The wind blowing from the direction of the river that afternoon felt hotter than usual, carrying with it the smell of dry earth and a thin smoke swirling gently in the air, coming from fields that were being cleared by burning. Amidst the humid yet dry air, Sengkala, now sixteen years old, stood tall at the threshold of the workshop, tying his sarong more tightly and securely. His shoulders were solidly formed with increasingly prominent arm muscles, reflecting a significant physical change; his face no longer resembled that of a young boy: his jaw had become more defined, projecting strength, while his sharp, meaningful gaze still held a deep weariness.
In front of him, on a simple but sturdy wooden rack, were rows of keris blades and spears waiting to be fitted with handles. There were various orders coming from palace soldiers who loyally carried out their duties for the state, from the duke's guards who protected the safety of local leaders, and even from a wealthy merchant residing on the coast, who had strong connections with an important port on the north coast of Java—a port famous as a place where Muslim merchants continued to gradually strengthen their trading networks.
"Son," Mpu Wira's voice suddenly interrupted his reverie softly, "today you are in charge of the work. I will just supervise."
Sengkala turned slowly, a little confused. "In charge, Father?"
"You are old enough," replied Mpu Wira understandingly. "You set the priorities: which blades must be finished first, which can be postponed. The world outside is growing increasingly impatient with such rapid change. If you don't learn to make decisions in this workshop, how will you survive out there, in the real world, which is much tougher?"
Sengkala took a deep breath, trying to muster new enthusiasm. "Okay, Father. Let's finish the two keris for the palace guards first. They will come before dusk."
Mpu Wira nodded in agreement. "That's the right answer. The palace may be unstable in matters of great importance, but if we are negligent in small matters, we will also destabilize the world we live in, which we believe to be our foundation."
Teacher Damar tidied up the palm leaves, staring straight into Sengkala's eyes with a look full of mystery and concern. "That's nothing new, kid. Ever since the great kings passed away, the shadow of a power struggle has hung in the air. But now, yes, the wind is blowing stronger than ever."
"Is this the beginning of the collapse of Majapahit, which has been the center of all power?" Sengkala asked softly, holding back his turbulent anxiety.
"History rarely collapses in one fell swoop," replied teacher Damar wisely. "It collapses slowly: from cracks within itself, from greed that is allowed to fester, from justice that is ignored. A great upheaval is often preceded by small whispers that have long been ignored, until finally they can no longer be ignored."
"Then... what is the role of someone like me?" Sengkala's voice trembled softly, full of existential questions. "I am not a soldier, not an official, not a priest."
Teacher Damar smiled thinly but meaningfully. "You are a master. You make weapons, you also record history. Those two things are not trivial, Son. Weapons can kill cruelly, but they can also be used to restrain the wicked. Records may be forgotten today because they are considered unimportant, but later they will be the only witnesses when people pretend not to remember the past."
Sengkala bowed his head deeply, feeling a struggle of emotions. "Sometimes I feel afraid, He Guru. Afraid of becoming part of an injustice that I am unaware of, just because I continue to forge blades when I should stop for the sake of justice."
"Don't be too quick to judge yourself harshly, child," said teacher Damar softly. "The most important thing is not to blind your inner eye. If one day the time comes when you are asked to choose—between a comfortable life with a dark heart, or a difficult life with a clear conscience—you will already have the knowledge to make the choice you want."
As he approached the age of eighteen, Sengkala was invited for the first time to deliver a keris to a complex closer to the magnificent palace. Not to the throne room, of course, but to the pavilion of a high-ranking official who was known to be very close to one of the ambitious princes.
"You must be careful when you speak," Mpu Wira warned outside the pavilion gate. "You are only delivering the keris. Nothing more."
"I understand, Father," replied Sengkala, straightening his best sinjang. This time he wore a cloth with a slightly finer pattern, a gift from a merchant whom he had once helped repair his knife.
