The rain, which had poured mercilessly for days, had finally ceased, but the bitter cold that followed clung to the air, sinking deep into the flesh and seeming to pierce through to the very bone. A thick, soft morning fog now cloaked the valley, shrouding it like a heavy gray curtain, obscuring the jagged rows of cliffs and the towering trees that loomed like silent, ominous giants in the twilight. Beneath this oppressive gray canopy, the village of Sengkala lay in a state of alarming desolation and ruin: stilt houses scarred and half-consumed by fire littered the landscape, ditches filled with a grim mixture of blood and mud provided a haunting reminder of recent violence, while the potent smell of iron, mingled with the strong, acrid aroma of lingering charcoal from fires that had long since been extinguished, hung thickly in the air. The oppressive dark of the starless night had finally passed, yet it left in its wake a morning that marked the onset of a new chapter characterized by profound uncertainty, one that was both feared and anticipated by the villagers.
Sengkala, whose body was tightly wrapped in rough bandages thick with the remnants of his battle wounds, sat pensively on the weather-beaten porch of the village hall. He winced occasionally, feeling the intense ache still radiating through his shoulders, but despite his physical discomfort, his gaze remained sharp and alert, always on the lookout for even the slightest change outside. The village seemed to pulse with a palpable tension; the men of Sengkala were industriously busy repairing the collapsed bamboo barricades that had once stood proud, the women were occupied with drying wet clothes and tending to the wounded, while the children sat quietly in the corner, their small bodies tense and cheeks wet with unshed tears, staring blankly at the sky, each pair of eyes filled with a deep-seated despair that belied their youthful innocence.
"They say... is it true that Purwawisesa's troops have retreated?" asked the village head, his voice trembling slightly as he painstakingly rearranged the nearly empty rice sacks, the remnants of their once-ample stores dwindling to almost nothing.
"Not yet," replied Sengkala quietly but with a confidence that belied his youth. "What we managed to defeat yesterday was only a faction of bandits—former members of their army who have since scattered. The core of the Purwawisesa army remains in the north. According to a report relayed to me by Srintil, they are now entrenched in the Goa Jalatunda highlands, which lies approximately two days' journey from here."
Lurah throat tightened, and his face instantly darkened with concern. "So, they're not through with us yet," he murmured, the weight of the revelation hanging heavily in the air.
"Not yet," Sengkala responded, his gaze drifting to a broken tree branch swaying gently in the distance, his expression morphing into one of melancholy. "And when they do return, they will come with even greater vengeance."
At that moment, Dewi Laras stepped softly from behind the door, her nurturing instinct on full display as she lovingly carried a bowl of warm ginger and turmeric concoction. "Drink this first, son. If your wounds are not treated carefully with warm drinks, your condition could worsen considerably," she urged in a soft voice infused with maternal concern. However, a palpable bitterness lingered beneath her words—she understood all too well that her son was unlikely to find peace anytime soon.
Sengkala met her gaze momentarily, offering a faint smile in acknowledgment of her love and care, but also of the reality that he could not ignore. "Mom, if I were to stop now, many of us may never see another morning in this village. We cannot afford to rest."
"You are not a god, son," Dewi Laras countered gently yet firmly, her voice steady and filled with wisdom. "You are merely human. Let the younger generations take up the arms meant for this fight."
Sengkala surveyed the scene around him. The village youths, always referred to as the "young," appeared frail; their skin had gone pale from a lack of nourishment, their hands trembled with uncertainty, and some among them were barely more than teenagers. "They are fighting because I can still stand," he replied solemnly after a lengthy pause, a somber tone lacing his voice. "If I fall, I fear their already wavering confidence will be utterly shattered."
Yet it was during the noon hour when Srintil burst into the village hall, breathless and covered in mud, her expression grave. "I saw them, Sengkala. The Purwawisesa army is gathering in Jalatunda. I counted more than I had anticipated."
"How many are there precisely?" asked Ki Jaka, a mix of curiosity and rising anxiety evident in his tone.
"A thousand, perhaps even more. They no longer refer to themselves as the 'Purwawisesa army.' Now they go by the ominous name of the 'Sacrificial Offerings,'" she declared, her voice laced with dread.
