When Sengkala turned eleven, the clanging of hammers in the workshop was no longer just the background rhythm of his childhood. Now, every hammer blow was a dialogue between himself and the burning iron. His body began to harden: his arms became more muscular, his palms thickened with calluses, and his shoulders slowly filled out the clothes that had once been too big for him. His eyes no longer reflected only curiosity, but also a small flame—a mixture of ambition and anxiety.
That morning, when the fog over the Trowulan rice fields had not yet completely lifted, Mpu Wira looked at his son for a long time before saying, "Son, starting today, you will not only help me. You will forge your own blade."
Sengkala stopped arranging the charcoal. "My own blade, Father?" his voice was half in disbelief.
"Yes." Mpu Wira lifted a piece of iron, rubbing it with his fingertips as if touching something alive. "Not a heirloom for someone else. This blade will be a testament to who you are. You will forge it from scratch, from raw iron until its pattern appears."
Dewi Laras, who had just come out of the kitchen with a sarong on her shoulder and her hair tied up tightly, smiled anxiously. "Don't forget to eat, Son. When you focus too much, you forget to eat."
Sengkala nodded. "When this blade is finished, does that mean I have become a master, Father?"
Mpu Wira laughed briefly. "Becoming a master is not a matter of one blade, Son. But every master must start with one. Consider this your first step into the world as a man."
The furnace was lit. Hot steam rose with the smoke, enveloping the workshop in a golden mist. Sengkala blew on the furnace carefully, keeping the embers red hot. The raw iron, which had previously been cold and hard, now slowly turned red, softening at the tip of the tongs.
"Don't rush," said Mpu Wira behind him. "It's not ready to be struck yet. Look at the color. Too pale, it's not ready. Too white and dazzling, it will crack inside. You have to know when the time is right."
Sengkala waited. Sweat trickled down his temples, not only from the heat, but also from tension. When the iron reached a deep red color—half dark, half light—Mpu Wira nodded. "Now."
Sengkala's small hammer came down. *TANG.* The sound was more confident than when he was six years old, but not as heavy as his father's hammer. He regulated his breathing: lift, pull, strike, exhale. The iron lengthened little by little, the shape of the blade beginning to appear from what was once just a stiff rod.
"Feel the rhythm, Son," Mpu Wira's voice intoned. "Don't just strike the iron. Strike your own doubts as well."
"Were you afraid the first time you forged a blade yourself?" asked Sengkala without stopping his movements.
"I was afraid," Mpu Wira replied honestly. "Afraid of failure, afraid the blade would be bad, afraid of being laughed at by other empu. But iron doesn't care about your name. It only responds to temperature and blows. So will the world."
At the age of twelve, Sengkala began to visit teacher Damar's hall more often, not only to learn customs, but also to read the basics of literature and history. Teacher Damar considered this young empu to be different: he asked too many questions and enjoyed contemplating too much after class.
One afternoon, after his friends had dispersed, Sengkala remained seated cross-legged, staring at the lontar depicting Hayam Wuruk's journey around the country.
"He Guru," he called, "if Majapahit has already conquered so many islands, why are the people still restless?"
Teacher Damar looked at him, then carefully rolled up the palm leaf. "Because, son, the bigger something is, the bigger the shadow it casts."
"Shadow?" Sengkala furrowed his brow.
"Yes. The shadow of dissatisfaction, the shadow of envy, the shadow of ambition. On the fringes of power, there are always people who feel neglected. In the heart of the ruler, there is always the temptation to feel invincible."
"Do you... think Majapahit could fall?" Sengkala asked softly, as if afraid that the walls would hear his words.
Teacher Damar did not answer immediately. He looked out of the hall, towards the royal city, which looked peaceful in the distance. "Everything that stands tall will fall in time. But more important than whether a kingdom collapses or not is: whether the people in it learn something before it's too late."
"Learn what?"
"Learn that power without wisdom will only breed chaos."
That word—chaos—entered Sengkala's ears and echoed in his chest. He did not yet know how close he would one day be to that word.
As he approached thirteen years of age, Sengkala began to occasionally accompany his father to meet directly with the palace intermediaries, rather than just waiting outside. In a wooden building with carved pillars and clean floors, a slightly overweight official with a calm face welcomed them.
"Mpu Wira," greeted the official, "your work is always satisfactory. The kingdom is busy arming several troops in the border areas. There is much talk of small rebellions and attempts by neighboring kingdoms to undermine our power."
"I only carry out my duty of making weapons," replied Mpu Wira politely. "How they are used is beyond my control."