Inside the pavilion, a thin man with sharp eyes greeted them with a scrutinizing gaze. An old keris hung from his waist, but several other blades were spread out on the table in front of him—like a collector who could never get his fill.
"Is this the keris I ordered?" he asked bluntly, getting straight to the point.
"Yes, Raden," replied Mpu Wira, placing a wooden box on the table and slowly opening the lid. Inside lay a keris with a pattern resembling dancing ocean waves.
Sengkala watched intently, silent as a mouse. Raden lifted the keris, examining it from the hilt to the tip with a scrutinizing gaze.
"Good," he muttered, somewhat satisfied. "Light, but feels steady in the hand. Suitable for... quick movements."
Quick movements. Those words made Sengkala's hair stand on end. He imagined the keris not only being used in ceremonies, but also in dark alleys, behind someone who did not suspect his presence.
"Who made it?" asked Raden with intense curiosity.
"I designed it, my son completed several stages," replied Mpu Wira, glancing at Sengkala with pride.
Raden turned his head, looking Sengkala up and down with a critical gaze. "Name?"
"Sengkala, Raden," he replied, bowing respectfully.
"Sengkala..." The nobleman smiled slightly. "A very fitting name for times like these. May your pen carve out a future that benefits us—not just those who sit above and control everything."
Sengkala refrained from reacting. They took their leave politely. Once outside the gate, he could finally breathe easy.
"Father," he said softly, a number of concerns haunting his mind, "what is Raden..." He didn't finish his sentence, but doubt overwhelmed him.
"He is not someone we can judge," interrupted Mpu Wira, his voice heavy and meaningful. "We just need to know: a keris like that can be anywhere, on anyone's waist. That's why Father always said, every blade carries its own burden in this life."
"What if one day I can no longer bear that burden?" asked Sengkala, his voice full of uncertainty.
Mpu Wira gazed at the sky, searching for answers. "That is a question that only time will answer, Son. Not today. But you may begin preparing your answer to face that challenge."
In the village, the nights had recently become increasingly frequent and accompanied by strange and mysterious news. Sometimes a guard from the north would pass by, telling stories at the food stall: about small riots that occurred in a principality that did not accept the new king's representative. Sometimes traders from the coast would talk about how Muslim admirals had begun to organize their own voyages, with their own laws and sultans, while bargaining with Majapahit over taxes for the sake of their economic survival.
Sitting with Jaka and Ms. Sari under the majestic banyan tree, Sengkala tried to piece it all together, searching for meaning and interpretation.
"Majapahit is still great, but it is like a cloth that is starting to fray and unravel at the edges," he said softly, deep in thought.
"The cloth can be sewn, if the people are willing," said Ms. Sari, hugging her knees warmly.
"It can also be torn if those who hold it are full of lust and ambition," replied Jaka, looking meaningfully at the houses that were beginning to empty.
"What about you, La?" asked Ms. Sari. "You are a master who is no less important. Without weapons, people cannot fight and defend themselves. But without weapons, if someone attacks, how can we defend ourselves against evil?"
"That's exactly where the problem lies," Sengkala sighed heavily. "In the middle. Between 'without' and 'with'. We are always in the middle, full of challenges."
"Then what do you choose?" Jaka pressed, curious about Sengkala's choice.
"I... don't know yet," Sengkala answered honestly and openly. "But one thing is certain: if I am forced to choose between sharpening the keris to kill my own brothers, or stopping and losing everything I have... maybe that's when I'll truly know who Sengkala is in this life.
They fell silent, the atmosphere filled with reflection. The night wind swept through the banyan leaves, gently shaking the shadows on the ground.
As it approached its twentieth year, the cracks in the empire became increasingly apparent. Not a major war, not yet; but minor disputes, tensions over taxes that had to be paid, and news continued to circulate about several regions that were beginning to refuse to send their mandatory tributes. In Trowulan, life still seemed normal and bustling: the markets remained crowded, religious ceremonies continued, and the palace still held magnificent performances and offerings. But for those who looked deeper, something had changed in the eyes of the soldiers, in the way officials spoke, and in the tone of the priests' prayers, which sounded more anxious.
