Flames rose high, engulfing the dark night sky above the capital city of Majapahit. The sounds of screams and the thunder of war echoed throughout the magnificent city, now transformed into a battlefield littered with debris. Amidst this brutal destruction, an old man sat in his dimly lit residence, his eyes staring blankly at the raging fire.
His name was Mpu Sengkala, a royal craftsman who had once been the best maker of keris and spears for the kingdom. His once-deft hands now trembled with age, but his memory remained as sharp as the blades he had made countless times. Sengkala was not a hero, not a nobleman, but a silent witness to the collapse of his ancestors' masterpiece.
He remembered the days when Majapahit was still glorious, when the splendor of the palace and the roar of the royal army enveloped the vast islands of the archipelago. But now, everything was shattered into pieces because of ambition, betrayal, and endless civil war.
"Amuk," thought Sengkala, a word that echoed continuously in his mind. A storm of rage that raged uncontrollably, destroying what had been painstakingly built over centuries. He felt like he was trapped in a cruel vortex of time, where loyalty was tested and the future was threatened with extinction.
Amidst the smoke and ruins, Sengkala clung to one last hope: the immortality of history, written not only by victors and kings, but by ordinary people like himself who survived and continued to record the madness of this century.
With trembling hands, he began to write, leaving behind a story that would burn the souls of those who read it in the future—a record that would endure far beyond the fury of this fire.
***
In the corner of the workshop, illuminated by the light of a lantern, Mpu Sengkala examined the heirloom keris he had just finished. Its blade gleamed sharply, displaying intricate carvings and an eye-catching pattern. Every curve and contour seemed to hold a story—a story of courage, betrayal, and blood shed for the crown.
But that night, the keris felt different. It was more than just a weapon. It was an invisible symbol of fragile loyalty and burning ambition.
The two princes who were about to fight for the throne began to move in the shadows. The two brothers, who were supposed to be of the same blood, were now entangled in intrigue and deceit. From behind the palace walls, whispers of murder and betrayal echoed louder than the drumbeats of war that were beginning to be heard.
Sengkala knew that his weapon would not last long in peace. He heard whispers that this keris could be an instrument of destruction, not just a symbol of power.
Suddenly, someone knocked on the workshop door anxiously. A spy from the rebels, or perhaps a messenger who would change his destiny? Sengkala held his breath, knowing that every step he took now would carve his destiny and test the meaning of loyalty in the vortex of time that was about to break.
The moment the door opened, the shadow of a dark and stormy future was already waiting on the threshold.
***
Sengkala stared at the darkening sky, where thick smoke from the city fires slowly drifted into the air. He knew that these fires were not only burning wood and stone, but also burning the future of his kingdom, which had survived for centuries.
He recalled the words of his old teacher—that the true source of a kingdom's strength lay not in weapons, but in loyal hearts and minds. Yet now, that loyalty was fractured, and the bitter taste of betrayal lingered in every corner of the city.
Amidst the ruins and cries, Sengkala promised himself that he would survive, not as a maker of swords for civil war, but as a witness who recorded the ravages of time. His weapons might enable war, but his hands now sought to write the history that had been neglected: the stories of the little people who were never seen in the official records.
One of the messages brought to him underscored the gravity of the situation. If his keris fell into the wrong hands, not only would the kingdom be destroyed, but the entire balance of the archipelago would be threatened with ruin in bloodshed.
With a heavy heart, Sengkala locked his workshop and stepped onto a path filled with intrigue, conflict, and choices that would change him forever.
***
Night was deepening as Sengkala turned to look at the workshop, now tightly shut. On the wall hung the weapons he had once made—keris, spears, and sturdy swords. These objects silently held a history that never spoke of the blood and tears behind their gleam.
His heart was heavy, burdened by the weight of loyalty that was beginning to crumble. He was not part of the kingdom, but merely a craftsman behind the scenes. However, he knew that every swing of his hammer and every sacrifice he had made was now at stake in a conflict that would tear apart his family and his people.