The official glanced at Sengkala. "Is this your son? He already looks like a young master craftsman." He moved a little closer. "What is your name, son?"
"Sengkala," he replied, bowing his head and adjusting his robe as he had been taught. "Kawula aturaken pangabekten."
"Sengkala, huh?" the official repeated, as if sensing a vibration in the name. "That's a heavy name. Do you know what it means?"
"Only a little," replied Sengkala. "I've heard that the name is a reminder of time. A marker of the era."
"Good," the official smiled crookedly. "Then don't just be a marker. Be a witness who knows when to speak and when to remain silent."
After leaving the building, Sengkala walked beside his father, looking at Mpu Wira's face, which seemed a little more gloomy than usual.
"Father, why did the official talk so much about rebellion?" asked Sengkala.
"Because the fire is not only burning in the workshop, Son," replied Mpu Wira softly. "It is also starting to burn in the hearts of dissatisfied people. And the kingdom is trying to extinguish all fires with iron."
"Are we wrong to continue making weapons?" Sengkala ventured.
"That question has no easy answer," Mpu Wira sighed. "But if we stop, people who are more greedy and heartless will take our place. At least, while in our hands, this iron is still forged with prayer."
At the age of fourteen, Sengkala's first blade was finally finished. Its patina may not have been as beautiful as Mpu Wira's work, but its lines were clean, its shape proportional, and when tested, it did not break even when struck hard. At night, when the workshop was closed. There was only a small fire in the corner, and in the middle of the room, Sengkala stood holding his first blade.
"Name it," said Mpu Wira, standing with his arms folded across his chest. "Every blade has a name, even if only you know it."
Sengkala stared at the blade. In its faint glow, he saw his own reflection: a boy born under glory, raised amid tales of greatness, and now standing on the edge of something he did not yet understand.
"I will call it... 'Giris Pawaka'," he said softly. "Giris born from fire, but hopefully not easily incited by the fire of hatred."
Mpu Wira smiled slightly. "A good name. Remember, Son, one day this blade may be at the waist of someone whose choices you may not always agree with. But he is still your child. So are your future decisions."
Dewi Laras, who was standing at the door holding incense, added, "Before the keris leaves this house, let Mother say a prayer for it."
She stuck the incense in a small bowl, the smoke curling around the blade. "Go forth as a protector, not a bringer of disaster," she whispered.
At the age of fifteen, Sengkala began to feel the pull of two worlds: the world of iron and the world of words. On the one hand, he was becoming more skilled in the workshop, able to replace his father for some light work and beginning to be trusted to supervise his younger siblings who were learning the basics of forging. On the other hand, his lessons with teacher Damar ignited his interest in notes, stories, and prayers.
One evening, after class, Sengkala sat alone on the edge of a ditch near the outer wall of the king's city, observing the reflection of the sky in the calm water.
Ms. Sari approached him, carrying a basket of cloth. "Hey, little master. Why are you so gloomy?"
"I'm not gloomy," Sengkala protested, even though his face was serious. "I'm just... thinking."
"Thinking about what? Weapons? War?" asked Jaka, who suddenly appeared from behind a tree.
"Everything," replied Sengkala honestly. "I see more soldiers passing by. The merchants in the market talk more and more about tax increases and distant regions that are starting to rebel. At the workshop, orders for weapons are increasing. Teacher Damar also complains more often in his prayers. It feels like... the wind smells different."
"In my opinion, as long as the fields can still be planted and the market remains open, we'll be fine," said Jaka, trying to sound relaxed. "The important thing is that the harvest doesn't fail and our piggy banks aren't empty."
Ms. Sari stared at the palace. "You men always talk about war and taxes. I'm more afraid that hatred will spread to the hearts of the people here. If neighbors suspect each other, what good is a strong kingdom?"
Sengkala was silent. Ms. Sari's words stuck in his head. "In that case," he said softly, "perhaps my job is not just to forge iron. Perhaps I also have to remind myself, and those who are willing to listen, that iron and anger should not walk too close together."
"How are you going to do that?" asked Jaka. "You're not a priest, you're not an official."
"I don't know," Sengkala shrugged. "But I can start with one thing: writing. Keeping stories. So that if everything really burns down one day, at least there will be traces of how the fire started."
Ms. Sari chuckled softly. "A master craftsman who writes. That's strange."
"Strange doesn't mean wrong," replied Sengkala, smiling faintly.
