The sound of gamelan (traditional Javanese orchestra, composed of gongs, metallophones, and drums) echoed faintly through the halls of the kraton (royal palace), a melody meant to soothe the morning court. Yet beneath the gilded rafters and carved teak beams, the air was sharp with unease.
The nobles sat in rows along the sides of the great hall, their silk robes shimmering in shades of gold, indigo, and crimson. Their jeweled kris (ceremonial daggers, symbols of power and heritage) gleamed at their waists. They bowed deeply as the young king, Hayam Wuruk, entered, but their eyes betrayed unease some even fear.
News of yesterday's decree had already spread like wildfire through Trowulan (Majapahit's capital city). That the king had slashed the tax burden of peasants with a single sentence such boldness shocked them.
For generations, taxation had been the nobles' lifeblood, the veins from which they drank wealth and influence. To touch it was to touch the very core of their power.
Yet this morning, the new king strode into the hall with measured calm. His robe of white silk trailed behind him, embroidered with golden threads of the Garuda (mythical bird symbolizing divine kingship), the emblem of his rule. His eyes, sharp and calculating, swept across the court as if weighing each man's worth.
He moved not as a boy king but as a sovereign born of iron.
"Rise," he said. His voice was soft, but it carried across the hall with a finality that brooked no disobedience.
The nobles obeyed, their motions stiff. Some dared not meet his eyes. Others glanced sidelong at one another, silently measuring where loyalties might shift.
From the far end of the hall stepped a figure whose presence silenced even the faintest murmur: Gajah Mada, Mahapatih (prime minister and military commander) of Majapahit. His dark skin and broad shoulders carried the aura of a man who had fought on battlefields and bent kingdoms to his will. His eyes, however, remained inscrutable, reflecting neither approval nor dissent.
Adrian now Hayam Wuruk smiled faintly. At last, a worthy opponent… or ally.
"Mahapatih," the king greeted.
"Your Majesty," Gajah Mada bowed, his forehead nearly touching the floor. His voice was deep, resonant, and heavy with unspoken weight. "The court awaits your command."
Hayam Wuruk studied him for a long moment. He recognized the man from history legendary, unyielding, the architect of the Sumpah Palapa (Palapa Oath, Gajah Mada's vow to unify the Nusantara/archipelago under Majapahit). A figure revered in the ages to come.
But history was no longer fixed. With Adrian here, destiny itself had shifted.
"I have seen the city," the king said. His words dropped into the hall like stones into water. "I have seen our people."
The courtiers stirred uneasily.
"I saw hunger in the eyes of children. I saw peasants bent under the weight of levies that enrich not the crown, but the coffers of corrupt men." His gaze swept across the hall like a blade. "That will end. From this day forth, the burden of the people will be lightened, and the hand of justice will be heavy upon those who exploit them."
A noble in a red robe, Lord Kertadarma, stepped forward, bowing low. His voice was honeyed, but his eyes flashed with indignation. "Your Majesty, forgive this humble servant, but to alter the ancient decrees of taxation… is dangerous. Our neighbors, the petty kingdoms of Java, watch us closely. Wealth funds soldiers, soldiers secure borders. To lessen the flow of tribute is to weaken Majapahit."
Murmurs of agreement followed. Some nobles nodded vigorously. Others remained silent, wary.
Hayam Wuruk tilted his head, studying Kertadarma as a chess master might study an opening move.
"And tell me, Lord Kertadarma," he said softly, "is Majapahit strengthened when its children starve? When its farmers flee their lands because their bellies are empty? Or when its people whisper curses against their rulers in the dark?"
The noble faltered, his mouth opening and closing like a fish.
The king's smile did not reach his eyes. "Majapahit's strength does not come from the fat of nobles. It comes from the blood of its people. And I intend to see that their blood is shed in labor for the kingdom, not in suffering for your greed."
The hall fell silent.
At last, Gajah Mada stepped forward, his expression unreadable. "Your Majesty speaks with passion," he said slowly. "But passion alone does not build kingdoms. Decrees must be enforced. Laws must be written. Without structure, justice is but a shadow."
Adrian's lips curved upward. Here was the test.
"You are correct, Mahapatih," he replied. "Words are wind unless carved into stone. That is why I will not only decree I will build."