Sengkala understood one thing: nothing is eternal, not even the greatest glory. All that remains are memories and stories that must be passed on so that the mistakes of the past are not repeated.
He lit a stick of incense, exhaling a long breath into the cracks that split his heart and history.
"This is not the end, but a new beginning," he murmurs softly, gazing at the shadows slowly fading from his eyelids.
His steps must now be heavy yet certain—choosing between remaining loyal to a fragile past or seeking a new path in the midst of the raging storm.
***
The rain fell heavily, soaking the rocky road leading to Mpu Sengkala's residence. The sound of the raindrops was like the chanting of an ancient poet, singing the rhythm of extinction that slowly crept into the veins of the kingdom. Every drop that touched the ground was a reminder of everything that was slowly but surely fading away.
Inside the house, Sengkala sat pensively in front of his wooden table covered with notes and sketches of weapons. Last night, he received news that the deadly plague was spreading, ravaging the city's residents and weakening the royal army.
Not only that, rumors of rebellion and treason were growing, enveloping the palace in a fog of suspicion. The once mighty king now looked like a shadow of his former self, and the princes were preparing to seize power by any means necessary.
Sengkala took a deep breath, massaging his temples, which were beginning to ache. He knew that the future no longer lay solely in the hands of kings and princes, but also in the hands of ordinary people struggling to survive and find meaning in the collapse of the old world.
This was the song of extinction that he must hear and record, so that future generations would know that history did not belong only to the conquerors, but also to those who survived the ravages of time.
With renewed determination, Sengkala relit his lantern, stared at the sketch of the keris he had made, and prepared himself to face the approaching storm.
***
In the midst of a starless, dark night, a small lantern in Mpu Sengkala's workshop was the only source of light. The flickering glow of the fire reflected the inner turmoil hidden deep in the old man's heart.
Each blow of the hammer on the iron anvil not only created a weapon, but also carved out a destiny. A fate that would not only determine the survival of a kingdom, but also the life of its creator himself.
He was aware that the future that once lay wide open now presented a terrifying shadow of death and destruction. Yet it was from that darkness that humans found the courage to survive and choose their path.
Sengkala stared at the keris lying before him, as if expecting an answer from the earth and iron. Slowly, he picked it up, feeling how behind the steel lay blood and betrayal, dreams and destruction.
"If I must be a witness, let my record be a small flame that ignites awareness in the darkness," he whispered softly, piercing the cold night.
***
Shortly after the morning sun began to reveal its first rays, Sengkala received an unexpected guest—a messenger with a gloomy but mysterious face. His face was clouded with worry, as if he carried a message that could change the fate of the kingdom.
"Minister, a coup is about to break out. Two princes are preparing to seize power by dishonorable means," said the messenger softly, his voice almost a whisper.
Sengkala looked at the messenger with heavy eyes, knowing that his role was no longer just a weapon maker, but also a keeper of secrets that could paralyze the kingdom.
He recalled the weapon he had just finished crafting—clear and sharp, yet it might become the blade that cuts through the life of his own brother.
"Time and history will record what we do next," Sengkala murmured, bearing the invisible weight—the burden of loyalty and choice.
***
Night once again enveloped the city in turmoil. Sengkala stood on the riverbank, staring at the reflection of the firelight dancing on the calm surface of the water. It was as if he were witnessing a vision of a future filled with rage and destruction.
In his hand, he clutched a small piece of iron, the remnant of the last weapon he had made for the kingdom that was about to fall. The last ember of fire still burns, but it will soon be extinguished by the fierce winds of a changing world.
"If the end of this kingdom is near, let me be a witness to the unwritten history," Sengkala's inner voice echoes in the silence, piercing the stillness of the night.
He realized that his journey had only just begun—a winding path filled with difficult choices, betrayal, and the desire to find the true meaning of loyalty amidst the unstoppable chaos.
With steady steps despite the weight he carried, Sengkala turned away from the river, ready to face the storm that would shake his life and the civilization around him.