At the age of twenty-one, Sengkala reached the peak of his expertise as a royal physician, but also fell into a deepening abyss of uncertainty. Majapahit, though still magnificent on the surface with its towering temples and lavish royal ceremonies, was beginning to show cracks: a plague creeping in from the coast, friction between brothers vying for influence behind the aging Hayam Wuruk, and rumors of Islamic kingdoms in the north becoming bolder in their refusal to pay tribute. Trowulan remained bustling, but the air felt heavier, like iron that had been heated too long and was ready to crack.
That morning, the Sengkala family workshop—now expanded to two rooms with a student room—was bustling with the clanging of double hammers. Sengkala, now 21, stood in the middle, supervising three young students who were forging spears for the army on the border. His body was now muscular from years of hard work, his thick cotton shirt was soaked with sweat, an ancestral wooden necklace hung around his chest, and at his waist hung the *Giris Pawaka* keris—his first blade, which had now become his personal symbol.
"Your base is crooked, Lurah!" Sengkala reprimanded his youngest student sternly. "If that spear breaks in a soldier's hand, you won't be killing the enemy, but your own brother!"
Lurah, a skinny 15-year-old, corrected the position of his iron with trembling hands. "Sorry, Bro Sengkala. The fire is too fierce today."
"The fire is always fierce," replied Sengkala as he blew on the furnace until the embers turned red again. "What makes the difference is the hand that holds it. Polish the blade twice more before it cools."
Mpu Wira, who now spent more time supervising than working directly due to his age, sat in the corner with a cup of ginger tea. "Another order from the palace has arrived, Son. A heirloom keris for the Prime Minister. But this time... it's special. They say it's for a grand ceremony, but rumors say it's for the eldest prince."
Sengkala stopped his hammer and looked at his father. "The eldest prince? The one who is said to often argue with his younger brother about the coastal region?"
"That's right," replied Mpu Wira softly. "Gajah Mada is old, his influence is beginning to waver. The princes are starting to fight for position. The heirloom keris is not just a weapon—it is a symbol. Whoever manages to hold it also holds legitimacy."
Sengkala shook his head slowly, continuing to pound. *Tang-tang-tang.* "Let's just do it, father. But conscience cannot be remolded."
Dewi Laras emerged from the kitchen, carrying a pot of liwet rice and fresh urap. Her hair was starting to turn gray, but her movements were still agile. "Enough, you two. Eat first before talking politics. The plague has spread to the neighboring village—don't add to the burden with empty stomachs."
Sengkala smiled slightly, putting down his hammer. As they ate cross-legged on a pandan mat, the sound of gongs from the palace could be heard again—a call to arms. "That's the third one this week, Mom," said Sengkala. "What exactly are the troops training for? War?"
"Don't speculate, Son," Dewi Laras admonished. "Focus on your work. The kingdom has its own affairs."
"But my work is part of their affairs," replied Sengkala. "If our keris are used by brothers against brothers, can we still say 'it's none of our business'?"
Mpu Wira looked at his son with pride but also concern. "That is a question you will answer yourself one day. I used to ask my father the same thing."
***
That afternoon, Sengkala went to the Trowulan market to buy additional metal. The market was busier than usual, but the atmosphere was tense: Chinese and Gujarati merchants whispered about merchant ships being intercepted by coastal troops, women hoarded rice for fear of a plague spreading, and a group of palace soldiers passed by with new spears—perhaps from his own workshop.
In a corner of the market, he met Jaka, his old friend who was now a delivery man to the northern port. Jaka looked thinner, his eyes sunken. "La! Long time no see. Are you still busy forging iron for the kingdom?"
"Still," replied Sengkala as he bought a bundle of iron bars from a merchant. "What about you? I heard the northern port is crowded with Islamic ships?"
Jaka nodded anxiously. "It's crowded, but it's not ordinary trade. They are bringing scholars, bringing new teachings. People say that Demak and Tuban are starting to build large mosques, refusing to pay tribute to Majapahit. The prince there is said to respect the sultan more than the king in Trowulan."