Sengkala's brows knit together in deep concern at the weighty name. "What does that name signify?" he inquired, his curiosity mingling with trepidation.
Srintil met Sengkala's eyes with a serious and profound gaze. "They believe that your family's heirloom keris—'Giris Pawaka'—is the original keris of Majapahit, crafted with the sacred blessings of the God of Fire during its inception. They are convinced that if they are able to seize it, they will receive a divine revelation assured of victory."
The room fell into a heavy silence, the implications of her words settling like a thick fog. Ki Jaka—who had always placed his faith solely in tangible assets like land and metal—rubbed the back of his neck, clearly wrestling with confusion and doubt. "That's just superstition," he finally responded, skepticism lacing his tone.
"For those who are ravenously hungry and desperate for power, superstition often serves as a catalyst for unspeakable acts," Sengkala retorted bitterly, his mind racing with implications.
The village chief turned his worried gaze toward their steadfast leader, reeling from the weight of realization. "So, they did not merely come seeking provisions. They have come here to... 'find you,'" he surmised, a cold chill running down his spine.
Sengkala rose slowly, ignoring the sharp pain that shot through his shoulder. "In that case, what they will receive is not my head, but a stern lesson instead."
"Son," Dewi Laras interrupted urgently, her voice rising with concern, "what are you planning to do?"
"If they come searching for me, I will demonstrate that this keris is not a divine revelation, but in fact serves as a stark warning," he responded, staring intently at the gleam of 'Giris Pawaka' resting in his hand. "They seek fire, and in turn, I will ignite it until they feel the searing heat it radiates."
In the oppressive afternoon, against a sky heavy with gloom and foreboding, Sengkala gathered all the young men and former soldiers in a small field directly in front of the village hall. The village women observed anxiously from a distance, their faces betraying their worry, while the children quietly hid behind the rice barns, their hearts filled with trepidation. Sengkala, standing resolutely in the center of the gathered crowd, held 'Giris Pawaka' up confidently as he prepared to share his intentions.
"Listen closely, everyone!" His voice rang out, forcefully cutting through the thickening fog that clung to the valley. "Last night, we triumphed in battle, but the cost of our victory was steep—bloodshed, wounds, and an unforgivable toll of loss. Tomorrow night, they will assuredly return—the Tumbal Pusaka army, a fearsome thousand who strongly believe that this iron," he raised his keris high to emphasize its presence, "will absolve them of their defeat!"
The air ignited with angry cheers in response, fueling Sengkala's resolve as he continued. "They deem this object sacred! But you, my people, are infinitely more sacred! You are the ones who remain alive, the very ones who protect the children and elders within this village. If this dagger is lost, we can forge another from the fires of desperation. But if your spirits are extinguished, our existence is finished."
A voice arose from the ranks, belonging to Ki Jaka who shouted with fervor, "What is our plan, bro?"
Sengkala's gaze fixed on the map that lay spread out before him. "We cannot hope to fight a thousand men on equal footing. Thus, we must use our intimate knowledge of the terrain to our advantage: traps shall be set, smoke shall manifest, and nightmares will be created. We will transform our valley into a hellish landscape for them."
He pointed decisively at a location on the map. "Lurah, prepare to dig a large trench here and fill it with oil and sap. Jaka, assemble a group of 20 men to craft arrows from bamboo. Srintil, coordinate five messengers to take a route south should this village fall into their hands."
A voice rang out from the crowd, quavering with fear and uncertainty, "And if they demand the keris, Mpu?"
Sengkala paused for a moment, his thoughts weighing heavily on him, then he replied softly but with unyielding conviction, "If they approach with fire, I will forge them into iron."
Night descended quickly, surrounding the village as thick clouds obscured the stars, and the air grew cold enough to chill even the warmest of souls. The village fell eerily silent, a haunting stillness that seemed to resonate with the hearts of its inhabitants—only the gentle sound of light rain dripping from the eaves broke the quiet. Sengkala sat contemplatively in front of a small stove, cradling 'Giris Pawaka' in his lap. He meticulously wiped the blade of the keris with a white cloth, each stroke infused with solemnity, then whispered softly, almost as if speaking to the weapon itself.