Sengkala felt all of this clinging to his skin, like soot that would not wash away no matter how many times he tried. He continued to hone and strengthen his abilities, continuing to record in his small palm leaf manuscripts every time night came with meaningful reflections.
"If one day my children and grandchildren ask: how did Majapahit fall? Let them not only hear from the victors," he wrote slowly and with dedication, "but also from the small hands that once thought they had no voice in history."
Outside, the palace gong was struck strongly and regularly, marking the beginning of a ceremony held to pray for prosperity and peace. Inside himself, Sengkala knew: prayer and iron were walking side by side and competing—and one day, one of them would speak louder and determine the fate of the nation.
The embers of youth in the royal city were no longer innocent embers. They were now a smoldering fire, waiting to be challenged: would they ignite to illuminate, to become the light of truth, or would they turn into a rage that consumed everything with extraordinary power?
***
When Sengkala reached the age of 17 to 20, the changes in Majapahit were no longer just whispers in the market; the tremors were felt in every aspect of work. The turmoil was clearly visible on the faces of the soldiers passing by, even in the clanging of hammers in the workshops that used to feel safe and peaceful.
That morning, the air in Trowulan felt dry and filled with dust swirling in the air. The sun had just risen, but Sengkala was already busy at his workbench; he led two young apprentices in a carefully planned routine, arranging the coals with great care, checking the quality of the charcoal to be used, and calculating the materials for an important large order: a series of spears ready to be sent to the border troops to deal with the turbulent region. His hands moved nimbly and deftly, without hesitation, his movements steady and precise—the result of years of intensive training—but his eyes remained alert, carefully observing everyone who came and went.
"Check the carbon content again, make sure it's right," he ordered Lurah, his youngest apprentice, who was quickly helping to hold the iron. "If the content is even slightly off, the blade could break in the middle of the most important battle."
Lurah nodded obediently and asked hesitantly, "Brother Sengkala, if the blade breaks in the middle of the battle, who will be blamed for the failure?"
Sengkala looked at him seriously; his voice was heavy but gentle as he gave advice. "The person who made it has responsibility, but the circumstances that forced it to be used in the wrong place must also be considered."
While they were busy working, passing merchants brought the latest news—news that was now part of their daily breakfast: spice shipments to the northern port were stalled due to the enforcement of new rules by the coastal authorities; a minor duke in the east was resisting the influence of the central government; a prince in the palace accused his brother of plotting a subtle coup. There was no need to seek the truth in these words; whatever the news, they hung in the air like fine ash, silencing everyone in concern.
In the afternoon, a small boat slowly docked at the pier near the workshop; a well-known palace intermediary who handled keris orders arrived alone to deliver important news. His face was expressionless, although his eyes observed everything around him sharply and intently.
"Mpu Wira," the intermediary greeted him formally, "there is a special request from a palace guard unit. They want a thin and light keris, designed for quick movements—not just as a symbol, but as a tool that can be used efficiently in narrow corridors."
Mpu Wira bowed respectfully, accepting the order with full responsibility. "We will work on it very carefully, with full dedication."
The intermediary turned to Sengkala with a sharp gaze. "You will finish these blades, right?"
Sengkala replied with a brief nod, showing his confidence, "We are capable of completing it wholeheartedly."
The intermediary stared at him longer, as if weighing something profound but unspoken. "Remember, if your blades are used in the wrong place, history will record it, not only those who use them, but those who made them will also be mentioned."
The words were like a cold whistle; Sengkala felt the heavy burden sink into his chest, adding to the tension he had been feeling all this time.
That night, he went to teacher Damar's hall not only to study, but also to seek inner peace. Teacher Damar, even though his hair was turning white with age, still stared at the lontar with eyes that were still sharp and full of wisdom.
