As the vast expanse of the sky spread out like an enormous canvas above the quaint village valley, it slowly transitioned from the warm and characteristic orange hues of a tranquil dusk to the thick, impenetrable darkness of the encroaching night, akin to a heavy black blanket enveloping the earth in its somber embrace. Yet, amid this transformation, a strong and haunting red glow emanated from the northern horizon, marking the catastrophic fires that raged in Trowulan, now engulfed in a furious blaze—a ghastly sight that resembled an open wound, raw and bleeding, that resisted any semblance of healing. Standing resolutely at the edge of the forest, Sengkala, a resilient man in his late thirties with the weight of responsibility etched into his features, found himself flanked by the sagacious village leader, Lurah, and Ki Jaka, a crucial figure in their community. The three men cast their eyes toward the swirling smoke that twisted and billowed aggressively into the night sky. Their peaceful village, previously a sanctuary for weary travelers, had unexpectedly become a refuge for hundreds of displaced individuals who continued to stream in from afar. The once-quiet night was shattered by the heart-wrenching cries of infants, the hushed whispers of desperate prayers brimming with hope, and the unsettling creaking of carts burdened with makeshift belongings, all filling the thick silence that hung heavily over the valley like a dense fog.
"Brother, this situation has escalated beyond our initial expectations. This is no longer merely a routine militia training exercise," murmured Lurah, his voice barely rising above a whisper, while his hand clutched tightly around the simple yet sturdy wooden spear that Sengkala had crafted from scraps of metal he had scavenged. "This involves the king's very city. If the fire manages to spread and reaches this area..."
"There will be no crossing of fire today," Sengkala asserted with a strong resolve, his gaze unwavering as it remained fixed on the distant horizon, a fierce determination shining in his eyes. His rugged physique still bore the marks of a hard life, even as the lines etched into his face spoke volumes of his experiences filled with escape and the weariness of long days spent toiling in the fields. His sinjang, a traditional garment, clung to him, damp with sweat, while his trusted weapon, *Giris Pawaka*, rested securely at his waist. "However, we must prepare for tomorrow. We will transform the village hall into a fortified guard post, utilizing the barn to store crucial food supplies. And you, Lurah, must teach the village youths how to adeptly handle basic weapons to defend ourselves."
Ki Jaka, who had recently taken on the mantle of leadership among the influx of refugees, nodded in agreement with a serious expression. "Currently, there are approximately 200 individuals congregated here, Mas. Many among them are former soldiers who have found themselves disarmed and vulnerable. They have heard whispers that Wikramawardhana has emerged victorious from the battle at the central palace, but Purwawisesa has set fire to his own retreat. Chaos reigns now, as bandits and rogue troops roam freely, sowing fear and despair."
With each word from Ki Jaka, Sengkala's fists clenched tighter, igniting an inferno of determination and resolve within him. "Tomorrow morning, we will gather everyone. I will assign tasks: those strong in body will stand guard at the perimeter of our village, the sick will receive proper care, and the children must be taught the art of concealment in times of danger. Additionally, under the veil of night, we will dispatch spies toward the north."
Lurah regarded Sengkala with surprise, realization dawning upon him as his eyes widened. "Whom do you intend to send, Bro? Are you planning to go yourself?"
"No. Instead, you will lead with two young men known for their speed and agility. Equip yourselves with a white cloth, a symbol of peace. Your mission is crucial: ascertain whether the fire has been completely extinguished or if there are stubborn strongholds that still linger," Sengkala instructed, his voice steady and resolute.
As they finished their conversation with a brief prayer for guidance and protection, they began to disperse, each man focused on his preparations for the dire circumstances looming just on the horizon. Sengkala made his way back to the stilt house that also served as home to Dewi Laras and the wise elder Mpu Wira. His mother welcomed him with a loving gesture, handing him a steaming bowl of hearty corn porridge. "Eat first, Son. Your complexion looks as pale as iron that has been overheated," she noted with motherly concern.
Seated at the table, Sengkala began to eat slowly, taking time to savor the nourishment while contemplating the gravity of the situation that surrounded them. "Mother, Father... It is possible that tomorrow marks the complete fall of the city. The refugees speak of a palace that is now completely encircled. Discord among the princes has led to utter chaos, and the innocent populace are left to bear the weight of their conflict."
Mpu Wira, though frail and aged, retained a sharp and insightful gaze as he clutched his cane tightly. "I warned you many years ago: great ruins often begin with the smallest of cracks within the palace walls. Tomorrow, Wikramawardhana may ascend to the throne, but mark my words, Purwawisesa will not remain quiet. And what of the coast? They are poised to take control of the remnants that remain."
Dewi Laras, overwhelmed by anxiety, wept softly, her voice barely a quiver against the troubled night air. "Are we truly safe here? This village is hidden from public view, yes, but is that enough?"
"We will find safety here—though only for a transient period," Sengkala reassured her. "Yet, if the chaos persists and spreads, bandits will not differentiate between us as masters and simple farmers. We must prioritize the safety of as many individuals as we can."
As Mpu Wira gazed at his son, a mixture of pride and hope filled his eyes. "You have evolved beyond the role of a royal master, Son. You are now the leader of this village. So, what is your plan going forward?"
Rising from his seat, Sengkala retrieved a meticulously drawn map, its details reflecting his dedication and forward thinking. "This valley possesses two exits: one leading north toward the danger of the city—and that is fraught with peril—and the other south toward the relatively safer interior. At dawn, we will assemble to construct a barricade of thorny bamboo along the northern path, dig trenches, and set simple traps for any potential intruders. Those equipped with weapons will be divided into two groups: one will remain vigilant through the night while the other rests to regain their strength. However, as for me... I shall venture into the city before sunrise."