"I crafted you to protect our people, not to spill blood indiscriminately. Yet, it appears this world has become too chaos-driven to comprehend such a distinction."
Dewi Laras, her heart heavy with concern, took a seat beside her son, drawing near with her love palpable in the close space. "Son, if they capture you, will you submit?"
Sengkala's gaze remained fixed on the flickering flames, the firelight reflecting the turmoil in his heart. "This keris cannot simply be surrendered. If it falls into the clutches of Tumbal Pusaka, they will only harness its power to ignite a new cycle of war. But if they take my life, let my name serve as a final warning of the glory of Majapahit that shall not be forgotten."
In the dim light of the house, Mpu Wira's voice floated in softly, calling out to Sengkala, "Son... I can discern the sound of horses' hooves approaching."
With urgency, they both leapt to their feet. The sound grew louder—the rapid, rhythmic hoofbeats of many horses pounding against the earth, resounding like an approaching storm. Srintil came rushing from the guard post, her face a mask of alarm, shouting in desperation, "Sengkala! They are advancing quicker than anticipated! One platoon has already breached the fog!"
The loud clang of the gong reverberated through the village—'TANG! TANG! TANG!'—a clear signal that peril had arrived. The village sprang to life from its slumber, soldiers grabbed their spears with alacrity, and the women swiftly secured their children in the southern cave as fear overtook them.
"To the west post!" Sengkala commanded, voice ringing with authority. "Light the smoke signal now, immediately!"
Suradipa rushed to the forefront of the barricade, urgency evident in his report, "Sir, they are not wielding torches—they are masking themselves among the thickness of the fog!"
"All the better for us," Sengkala muttered quietly to himself as he lifted his bow, determination radiating from him. "Let them stumble blindly into the darkness they have wrought for themselves."
Drap! Drap! Drap!—the unmistakable sound of booted footsteps squelching in the mud grew ever closer. Amidst the fog, Sengkala's vision began to sharpen, allowing him to discern the looming silhouettes: a line of shadowy figures piercing through the mist, armed dangerously with spears and daggers. The Sacrificial Offerings had arrived with the intent to bring destruction upon them.
Sengkala drew a deep breath, his heart steady in its resolve, then raised his hand high. "Now, everyone stay in position until I give the signal!"
As the thick fog wrapped around the village in a tight embrace, the first discernible silhouettes emerged from the north—faces smudged with soot and grimy clothing hanging in tatters, yet their eyes burned fiercely bright with a wild, frenzied light. Together, they shouted a single refrain that reverberated endlessly in the night, "Surrender the dagger! Surrender the revelation of Majapahit!"
The cry echoed across the valley, like a spell from another world attempting to reshape reality itself. As soon as the first line of attackers stepped into the prepared trench—the oil trap meticulously laid by the village chief—a trap snapped perfectly into action.
Sengkala lowered his hand. "Now!" he commanded.
The village chief hurled a torch constructed of dry materials into the trench—'BOOM!' Flames erupted violently into the air, engulfing dozens of attacking soldiers in its ferocious grasp. Ear-piercing screams of agony punctuated the air, the heat merging seamlessly with the heavy humidity of the rain-soaked evening, as the sky transformed to a fierce orange glow resembling the fires of hell.
Srintil's roar echoed from the hill, reaching Sengkala's ears, "Bro, they're still coming! More than before!"
A bitter smile crept across Sengkala's lips. "Good! The more that advance, the quicker this blaze will consume everything!"
And thus, under a night where flames danced around the valley's edges, the great war commenced—a conflict that intertwined the remnants of Majapahit's glory and the dark shadow of madness that relentlessly pursued the sacred keris as its elusive aspiration. Amidst the tumult and chaos of battle, a certainty ignited within Sengkala's heart: even if the world crumbled into ruin by dawn, the fire he ignited tonight would continue to burn fiercely and would be immortalized in memory, etched forever in the annals of history, never to be diminished or forgotten.