The morning sun filtered through the lattice windows of the kraton (royal palace) of Majapahit, casting long bars of light across the polished wooden floor. Servants bustled quietly in the corridors, carrying trays of fruit and steaming bowls of rice. The air was heavy with the scent of sandalwood incense, a fragrance meant to soothe but Adrian, now Hayam Wuruk, found no comfort in it.
He had spent the night replaying every face he had seen in court. Their expressions of fear, anger, calculation. Already, he was mapping them as if they were chess pieces: pawns eager for coin, knights loyal only to their clans, bishops blinded by faith. He could crush them in time. But before the court, before the nobles, there was another battlefield one far larger.
The people.
He rose from his seat, draping a robe of crimson silk over his shoulders. The fabric shimmered, embroidered with golden threads that depicted the Garuda (mythical bird in Hindu epics, symbol of divine kingship). It felt heavy not from its weight, but from the expectations it represented.
"Prepare a carriage," Adrian ordered. His voice was calm, yet it carried the authority of one who expected obedience.
The chamberlain hesitated. "Your Highness… a carriage? May I ask"
"I wish to see the city." Adrian's gaze hardened. "With my own eyes."
The man bowed quickly, hiding his unease. Princes did not wander the capital without reason. But this prince was no longer the boy they thought they knew.
---
The streets of Trowulan (capital city of Majapahit) unfolded before him. Unlike the grandeur of the palace, the city bore the marks of both prosperity and decay. Clay houses stood shoulder to shoulder, their thatched roofs sagging. Narrow canals cut between streets, carrying both water and waste. Merchants called out from wooden stalls, selling rice, spices, and dyed cloth.
But Adrian's sharp eyes saw deeper.
Children with bare feet and hollow eyes loitered near the market, begging for scraps. Farmers carried baskets of rice so heavy their shoulders bent, only to be halted by pajeg (tax collectors) dressed in silk finer than the peasants could ever afford. Coins changed hands, and the peasants bowed with trembling spines.
"Your Highness," the chamberlain said nervously, "perhaps we should return. These streets are… unworthy of your"
Adrian raised a hand, silencing him. He stepped down from the carriage, ignoring the gasps of servants and guards. His sandals touched the dusty street as the people shrank back in fear and confusion. A prince among beggars was a sight no one expected.
He walked slowly, his gaze sweeping over the crowd. A woman knelt suddenly, clutching a thin child to her chest. "Forgive us, Your Highness," she stammered, pressing her forehead into the dirt.
Adrian studied her. her ragged clothes, her trembling frame. He glanced at the pajeg standing nearby, his silk robes gleaming, his fat fingers clutching a wooden ledger.
"How much did you take from her?" Adrian asked, his tone quiet, almost gentle.
The tax collector blinked in confusion. "Y-Your Highness… it is the standard levy, as decreed"
"Answer me." Adrian's gaze turned cold.
The man swallowed. "Half her harvest, Your Highness. As is required."
Half. Adrian's jaw tightened. In his past life, he had crushed unions and exploited workers without remorse. But here, in this body, in this kingdom, he saw a different board. The nobles and officials bled the people dry, not to strengthen the state, but to feed their own greed.
He turned back to the woman. "What is your name?"
She trembled. "S-Sri, Your Highness."
Adrian nodded slowly. "Sri. Feed your child. From this day forward, no collector takes more than a third of a farmer's yield. Any man who demands more…" His eyes slid to the pajeg, who flinched under his gaze. "…will answer to me."
Gasps rippled through the crowd. The tax collector dropped to his knees, sweating. "Your Highness, forgive me I only followed the decree"
"Then consider this your only warning," Adrian said. His voice was calm, but final. "Disobey me again, and the law will decide your fate."
The crowd stared, wide-eyed. For the first time in years, someone had spoken against the injustice they endured daily. Fear lingered in their eyes, but so too did a spark of hope.
Adrian returned to the carriage, his robe brushing against the dirt. As the horses pulled them onward, he watched the city unfold the suffering of the poor, the arrogance of the wealthy, the silent despair that hung like a fog.
They are blind, these nobles. They think power comes only from the court. But true power… He looked once more at the peasants bowing in the distance. …is forged in the hearts of the people.
He leaned back, his lips curling into a faint smile.
"If they see me as cruel," he whispered to himself, "let them. I will be cruel to my enemies. But to the people… I will be the king they never dreamed of."
The smile sharpened, a predator's grin.
"And when they love me, when they kneel not from fear but from loyalty… then nothing in this world will stand against me."