That night, in his small room, by the dim light of an oil lamp, Sengkala took a piece of lontar leaf that teacher Damar had given him a few days earlier. Carefully, he began to scratch out the characters he had learned: not about kings, not about great oaths, but about his small days in Trowulan—about embers, about laughter, about whispers that were beginning to be heard.
"I don't write the date," he muttered softly, "because what matters is not the day it happened, but how it felt to live on that day."
Outside, gamelan music drifted from the direction of the palace, perhaps to accompany a party, perhaps to cover up the anxiety. Inside, a teenager named Sengkala began to write his own story, unaware that one day, amid the ravages of destruction, it would be notes like these that would save the world's nearly lost memories.
And amid all this, Majapahit still stood tall: its temples stood, its soldiers marched, its ceremonies were held in grandeur. But for Sengkala, who was between eleven and fifteen years old, the shadows behind that grandeur could no longer be ignored. The fire that forged iron in the workshop felt in tune with another fire—the fire of history—which slowly licked at the roots of the kingdom.
That was just the beginning.
***
Fifteen years old in Trowulan was not just about getting older. For Sengkala, it was a time when he began to feel the weight of the world on his young shoulders, and the footsteps of history began to echo in his ears.
One morning in the workshop, Mpu Wira showed him his latest work—a keris with intricate patterns engraved until it shone like a black pearl. "This is called 'Kawi Sutra,'" his father said proudly, "a weapon for a duke who has just returned from battle."
Sengkala observed intently. His already strong hands lifted the small hammer and he began to practice deep breathing and concentration.
"But why, Father, do we make weapons when what we really want is peace?" Sengkala asked as he continued forging.
Mpu Wira paused for a moment, then looked up at the dark sky through the window. "Peace does not mean that weapons are no longer made, Son. Sometimes powerful weapons actually maintain peace. However, there are times when weapons give rise to conflict. That is the burden of the master craftsman, and the burden of the world."
Sengkala left the workshop and walked to the increasingly crowded market. The sounds of bargaining filled the air: spice traders spread out sacks of pepper and nutmeg, fabric makers displayed the latest batik patterns. There was a sense of change in the whispers of the people who were beginning to prepare themselves for the challenges ahead.
In a corner of the market, Sengkala met Ms. Sari and Jaka. "Have you heard, Sengkala?" said Ms. Sari anxiously. "The princes in the palace are starting to fight for power. People say they can't wait for the king to grow old."
"In that case, I have to learn more, right?" asked Sengkala.
Jaka nodded. "Not just about how to forge, but how to face the world. You have to be ready, La."
That night, on the porch of the house, Sengkala sat near a small bonfire. Dewi Laras told a long story about an ancient kingdom, about loyalty, betrayal, and the true meaning of power.
"Son, when you grow up, you must know: the palace world is like a campfire. It is warm and gives light, but it can burn anyone who is careless," said his mother.
Sengkala stared at the flames. "Have Father and teacher Damar ever felt burned?"
"Sometimes, Son. But it is from those embers that you learn to become steel," replied Dewi Laras.
The next day, Sengkala stepped into teacher Damar's hall for the last lesson in this series.
"He Guru, what should I hold on to as the key so I don't get burned in the fire of the world?" asked Sengkala.
Teacher Damar smiled meaningfully. "The key is in your heart, Son. Pure intentions, wise loyalty, and the courage to face the darkness."
Outside, the faint sound of war drums echoed. Amidst the bustle of the market and the melodies of the gamelan, Sengkala had one resolve: to forge not only the blade of iron, but also his own destiny throughout the course of history, chaos, and change.
***
That night, a cold wind crept through the ruins of brick walls and old banyan trees surrounding Mpu Wira's house. Sengkala sat pensively on the threshold of the workshop, holding his small hammer, while the small bonfire his father had made burned dimly, dispelling the darkness that was beginning to creep in.
"Sengkala, are you really ready to face this world?" asked Mpu Wira, sitting beside him, his face hidden in shadow.
"I don't think so, Father," replied Sengkala. "This world is big and full of sounds that I find difficult to understand. I'm afraid that when I forge a keris, the blade will become an instrument of division rather than protection."
Mpu Wira sighed deeply. "That is the burden of a master craftsman. You are not just forging metal, but destiny, which you cannot always control."
"Then what should I do, Father?" asked Sengkala, his eyes staring into the distance.
"Your job is to forge with your heart, praying that the energy you give to the blade will become a protector of peace, not a fire of war."
The days passed with increasing tension. In the market and the pavilion, whispers about the tension between rival princes and the pressure from the Islamic coastal kingdom became an unavoidable topic of conversation.