With a white-knuckled grip filled with anxiety, Dewi Laras held his hand tightly, her worry evident. "This is madness! You are courting death itself, are you not?"
"I do not aim to die, Mother. My objective is to seek out any remaining family or friends so we can mount a rescue. I must return with accurate information—who has triumphed, who has retreated. The refugees require hope above all else, not just unfounded rumors," he replied insistently.
Mpu Wira nodded thoughtfully, granting his son his blessing. "Go. But take *Giris Pawaka* with you. Not for the intent of killing, but as a reminder of who you are and what you stand for."
In a tender moment, Sengkala embraced them both firmly, taking solace in their presence before stepping into the dark night that surrounded him, stretching out like an endless void, accompanied only by the twinkling of stars and the ominous glow of distant fires. He gathered the crucial leaders among the refugees in the village hall—former soldiers, resilient farmers, and courageous women whose bravery had been tested through myriad trials.
"Listen carefully!" His voice rang out, firm and commanding, cutting through the tension that held the room captive. "Tonight, we all must stand guard and protect this sacred village. In the morning, Lurah will spearhead the construction of barricades, while Ki Jaka will oversee the procurement and distribution of food supplies. I will embark on the journey to the city and seek out the news that we desperately need. Who among you will join me in this perilous undertaking?"
An experienced old soldier raised his hand quickly, filled with determination. "I will, Mpu. Your sword spared my life once before."
Two young men soon joined the testament of courage. "We stand ready to follow."
A detailed plan was etched into the dirt beneath their feet: a strategic guard post was set to rise upon the hill overlooking their precious home, a signal fire was to be lit three times if danger approached, and an evacuation route leading south was meticulously prepared. With renewed fervor in their hearts, they each departed to fulfill their roles.
As dawn broke gently over the horizon, Sengkala, joined by Suradipa and the two young men, advanced cautiously toward the north. The dense forest surrounding them was thick with the acrid smoke that hung heavily in the air. Upon reaching the outskirts of the city, horror met their eyes; houses lay in ruins, burned to nothing but ashes, the streets littered with corpses devoid of life, and the once-majestic temple wall stood in shambles, half collapsed under the weight of destruction. Distant, faint screams reverberated, contributing to the atmosphere of horror that weighed on their very souls.
"Suradipa, do you still recall the back channels that lead into the city?" Sengkala inquired softly, his tone tinged with urgency.
"There exists a narrow alley leading toward the old market. Follow my lead," Suradipa replied resolutely.
The four men maneuvered swiftly and silently, an intricate dance amidst danger. As they arrived at the marketplace, chaos reigned; panicked masses fled with their valuables clutched tightly, while soldiers clashed brutally with their own kin, igniting a volatile inferno that consumed every stall with insatiable flames. It was in this maelstrom that they came face to face with a band of merciless bandits—former soldiers who had relinquished their oaths to become enemies of the state.
"Stop right there! Where do you think you are going, empty-handed?!" barked the imposing figure of the bandit leader, gripping an antiquated sword with a vice-like grip.
In response, Sengkala drew his *Giris Pawaka*, the glint of steel shining defiantly in the harsh light. "We seek our family. Allow us passage; we have no quarrel with you."
The bandit let out a derisive laughter, echoing through the chaos. "Everyone has business with us! Attack them, you fools!"
In an instant, a fierce clash erupted. Sengkala moved with agility and precision, slashing through two bandits as his years of crafting weapons translated into a superior understanding of combat. Suradipa successfully struck another adversary, but amidst the tumult, one of the young men sustained a serious injury, even as he managed to escape the fray alongside the others.
"Quickly, retreat to this alley!" Sengkala called out, leading the way as they fled, all while witnessing the horror unfolding around them: the palace loomed in the distance, entirely engulfed in flame, and the ominous sound of explosions rang out as gunpowder detonated in a deafening cacophony.
Behind the crumbled wall, they discovered several survivors laying low, among them Jaka and the beloved Ms. Sari, battered and bruised yet alive.
"La! You finally arrived!" Jaka exclaimed as relief washed over him. "The city has descended into chaos; internecine warfare among princes has left the innocent trapped in their fury. Plague and famine have accelerated destruction's voracious pace."
"We must escape immediately. Our village remains safe, sheltered from this nightmare," Sengkala urged. "Gather what you can carry; we leave now."
Though they successfully evacuated around twenty people, the relentless bandits pursued them relentlessly. Deep within the forest, Sengkala found himself facing the bandit leader one-on-one in a climactic confrontation.
"You are reputed as a master among your kind! Your weapons are coveted by all!" the bandit taunted, a sneer of contempt marring his features.
"True weapons serve not as instruments of theft but as tools for protection!" Sengkala countered passionately, the two men dancing amid the fray in a desperate duel. The *Giris Pawaka* was deftly unleashed, cleaving through the air to sever the bandit's hand, but Sengkala too sustained a painful wound to his shoulder in the heated exchange.
Finally, the bandit withdrew in fear, disappearing into the depths of the wilderness. The group of survivors ultimately found their way back to the village, met with an outpouring of emotion and jubilation as they returned home. Dewi Laras rushed forward, her expression marred with concern as she tended to Sengkala's injuries.
"You have truly lost your mind, La," Jaka replied, his voice filled with worry. "Yet, your audacity saved us all."
"This may only be the genesis of what lies ahead," Sengkala remarked, his gaze resolutely fixed northward. "The violence we witnessed is far from over."
Within the village, now transformed into a resolute fortress, Sengkala was appointed leader—a role filled with both honor and insurmountable responsibility. The night still cloaked the land in darkness, yet the flickering light of palm oil candles continued to burn brightly, a powerful symbol representing the unwavering flicker of hope that still persevered, shining defiantly against the shadows of despair.