The morning after the assassination attempt, the market of Trowulan buzzed with life as if daring fate itself. Merchants shouted, weighing rice, spices, and woven cloth. Farmers brought baskets of fruit, while blacksmiths displayed gleaming keris (traditional Javanese dagger, symbol of authority and spiritual strength).
Yet beneath the noise, unease lingered. Guards now walked the stalls, their spears glinting in the sun. Mothers pulled their children closer, and traders glanced nervously at strangers.
Hayam Wuruk arrived not in secret this time, but openly, seated beneath a canopy carried by royal attendants. His presence alone stilled the market. Traders bowed, farmers knelt, and voices hushed into reverent silence.
He raised a hand. "Stand, all of you. A market is no place for silence. Let the voices of trade rise again."
Slowly, chatter returned, though all eyes still followed him.
Beside him, Gajah Mada leaned close. "Paduka, the people's hearts are with you now. Strike while the iron is hot. Win not only their loyalty, but their trust."
Hayam Wuruk nodded. His gaze swept across the market stalls he saw cracked scales used to cheat buyers, taxes collected without record, and merchants forced to bribe petty officials to keep their place.
This is the lifeblood of Majapahit, he thought. If the lifeblood rots, the body will wither.
He turned to the crowd, his voice strong. "From this day, the market shall change. No man shall take more than what is just. No tax shall be hidden, and no bribe shall be demanded. Trade shall flow with fairness, for a kingdom built on lies cannot stand."
The people murmured in astonishment. Some smiled, others exchanged doubtful looks. They had heard promises before, yet none had lasted.
But the king was not finished.
"I will send scribes to write records of every coin collected. Those who cannot read shall have their words spoken and stamped. Cheating scales will be broken, and honest merchants will be protected. This I vow as your Paduka, your servant and your ruler."
The crowd erupted. Farmers lifted baskets high, traders bowed until their foreheads touched the ground. The word "Paduka" (a term of high respect for a ruler, meaning "your feet" as a symbol of humble reverence) echoed again and again, a chant rising from the people like a tide.
---
That evening, back within the palace walls, Hayam Wuruk sat at his chessboard once more. The day's memory still burned in his mind the faces of the market, lit not by fear, but by fragile hope.
The people are like pawns, he mused, moving a piece forward. Individually weak, yet together they hold the line. If I strengthen them, they will not merely guard the kingdom, they will become its foundation.
Gajah Mada entered, bowing slightly. "The council stirs uneasily. They say your decrees are bold too bold."
Hayam Wuruk smiled faintly. "Then let them stir. I would rather the council fear change than the people despair of hope."
The Patih studied him, pride hidden behind his stern face. "Your path is dangerous, Paduka. Nobles fatten themselves on these markets. To strike at corruption is to strike at their feast."
"Then let them choke on their feast," Hayam Wuruk replied coldly. His eyes hardened. "Majapahit will not rot under my rule. If they wish to resist, I will show them the law is sharper than any keris."
Gajah Mada inclined his head. "Then I shall see to it that the law has teeth."
For the first time, Hayam Wuruk allowed himself a small, grim smile. The reforms had begun not with bloodshed, but with ink, parchment, and the courage to break tradition.
And he knew this was only the first step.
---
The council chamber was quieter than usual. Torches crackled along the stone walls, casting long shadows that flickered like restless spirits.
One by one, the nobles took their seats, their faces polished into masks of courtesy. Yet beneath the surface, tension brewed.
Arya Wiraja broke the silence first. His voice dripped with calm reproach. "Paduka, the market is not a playground for kings. Your decree may win cheers from farmers and fishermen, but it insults the order that has long kept Majapahit prosperous."
"Prosperous for whom?" Hayam Wuruk countered, his tone sharp. "For the people who sweat in the fields, or for the lords who skim silver from their labor?"
The words landed like arrows. Several nobles shifted uncomfortably, while others clenched their jaws in barely concealed anger.
Arya's lips curved into a faint smile. "Majapahit stands because each branch takes its share. If you strip the branches, Paduka, the tree may wither."
Gajah Mada's voice cut in like thunder. "A tree rots from within when worms eat its heart. If corruption festers in the markets, the kingdom's foundation will collapse long before its branches break."
The chamber filled with murmurs, some voices rising in agreement, others whispering dissent.
Hayam Wuruk raised a hand, silencing the room. "Let it be known Majapahit shall have a council of scribes, chosen not by noble blood, but by skill. They will oversee the records of trade and tax. No bribe will pass without their ink catching it."
A noble scoffed. "Common scribes, ruling over lords?"
"Not ruling," Hayam Wuruk said coldly. "Recording. For too long, shadows have hidden theft. Ink will bring light."
The declaration was clear: from now on, knowledge and record keeping would stand as weapons as sharp as steel.
---
Later that night, in his private chamber, Arya Wiraja sat brooding. His servants poured him palm wine, but he barely touched it.
"Damn him," he muttered. "The boy dares to chain us with scribes? To humiliate us before farmers and peasants?"
One of his confidants leaned close. "Shall we stir the other lords? They will not stand by while their coffers are bled."
Arya's eyes gleamed in the lamplight. "Yes. Let the young king drown himself in ink and parchment. We will remind him that power does not rest in scrolls, but in the steel of keris and the weight of gold."
---
Meanwhile, Hayam Wuruk walked the palace corridors, the air heavy with the scent of burning incense. His steps led him to the library, where ancient palm leaf manuscripts lay stacked in woven bamboo cases.
He brushed his fingers across the brittle scripts. So much wisdom lies silent because the people cannot read. Knowledge hoarded is power wasted.
Turning to Gajah Mada, who followed silently, he said, "We will need not just scribes, but schools. If the people remain blind, the law will remain in the hands of the few."
The Patih regarded him steadily. "Such a vision will shake the very pillars of the kingdom. Nobles thrive on ignorance."
Hayam Wuruk's jaw tightened. "Then ignorance will no longer be their shield. If Majapahit is to endure, it will not be through superstition or corruption, but through law and learning."
The flicker of torchlight danced across his eyes, making them burn like embers. For the first time, his dream extended beyond survival, beyond power it reached toward something greater, something that could outlive even him.