Sengkala furrowed his brow. "Is the plague also from there?"
"They say so. The ships bring disease and new ideas. The coastal people say Majapahit is old, like a banyan tree with dry roots."
Sengkala laughed bitterly. "Then why does the palace still order heirloom keris? Isn't that a sign that they still have faith?"
"Or despair," replied Jaka cynically. "I heard that the older and younger princes have started sending spies to workshops like yours. They want to know who is most loyal."
Sengkala fell silent, paying for the iron. "If they ask me, what should I say, Jaka?"
"Answer honestly. You are not a soldier. You are a master craftsman. But your conscience belongs to this family and this land, not to any throne."
They parted with a brotherly embrace. Sengkala returned home with his mind spinning: loyalty was no longer black and white.
***
That night, as Sengkala began forging the heirloom keris for Mahapatih, an uninvited messenger from the palace arrived. A man in a fine robe, a thin gold necklace around his neck, stood at the threshold of the workshop with two guards.
"Mpu Sengkala?" he asked directly.
"Yes," replied Sengkala, putting down his hammer but not extinguishing the fire. "A new order?"
"Not an order. But an invitation," said the messenger. "The eldest prince wants to meet you tomorrow morning. He says you are a young master craftsman whose work is very famous. He wants to see the hands that will forge the future of the kingdom."
Sengkala exchanged glances with his father. Mpu Wira nodded slowly. "We respect the invitation."
The messenger smiled faintly. "Only you, Mpu Sengkala. Not your father. The prince wants to speak directly with the new generation."
As soon as the messenger left, Dewi Laras came out of the house, her face pale. "Son, don't go. This is a trap. They are fighting for influence, you could get dragged into it."
"I have to go, Mom," said Sengkala firmly. "Not to choose sides, but to find out. If masters like us remain silent, who will speak for the common people?"
Mpu Wira patted his son on the shoulder. "Go. But remember: your tongue is sharper than your keris. Speak your mind, but don't make empty promises."
***
The next morning, Sengkala dressed modestly—a thin silk sinjang gifted by a merchant, the *Giris Pawaka* dagger at his waist—and entered the prince's pavilion in the outer palace complex. It was a luxurious room: marble floors, walls carved with garuda reliefs, and a thick scent of incense. The eldest prince, a middle-aged man with a stern face and shifty eyes, sat on a small throne, surrounded by advisors.
"Mpu Sengkala," he greeted him warmly but coldly. "I hear you are skilled with your hands. They say you polished the blade of the Mahapatih's keris."
"I am merely my father's assistant, Your Highness," replied Sengkala, bowing deeply and nodding three times.
The prince laughed. "Are you being modest? You know, my youngest brother also ordered a weapon from you. He said you are loyal. I said you are smart. Smart people know which way the wind is blowing."
Sengkala remained calm. "I am loyal to the kingdom, Your Highness. Not to the wind."
The prince narrowed his eyes. "Good. The plague has spread, the coast is rebelling, my younger brother is whispering about 'reform'. As a master, what is your opinion about the future of Majapahit?"
Sengkala took a deep breath. "I think the kingdom is like hot iron: strong when forged correctly, but cracked when struck carelessly. What is needed is not new weapons, but unity from within."
The prince smiled contentedly. "Wise. If you want, tomorrow you can start working at the palace workshop. The salary is three times as much."
"Thank you, Your Highness. I will think about it," replied Sengkala politely, but his heart was racing.
Leaving the pavilion, he met the youngest prince's messenger at the gate—clearly a spy. The pressure was becoming real.
That night at home, Sengkala told his family. "They're fighting over me, father. I'm like a blade they're after."
Mpu Wira nodded. "Your choice now will determine your place in history, Son."
Sengkala knew: the crack had opened. He had to choose: blind loyalty, or wise loyalty. And the fire in his workshop now felt like a metaphor for his own life—simmering, waiting to explode.