He turned, addressing the hall. "A new law will be written. Every tax collector will be bound by it. Those who break it will face trial not by whim, but by codified law."
The nobles exchanged startled looks. Written law? In a time when authority flowed from the mouths of kings and ministers, such permanence was rare, even dangerous.
Hayam Wuruk's voice hardened. "Majapahit will not be a kingdom of whispers and bribes. It will be a kingdom of order."
For the first time, Gajah Mada's eyes sharpened with interest. He bowed deeply. "Then, Your Majesty, perhaps your reign may truly rival the ancients."
Adrian leaned back into his throne, satisfaction curling in his chest. He had not only declared his will he had measured Gajah Mada's response. The Mahapatih was cautious, skeptical, but not opposed. A seed of respect had been planted.
And seeds, Adrian knew, could grow into weapons far sharper than any blade.
---
The court dispersed at last, the nobles bowing low before retreating from the hall. Their footsteps echoed against the stone floors, fading into murmurs and whispers that carried beyond the gilded doors.
Hayam Wuruk remained seated upon his throne, his eyes narrowed. He could read the faces as easily as he read lines on a chessboard. Some bowed too deeply, masking resentment. Others kept their eyes low, hiding calculation. The decree had struck them not as justice, but as an assault upon their wealth.
Good. Let them bleed.
He turned his gaze toward Gajah Mada, who still lingered near the throne.
"You disapprove?" the king asked quietly.
The Mahapatih inclined his head. "I neither approve nor disapprove, Your Majesty. A ruler must see further than a single move. You lessen the tax today. But tomorrow, when enemies rise and armies must be fed, where will the silver come from?"
Adrian Hayam Wuruk leaned forward, his eyes glinting. "Silver will come from where it should have always come: from trade, not from the marrow of starving peasants."
For a moment, silence stretched between them. Then, to Adrian's surprise, the shadow of a smile touched Gajah Mada's lips.
"Then Majapahit may yet grow stronger than I dreamed," the Mahapatih murmured. He bowed again, then departed, his heavy steps echoing through the emptying hall.
---
Outside, in the shaded pavilions of the alun-alun (public square before the palace), groups of nobles gathered in hushed circles. Their faces were painted with smiles, but their voices dripped with venom.
"This king insults us," Lord Kertadarma hissed, his jaw tight. "Does he think himself wiser than the elders of this realm?"
"He is but a boy," another sneered. "Yesterday he played at catur (Javanese chess), today he plays at kingship. He will learn soon enough that the game devours its own pieces."
"But the Mahapatih…" one voice whispered uneasily. "He stood with him."
A silence fell. The name of Gajah Mada carried weight that none dared dismiss.
Kertadarma's eyes hardened. "The Mahapatih is but a man. All men can be swayed or broken. If the king chooses law over loyalty, then perhaps… we must remind him where true power lies."
Their circle tightened, whispers turning into plots, seeds of rebellion sown in the fertile soil of greed.
---
That evening, Hayam Wuruk walked the inner gardens of the kraton. The air was heavy with the scent of kenanga (ylang-ylang flowers, used in Javanese rituals), their pale petals glowing under the lantern light. Servants trailed behind him at a distance, too afraid to draw near.
He paused beside a stone pond where koi swam lazily beneath the moon's reflection. His hand traced the polished railing, his mind turning not on fish but on men.
"They conspire already," he whispered. "Their fear is their weakness. They cling to silver, blind to the tide that will sweep them away."
In his past life, he had played this game many times. Corporations, boards of directors, rivals who plotted in shadows. He had crushed them not with brute force, but with patience, manipulation, and the slow tightening of laws and contracts until they strangled themselves.
Now, in this kingdom of earth and blood, the rules were different but the game was the same.
A servant approached timidly, bowing. "Your Majesty… Mahapatih Gajah Mada requests a private audience at dawn tomorrow."
Adrian's lips curved into a smile. "Good. Let the pieces move as they will. I will move faster."
His reflection stared back at him from the pond young, regal, a king draped in silk. Yet in his eyes burned the same ruthless fire that had once built empires of steel and glass.
This was no boy king.
This was a predator learning the shape of his new hunting ground.
And soon, Majapahit itself would learn what it meant to kneel before Hayam Wuruk.
---