One afternoon, while walking home with Jaka and Ms. Sari, Sengkala overheard two merchants arguing loudly: "War is inevitable if the Prime Minister does not fulfill his oath."
"Unlike before, the coastal kingdom is becoming more aggressive. The oath is getting heavier, and the people are crying out," replied the other.
Sengkala fell silent, his voice soft. "What can we do, Jaka?"
Jaka looked into the distance. "We must be stronger. Not only with weapons, but also with a united heart."
In teacher Damar's hall, Sengkala studied the philosophy of Astabhrata—the obligations of a king that must be balanced in order for the kingdom to remain strong.
"He Guru," asked Sengkala, "can a king also be wrong?"
Teacher Damar smiled. "Of course, son. Kings are also human. Mistakes are a test for anyone who holds power."
"Could that mistake cause a riot?" Sengkala swallowed hard.
"Riots can come from many things: anger, injustice, and greed. But also from unspoken fears and pent-up hatred."
Sengkala was lost in thought. Those words were like dark shadows haunting his mind.
That night, in the dark and cold, Sengkala had a dream: he stood in the middle of a sea of fire that engulfed the palace; shadows crept like snakes, and the boisterous voices calling for the rampage of power echoed. He heard his father's heavy voice, "Son, remember, even the biggest ember can destroy if it is not guarded."
Waking from the dream, Sengkala was on the terrace of the house, looking at the dark night sky. He whispered, "I will guard this flame, Father... for peace, not rage."
***
The front courtyard of the Majapahit palace was filled with stretching shadows. Behind the magnificent gates, nobles gathered, strategizing, while outside the walls, the world was slowly but surely changing towards uncertainty. Amidst the commotion, fifteen-year-old Sengkala stood on the threshold of adolescence; his hands rough from the hammer that forged iron, his mind filled with promises and burdens he did not yet fully understand.
That morning in the workshop, Mpu Wira was examining a new keris blade that Sengkala had forged. "Look at this, Son. The pamor is starting to show, but you need to hone the metallurgy further. Like life, it's not enough to be beautiful on the outside, it must also be strong on the inside."
Sengkala nodded slowly, his eyes focused on the shiny blade that was almost finished. "Father, can I make a keris for the king?"
Mpu Wira looked at him for a long time, his eyes filled with a mixture of pride and concern. "That is no small honor, Son. You must be prepared to stand in that extraordinary shadow. Are you willing to bear that burden?"
"Yes, Father. I want to prove that the weapons born from our hands have a story that goes beyond just iron and fire," Sengkala replied with determination.
That evening, Sengkala was invited to enter the palace hall to watch a leather puppets performance—the story of Ramayana performed by a famous puppeteer in Majapahit. The light from the torches swayed, the shadows of the puppets danced on the white screen, telling a story of battle, betrayal, and perseverance in the face of power.
After the performance, Sengkala stood with several young nobles. He asked one of them, "How do you view our king's struggle amid this tension?"
The young man responded in a heavy voice, "We, who are inside the palace, sometimes see this kingdom as a large ship in the middle of a storm. Strong on the outside, but we don't know how long it can hold out before it breaks apart."
Sengkala pondered, remembering teacher Damar's words about the shadows behind the splendor.
One day at the Trowulan market, Sengkala heard foreign traders whispering about the arrival of ships from increasingly aggressive coastal kingdoms. A Chinese merchant said, "Majapahit's power is no longer absolute. In silence, alliances are being made, and the world is getting smaller."
The tension began to be felt not only within the palace walls, but also in the alleys of residential areas and workshops like Sengkala's family's.
One night, while discussing with Mpu Wira and Dewi Laras, Sengkala asked, "Is it possible that what will happen later is not destruction from external enemies, but from our own hearts?"
Mpu Wira replied, "Sometimes the biggest enemy is within, namely jealousy and ambition that burn the soul."
Dewi Laras added, "And your duty, Son, is to walk that path as a bearer of light, not a fire starter."
In the late afternoon, when the sky was orange-red, Sengkala walked along the banks of the Brantas River. He saw the shadow of the keris clutched tightly in his hand, clutching not only a piece of metal, but the hopes and prayers of many people.
In his eyes, the majestic Majapahit was a world that could crumble, yet also a world brimming with opportunities to uncover its true meaning.
And like a raging fire, Sengkala knew his journey of self-discovery had only just begun—a path filled with twists, intrigues, and the storms yet to come.