---
The kraton (royal palace) was a world apart from the streets of Trowulan. While peasants starved, the nobles dined on spiced meats and sweet palm wine, their laughter echoing through gilded halls. The walls were painted with murals of gods and kings, and the air smelled of jasmine instead of sweat and dust.
Yet that night, the laughter was strained.
Whispers had raced through the corridors long before Adrian returned. The prince had left the palace unannounced. He had walked among commoners. Worse he had interfered with tax collection.
When Adrian entered the audience chamber, he found the ministers already gathered. A dozen men in silken robes embroidered with golden threads rose to bow, though their eyes betrayed their unease. At the center stood Mahapatih (Prime Minister) Gajah Mada, his sharp gaze fixed on the young ruler.
"Your Highness," one of the pajeg ministers began, his voice dripping with false humility, "I have heard troubling news. It is said that you lowered the tax without consultation. Surely, this is a misunderstanding?"
The chamber filled with murmurs of agreement. Adrian studied their faces. These men were not servants of the kingdom they were parasites fattened on the blood of peasants. In his past life, he had dealt with boardrooms full of men like them. The only difference was the robes.
He strode to the throne and sat, letting the silence stretch. When he finally spoke, his voice was calm, yet edged with steel.
"There is no misunderstanding. I gave the order myself."
Gasps rippled through the chamber.
Another minister stepped forward, his round face red with outrage. "Your Highness, this cannot stand! Taxes are the lifeblood of the kingdom. Without them, how will we maintain the Bayangkara(royal army)? The palaces? The temples of the gods? You risk"
"Enough."
The single word cut through the noise like a blade. Adrian's gaze locked onto the minister, who froze under the weight of it.
"Tell me," Adrian continued softly, "how much of those taxes truly reach the army? How much builds the palaces? How much feeds the priests? And how much lines your pockets?"
The minister opened his mouth, but no words came. Sweat glistened on his brow.
Adrian leaned forward. "I saw a mother today. Her harvest stripped bare, her child starving. You would call this stability? I call it rot. And rot spreads until the whole tree collapses."
Murmurs rose again some angry, others uneasy. Only Gajah Mada remained silent, his eyes narrowed in thought.
Adrian stood. His voice carried across the chamber, cold and merciless.
"From this day forth, no pajeg may levy more than a third of a farmer's yield. This is law. Not suggestion. Not favor. Law. And let it be known any man, noble or otherwise, who breaks this law will face trial. If guilty, he will pay with his life."
The chamber fell into stunned silence. Law had always been a weapon for the strong, bent to their will. But here stood a prince declaring it as something higher, untouchable even above the nobles themselves.
The red-faced minister finally found his courage. "Your Highness, this is reckless! You would strip us of our privileges, of centuries of order"
Adrian's gaze sharpened. "Privileges? Order?" He stepped down from the dais, each word laced with venom. "What you call order is nothing but tyranny dressed in silk. And as for privileges…"
In one smooth motion, he drew the ceremonial keris (wavy-bladed dagger believed to hold spiritual power) from his waist. The blade gleamed under the torchlight.
"…those can be cut away."
He pressed the keris against the minister's throat. The man froze, eyes wide with terror, as the chamber gasped.
"Break the law," Adrian said softly, almost like a whisper of death, "and I will personally see your blood spilled upon these floors. Do not test me."
For a long moment, the only sound was the crackle of torches. Then, slowly, Adrian lowered the blade and returned to the throne.
"Majapahit will not be built upon greed," he declared. "It will be built upon law. Upon strength. Upon vision. Those who stand in the way whether noble, priest, or peasant will be crushed."
Silence. Then, reluctantly, the ministers bowed, though resentment simmered in their eyes. They could not defy him not now.
But Adrian knew their type. They would scheme in shadows, whisper in corridors, wait for the moment to strike. He welcomed it. Let them play their games. He had spent a lifetime mastering games of power.
As the chamber emptied, only Gajah Mada lingered. The old statesman studied him for a long moment, then gave a faint smile.
"You have changed, Your Highness," he said quietly. "Perhaps for the better. Or perhaps…" His smile sharpened. "…for something far more dangerous."
Adrian returned the look, unflinching. "Dangerous to my enemies. Loyal to my people. That is enough."
Gajah Mada bowed slightly, then departed, leaving Adrian alone in the torchlit hall.
He sat in silence, the keris still in his hand. Its blade caught the firelight, flickering like the hunger in his eyes.
A king loved by his people, feared by his nobles, and hated by history itself.
That was the path he had chosen.
And he would walk it without hesitation.