In the early hours of the morning, a thick blanket of fog hung low across the valley, enveloping the landscape like the breath of a giant snake lying motionless in a deep slumber. This mysterious shroud, while still draping over the terrain, did little to obscure the sounds beginning to arise from the east—the rhythmic galloping of horse hooves echoing through the mist, heralding the imminent arrival of Purwawisesa's formidable army, which, it seemed, would not be easily challenged. Tragically, Sengkala Village had now transformed into a last bastion of despair, its once vibrant spirit diminished by the weight of desperation. The villagers had hastily constructed a makeshift defensive wall, composed of rotten wood pieced together with rough stones that barely held strong against the elements. Surrounding this pitiful fortification was a moat, which was alarmingly close to being completely dry, yet littered with treacherous traps crafted from sharp thorns, intended to deter any would-be invaders. The village's guard post, perched atop a hill, bore the gruesome scars of the fierce fighting that had raged through the night before, a stark reminder of the battle's brutality and the sacrifices made to protect their home. Compounding their misery was the grim reality that their food supplies had all but dwindled, leaving only a meager assortment of rotten rice and bitter wild roots to sustain them, while a rampant plague threatened to decimate the population, having already claimed the lives of two small children during the previous night. Amidst this profound gloom, Sengkala stood in the village hall courtyard, his body shaking with a high fever brought on by an infection in his wounds, yet he gripped the heirloom keris 'Giris Pawaka' with fierce determination. Encircling him were the 50 remaining village soldiers, their faces pale and gaunt as they awaited orders, each weapon crafted from disparate materials that spoke of their resourcefulness in a time of need, while hundreds of weary refugees watched with despairing eyes, stripped of hope and driven to the brink of surrender.
"Has the letter for Wikramawardhana been sent?" Sengkala inquired hoarsely to Srintil, who had just returned from a perilous journey to the north, a quiver of anticipation rippling through the air as they awaited news.
"Yes, sir. However, the answer... their messenger arrived this morning. They sent 20 troops bearing white flags as a gesture of peace, yet our intelligence indicates that there are 300 additional soldiers concealed behind the forest," replied Srintil, a note of anxiety lingering in his voice.
Lurah, whose leg was now tightly wrapped in dirty cloth due to a serious injury sustained in the previous skirmishes, pressed forward urgently, "Sir, Purwawisesa's troops are encroaching ever closer—should we engage them in battle first?"
Sengkala shook his head slowly, his gaze fixed blankly to the east, as if searching for answers amidst the swirling fog. "No. These two factions are merely playing a game of politics. Purwawisesa seeks to weaken us, paving the way for Wikramawardhana to swoop in 'to save us' and subsequently seize power for himself. We will not fall victim to such a trap."
At that moment, Ki Jaka rushed in, breathless and panicked. "Sir! Messengers from Wikramawardhana have reached the gate! Their leader is Raden Wijaya—the prince's cousin. They are requesting an immediate audience with you!"
Sengkala acknowledged with a firm nod, but Dewi Laras grasped his arm with concern. "Son, you are burning with fever! It would be far better if Suradipa represented you. If you faint before them..."
"I must go myself, Mother," Sengkala replied resolutely. "This is a matter of our village's honor." He began to limp towards the gate due to his injury, followed closely by Suradipa and Lurah, determination etched on his weary face despite the pain.
At the gate, standing in immaculate rows with white flags flying overhead, were the 20 soldiers of Wikramawardhana. Raden Wijaya, a lean man adorned in silk clothing that clung to him from the remnants of the rain, stepped forward, raising a sign of peace as he addressed Sengkala directly. "Greetings, Mpu Sengkala! Gusti Wikramawardhana extends his warm regards to you. We are aware that your village is currently under siege from Purwawisesa. Should you choose to concede control, we are prepared to provide you with protection, along with supplies of food, medicine, and the official recognition of your village as a neutral stronghold."
Sengkala scrutinized Raden intently, his brow furrowing as he slowly began to draw 'Giris Pawaka' partially from its sheath. "Neutral? If you claim to be neutral, why do you not attempt to confront Purwawisesa directly? Why bide your time while our village lies vulnerable and weak?"