"He Guru," said Sengkala, sitting calmly on the worn mat. "I forge to protect everyone. But sometimes I am afraid: if the weapons I make are used to hurt others, how can I bear that morally and spiritually?"
Teacher Damar looked at him intently. "Empu, like priests, merchants, and farmers, are part of the fabric of life. You are never fully responsible for the choices of others because they are free to make their own decisions, but you are responsible for your pure intentions. Working with the right intentions is a good start. Then, you must be prepared to accept the consequences and, if necessary, change your path in life if it is needed."
The discussion stuck in Sengkala's mind for days, seeping into his subconscious. He began to write—not only sketches of keris designs, but also small notes about who ordered them, where they came from, and the reasons for their requests. The notes were neatly stored in the workshop closet, behind a pile of oil cloth, like small documents that were too secret to be displayed and were hidden away.
A few weeks later, a small but meaningful event occurred: a pair of soldiers from a neighboring region who had just returned told him about a clash at the border in great detail. They mentioned that their opponents were able to repel the troops not because of their superior numbers, but because of a betrayal during the night—someone on the inside closed the gate. "We thought we would win easily," one of the soldiers said to the shop owner. "But the gate was locked from the inside by someone we thought was our ally. We were slaughtered."
The news spread like wildfire. At Mpu Wira's workshop, local weaponsmiths gathered more often; their conversations shifted from forging techniques to deeper moral discussions: who to trust in critical situations, what role a master craftsman plays when his weapons are used to facilitate betrayal.
One day, Sengkala met Jaka on the banks of a quiet river. Jaka, who now worked as a courier delivering important goods to the port, seemed troubled by something.
"Did you hear about the gate?" asked Jaka, his voice full of concern.
"I heard," replied Sengkala briefly, feeling tense. "Who would have the heart to close the gate?"
"Some say the order came from an insider—a minor official who was dissatisfied with his position. They say he wanted to trade his loyalty for the promise of a higher position when the king was weak," Jaka shrugged, showing his doubt. "People say that when politics eats the heart, war is just a matter of the stomach."
"I forge blades. I don't lock gates," Sengkala held back his anger, which he found difficult to express to anyone.
"But if the blades you make are used to cut your own brothers, what's the difference?" Jaka stared at him blankly, challenging him.
The question haunted Sengkala until nightfall, when he sat silently on the porch, staring at the oil lamp swaying in the night breeze. He searched for answers from the shadows of his teacher, his father's experiences, and the familiar sound of the hammer in his ears. The answers never came, only the reality: the world was getting tougher, and the choices between safety and righteousness were getting narrower and more confusing.
Things became even more tense when a new order arrived: there was a request for a large number of weapons from a previously independent coastal region, which was now asking for weapons to defend itself against central intervention in a more cunning way. This request came through an intermediary who never mentioned the name of the person who placed the order. The money offered was enormous, much more than usual—enough to keep Mpu Wira's workshop profitable for several coming harvest seasons.
Mpu Wira sat with his son that night, a charcoal tobacco cigarette in his palm, his face creased with the burden of troubling thoughts.
"Do you know what that kind of money means?" he asked flatly, but meaningfully.
Sengkala looked at his hammer sadly. "It means we can build a bigger and more advanced workshop, Father," he replied.
"I know," said Mpu Wira. "But that money also means stirring up the embers of suspicion in the hearts of some people. If we accept it without knowing who the owner is, we are unknowingly taking part in that current."
"Should we refuse for our own safety?" Sengkala asked, his voice almost hoarse with emotion.
"I don't know," said Mpu Wira honestly, his voice full of empathy. "I am a master craftsman, not a political judge. But I hope that good intentions remain the main measure. If those who come want to defend the country from attack, we will help wholeheartedly. But if those who come intend to overthrow their own brothers for personal ambition..."
