The sun had only just risen over Trowulan, painting the horizon in warm gold, when the hum of the market began. The air was thick with the mingling scents of grilled fish, fresh herbs, and the earthy aroma of woven bamboo baskets. For generations, this marketplace had been a place of barter, deception, and silent suffering. But today, something was different.
Whispers traveled faster than the smoke from the morning hearths.
"They say the Paduka Rajasanegara (Your Highness, a title of deep respect) has ordered changes in how taxes are collected."
"Impossible. Do kings care about us peasants?"
"Care? No. But I heard he ordered the officials to stop demanding bribes. Someone even said the tax rate will be fixed, written down, and posted for all to see!"
The disbelief hung heavy in the air, but behind the skepticism, there was a spark a fragile hope.
---
At the far end of the market, a small rice vendor named Wira carefully adjusted his stall. For years, he had been forced to pay bribes to collectors who demanded "extra fees" beyond the official dues. Each season, he watched his profit shrink, leaving barely enough to feed his family. But today, when the tax officer arrived, something startling happened.
The man simply counted Wira's sacks, tallied the proper rate, and left without demanding more. No sly smirk, no greedy hand lingering for a hidden payment.
Wira stood frozen, his heart pounding.
"That that was it? No more?"
For the first time in years, he felt as though a heavy chain had slipped from his neck.
---
Inside the palace, Hayam Wuruk sat silently in his private chamber, listening to reports brought by a young scribe. The boy read nervously, his voice trembling.
"My lord, the markets in Trowulan show improvement. Several traders expressed shock at the new regulations. Some even dared to hope. Yet the officials seem restless. They obey, but they grumble. Many fear their profits are slipping away."
Hayam Wuruk leaned back, his fingers drumming lightly against the carved teak armrest. His sharp eyes narrowed.
"Good," he said coldly. "Let the people breathe. Let them taste fairness, even if only a morsel. It will bind them to me more surely than chains. As for the officials"
He let the words hang in the air, then smiled, a thin and calculated curve.
"a starving wolf is more dangerous than a fat one. Let them grow desperate. I want to see who dares to bite."
The scribe swallowed hard, lowering his gaze.
---
Outside, beyond the palace walls, the market's chatter grew louder. Rumors turned into stories, stories into fervent tales. Some swore that the young king was different from his predecessors, that he had the heart of a lion. Others claimed it was all a trick, a fleeting act before corruption returned.
But beneath the doubt, the whispers carried weight.
The name Rajasanegara began to pass from mouth to mouth not just as a title of respect, but as a name woven with cautious admiration.
And in the silence of his chamber, Hayam Wuruk knew the first stone had been cast into the pond. The ripples would spread.
---
In the grand hall of Trowulan, the mood was far less cheerful than in the bustling market. Rows of nobles and administrators sat stiffly, their silken robes shimmering under the torchlight. Yet behind the surface beauty lay unease resentment that gnawed like worms in rotting wood.
One older official, Patih Wiranatha, leaned toward his peer and muttered, "This boy king plays with fire. Does he think stripping us of our collections will make the kingdom stronger? Without tribute, how are we to maintain our influence?"
His companion, a gaunt man with shrewd eyes, replied in a whisper, "Hush. Speak too loudly and you may find yourself accused of disloyalty. Did you not hear? The Paduka Rajasanegara (Your Highness) has eyes and ears everywhere."
They fell into silence, but their clenched jaws betrayed their fury. For centuries, officials had profited from hidden levies, invisible to the crown but crushing to the common folk. To see those privileges dismantled in a single decree was nothing short of an insult.
---
Far from the murmuring nobles, in the private strategy chamber, Hayam Wuruk studied a wooden board etched with lines an imported chess set he had commissioned. The carved pieces gleamed, each painted with meticulous detail. He moved a rook forward, his fingers steady.
Across from him sat Gajah Mada, his expression unreadable.
"Do you see it, Mahapatih?" the king asked quietly. "The officials are unsettled. Their grumbling spreads faster than the reforms themselves."
Gajah Mada's deep voice rumbled like distant thunder.
"Yes, Paduka. They resent the loss of their privileges. But resentment can be useful, if guided."
Hayam Wuruk's lips curved in a cold smile. He tapped the knight, then shifted it into a position that threatened his opponent's queen.
"Exactly. Let them conspire, let them bare their fangs. When they do, we will know who deserves loyalty and who deserves the noose."
The Mahapatih studied the board, then glanced at his king. "You play a dangerous game. Even a pawn, underestimated, can end a king."
"True," Hayam Wuruk admitted, eyes gleaming. "But I am no ordinary king. I am both player and board. If they seek to topple me, they will only find themselves trapped in my design."
The silence stretched, broken only by the clink of carved wood as Gajah Mada finally moved his piece. The game continued, each shift echoing the greater game of power that unfolded outside the chamber walls.
---
Back in the city, torches flickered as the market wound down. Traders packed their wares, yet conversations lingered. Sura the rice vendor sat with his neighbor, a fishmonger, under the glow of an oil lamp.
"What do you think, Sura? Will this new rule last? Or will they find another way to bleed us?"
Sura stared at the darkening sky, recalling the tax officer's surprisingly brief visit. For the first time, he had brought home more rice than he expected. His children laughed as they ate. His wife smiled without fear.
"I don't know," Siraa admitted softly. "But if this is truly the work of our Rajasanegara, then perhaps we should believe in him."
A fragile hope took root, small yet stubborn, like grass pushing through stone.
---
But far away, in the shadows of a noble's residence, a different seed sprouted.
Three men gathered in secrecy, their voices hushed but their intent sharp.
"The boy grows bold."
"He threatens our wealth."
"And worse he makes the peasants love him."
There was a pause, then a chilling conclusion.
"Then we must remind him that a king, no matter how clever, is still mortal."
The candlelight wavered, throwing long, distorted shadows across the chamber walls.
The first conspiracy had begun.