With a devious smile, Raden replied, "This is the intricate dance of political warfare, Mpu. Gusti requires a fortified stronghold in the southern region. If you agree to manufacture weapons for us, we will share the spoils of war. But should you refuse... the bandit forces from Purwawisesa will establish dominance first."
Seething with anger, Suradipa retorted, "This is nothing short of a blatant threat!"
However, Sengkala raised his hand to silence her, maintaining his composure. "Inform Gusti that this village belongs to our people, not to the kingdom. We refuse to be mere pawns in your political maneuvers. If Wikramawardhana is indeed a legitimate king, he should demonstrate it by offering us protection without conditions."
Raden shrugged, appearing nonchalant. "The choice remains in your hands." With that, they turned to leave, but Srintil whispered anxiously to Sengkala, "They have left spies behind the barricade."
At that very moment, the sound of horses' hooves thundered ominously from the east, heralding the arrival of Purwawisesa's troops—an imposing group of 400 soldiers, their burning torches illuminating the foggy landscape, and their red cloth flags flapping violently against the wind. From atop his horse, their leader, Adipati Kertabhumi—Purwawisesa's brother—shouted vehemently: "Traitorous village! Surrender the master and the keris of revelation, or your flames shall consume you all!"
Unfazed, Sengkala shouted back from the gate with unwavering resolve: "We possess no revelation! Depart, or you shall experience the searing heat of this village's fury firsthand!"
The battle erupted rapidly, chaos reigning as the first wave of Purwawisesa's forces collided with the defensive line; the clash of spears echoed as screams filled the air. Sengkala valiantly led the charge from the center of the line, wielding 'Giris Pawaka' with precision, successfully striking down four assailants, but the fever clouding his vision hampered his abilities. Beside him, Lurah fell gravely injured, collapsing into the mud of battle.
"Bro! Retreat now!" Suradipa cried out, skillfully stabbing an enemy pursuing Sengkala from behind.
However, the main adversary, Adipati Kertabhumi, leaped from his horse and lunged at Sengkala, the sharp blade of his sword aimed directly at the village defender. "That keris is ours!" A brutal and desperate duel ensued; the enemy's sword managed to slice into Sengkala's shoulder once more—he stumbled, but in his relentless spirit, he struck back, plunging a dagger into the adipati's leg. The enemy grunted in agony and was forced to withdraw.
The village nevertheless managed to withstand the attack—but at an unbearable cost: 20 lives lost, and half of their barricade lay in ruins. Sengkala was carried back to the village hall, barely clinging to consciousness as Dewi Laras rushed to his side, tears streaming down her face as she cared for him anxiously. "Son, you've gone mad! They won't relent, not like this!"
Breathless and frantic, Srintil burst in, "Bro! Wikramawardhana's spies have fled east—they signaled Purwawisesa! They intentionally kept us vulnerable!"
"Both factions are exploiting us! What are we to do now?!" Ki Jaka questioned angrily, frustration etched on his face.
With labored breaths, Sengkala whispered with a dawning determination: "Prepare for a complete evacuation southward. Burn all our food supplies. We will leave this valley barren. They shall take nothing from us."
Mpu Wira, though weak himself, nodded in solemn agreement. "That is indeed a wise strategy... but time is short. They will strike again tonight."
The evacuation of the village commenced with frenzied urgency: women and children were prioritized for immediate transport to the caves in the south, while the soldiers executed their task of igniting the food stores. Through it all, Sengkala was carried away in a weakened state—his mind sharp despite his body's frailty. As flames engulfed the empty village, tearing through remnants of their home, help from Purwawisesa finally arrived—but all they encountered were ruins. Duke Kertabhumi roared with indignation: "Where is the master?! Where is the keris?!"
In the dim, dampness of the southern cave, Sengkala whispered to Lurah, wrapped in sadness yet brimming with resolution: "This is merely the beginning... the shackles of a fallen throne shall pursue us relentlessly."
Tension hung in the air, thick and palpable; the evacuation was executed with almost no time to spare, leaving both enemy camps disillusioned, while Sengkala's life was saved even as the village was lost forever. The shadow of a greater power's pursuit loomed ominously above them, a tangible threat that was far from extinguished.