"Then what should we do?" interrupted Sengkala, his breath heavy and full of hope.
"We need to know more," his father replied wisely. "Ask who owns it, where the money comes from, why they need so many weapons. You, as the one who will forge them, also have the right to know. Don't accept money without seeing the intent behind it."
Sengkala realized something that many masters in the past had overlooked: the right to question those in power. Since ancient times, masters had often been regarded as mere craftsmen; their voices were not considered important at the table of major decisions. Now, as a storm began to engulf their world, those voices became important—not to replace the king's decisions, but to prepare the right moral choices.
Carefully and thoughtfully, Sengkala and Mpu Wira politely and respectfully refused the large order through the intermediary—they asked that the customer come in person, or at least leave their full identity. The intermediary only gave a stiff smile, but the next minute the news spread: another, smaller workshop accepted the order without hesitation. In the market, gossip spreads quickly and erodes reputations.
"Empu Wira turned down a lot of money," muttered one of the traders softly, meaningfully. "Perhaps he chose honor above all else."
"Or maybe he was stupid not to take advantage of the opportunity," replied another indifferently.
The following night, a commotion arose on the usually quiet road leading out of the village. A group of people dressed in dark clothes passed by, their steps quick and decisive. They did not shout, they did not need to—their words were loud enough: "Don't meddle in our affairs if you don't want to get hurt." In the morning, there was a shocking sign: two iron bars at the gate of another workshop, which was the center of gossip, were brutally broken, and a message was faintly written on the wall: "Don't play between two big families."
The tension became palpable and sensitive. Sengkala realized he could no longer simply forge in the tranquility he once enjoyed. Every small decision had far-reaching consequences: refusing a large order felt like going against the grain, while accepting a large order felt like surrendering to practices of dubious morality.
At almost twenty years of age, Sengkala finally decided to do something very simple but risky: he invited several other masters he trusted to his workshop on a dark, moonless night. They sat around a small fire to warm themselves, sharing stories calmly, and repeatedly mentioning one word that felt heavy: responsibility.
"Are we just craftsmen who turn a blind eye to reality?" asked an elderly master with concern.
"I have seen my keris used in battles that were really just a struggle for the throne between princes," replied another master. "We strengthen one side. Then what will we say to our grandchildren when they ask us about it?"
Sengkala spoke with determination: "We cannot stop war with a spoon. But we can refrain from fueling the rage. We can refuse if the customer's intentions are evil; we can ask who the owner is. We can also keep clear records. If something bad happens, at least our names are in the records—so that tomorrow people will know who acted how."
Some masters nodded in agreement, some remained silent in thought. Not everyone agreed with the idea—some were concerned about their reputation, which could cut off their supply of materials. But the conversation sowed the seeds of a new way of thinking: the awareness that the work of a master is not just about making, but also about choosing wisely and considering morality.
In the days that followed, Sengkala began to keep more organized records; he wrote down the names of the customers, the amount of payment received, and brief but meaningful notes. He began to slip in a short prayer when forging blades that would be sent to conflict-prone areas: not to make the blades less deadly, but so that the people who would wield them would think twice before using them against their own brothers.
This story closes with two memorable scenes: a night when a small army marched through Trowulan, without fierce battle, but carrying the message that the world was becoming increasingly divided politically and socially; and Sengkala, sitting on the porch of his workshop, staring at his palm leaves full of notes, feeling the weight of history that was no longer abstract. In his heart now rested a strong and deep-rooted determination: if one day the rampage did indeed come, he wanted to have the courage to stand among those who chose humanity—or at least leave a trace that there were those among them who chose differently from the others.
This confirms that the fire smoldering behind the splendor was not a torch that could be easily extinguished. It is a series of choices that accumulate—decisions to accept or reject, words spoken or kept silent, documents recorded or burned. And among those choices, Sengkala learned one big and important lesson: being a responsible witness is sometimes as difficult as being a brave and determined fighter.