-legged and listened intently.
"He Guru," asked Sengkala, "why did Mahapatih Gajah Mada have to promise not to enjoy palapa before the archipelago was united?"
Guru Damar sighed deeply. "Because it was a big promise. In life, promises like that are made to bind us together and remind us to keep fighting for a common goal, not for personal gain."
Sengkala stared out the window, imagining the distant islands and the many battles that had taken place there. "If someone breaks a promise, what will happen?"
"It could cause division and fragmentation, civil war, and destruction," replied Guru Damar. "But humans always have choices, and we must learn from that."
On his way home, Sengkala walked through the market, jostling with traders and buyers. The atmosphere grew heated as several merchants from the Islamic coastal kingdom brought new goods and news of political movements that disturbed the stability of Majapahit.
Whispering, a merchant said, "The coastal kingdom is getting stronger. Without us realizing it, they are starting to shake Mahapatih."
Sengkala, who heard this, decided to leave the crowd, his face looking serious. The world he had known was beginning to change, and he knew that life was not just about forging metal, but was connected to a great current that was beginning to stir.
That night, while sitting with his parents on the porch, Sengkala asked, "Dad, Mom, is what my friends said true? The world is changing?"
Mpu Wira gently stroked his son's head. "Yes, son. The world keeps turning. But as long as we hold on to strength and honesty, we will be able to face anything."
Dewi Laras added, "Most importantly, remember who you are and what you are fighting for. Don't let yourself be swept away by waves you don't understand."
Sengkala then looked at his hammer, vowing to keep forging himself as hard as the iron he held, preparing to face the coming storm of history. He fell asleep with his mind full of aspirations and questions, amidst the soothing sounds of the gamelan that lulled the night in Trowulan.