Chapter 07: The Flower of the Forest Hermitage

7.1: Behind the Palace's Grandeur

The morning sun had just managed to chase the last remnants of mist from the peak of Mount Kawi when the clatter of hooves and the jingle of weapons broke the silence of the Tumapel palace courtyard. A hunting party, not large but heavy with the aura of power, was preparing to depart. At its head, Kebo Ijo sat proudly upon Guntur Geni. The mighty black stallion, which in any other's hands would rage like a tempest, now stood calm and majestic, as if aware it carried a great commander. Behind him, a few of Kebo Ijo's trusted officers, including Wirang and Panji Laras, followed on their own sturdy steeds, their armor glinting in the morning light.

And at the very rear, separate from the splendor, walking alone on foot, was Gajah. Arok's new name had now clung to him, a mask that was at once comfortable and suffocating. With his head perpetually bowed and a contrived expression of obedience, he led a packhorse laden with rolled tents, waterskins, and other provisions. His lowly position, ironically, was the most strategic. He was the shadow that accompanied the light—present but ignored, hearing but unheard.

As the procession moved slowly from the formidable main gate of the palace, Arok allowed himself a moment to observe. This was the first time he had been outside the suffocating palace complex after a long time confined within his role. He used the opportunity to see the real world again, the world that was the very reason he was here.

Along the main roads, wide and paved with neat stones, he saw the familiar sights: low-ranking officials bowing respectfully as the party passed, merchants hastily clearing their goods for fear of being trampled, and the children of nobles gazing in awe at the gallant knights. It was an orderly scene, an illusion of prosperity and order.

But Arok knew how to see beyond the illusion. His trained eyes searched for the cracks in the grandeur. And he found them.

As the procession turned a corner, he glanced into a narrow alley squeezed between two lavish homes. There, in the filthy shadows, he saw a group of thin children, their skin dull with grime and malnutrition. Their bellies were swollen, an ironic sign of starvation, and their large eyes watched the procession with a vacant, hopeless stare. They no longer had the energy even to feel envy.

The sight was a sharp slap to Arok. He remembered his own childhood, the gnawing hunger, the feeling of being refuse, disregarded by the world. The fire that he had lately used more for strategy and intrigue now roared back with its purest heat. The heat of rage against injustice.

Further on, he saw a patrol guard viciously kick over the begging bowl of an old, blind man. The few copper coins scattered across the ground, and a jeering laugh escaped the guard's mouth as he watched the beggar grope in the dust, his trembling hands trying to gather his only possessions.

Arok clenched his fists behind his back, his nails digging into his palms. He had to swallow the impulse that urged him to leap forward and crush the guard. He had to remember his role. He was Gajah. A meaningless servant. He could only bow his head deeper, letting the scene burn a new wound in his heart, a wound that would fuel his resolve.

He saw a chasm so deep it could never be bridged. On one side was the palace, with its feasts, silk robes, and empty laughter. On the other side were the people, with their empty stomachs, tattered clothes, and tears that had long run dry. And he, Arok, now stood in the middle of it all, living in the luxury he despised, for the sake of the oppressed he fought for. The irony tasted like bitter gall on his tongue.

The party finally left the clamor of the city, entering the rural roads leading towards the Wanamarta Forest. The journey took several hours. During that time, Arok resumed his mask perfectly. When the party paused to rest under a shady tree, he was the busiest of all. He deftly fetched waterskins for the officers. He took a wet cloth and tenderly wiped the dust and sweat from Guntur Geni's body, whispering calming words to the horse. He performed all these small tasks without complaint, an unfailing, obedient smile on his face.

This demeanor made him nearly invisible to the officers. They regarded him as little more than a piece of furniture, a tool that functioned well. And feeling safe in the presence of a servant they deemed a fool, they began to speak more freely, releasing the frustrations they had long suppressed within the palace.

"This forest feels more pleasant than the palace," said Panji Laras, a young, slender officer, as he stretched his body. "At least out here, we don't have to worry that a stray word will cause our heads to roll."

Wirang, who had been staring silently into the distance, grunted softly. "You're right. In the palace, even the walls have ears. Especially the ears of Commander Dangkang."

"Hush! Don't speak that name here!" Panji Laras cut in, glancing around nervously as if expecting Dangkang to emerge from the bushes. He then continued in a whisper, "I heard the Akuwu was furious again yesterday. One of his new consorts, a girl from Candi Renggo village, accidentally spilled wine on his grand robe."

Arok, who was re-tying a saddle strap, sharpened his hearing.

Wirang laughed without humor. "I know how that story ends. The poor girl is surely languishing in the dungeon by now, waiting for her fate to be decided by the mercy of a crocodile."

"It's nothing new," Wirang added, his grim face darkening further. "To the Akuwu, the life of a servant is cheaper than a single silk thread. I sometimes wonder, are the gods truly blind to let this continue?"

Kebo Ijo, who had been silently cleaning the tip of his spear, finally spoke. His voice was heavy with exasperation. "Watch your tongues. We are here to hunt, to forget the sickening affairs of the palace for a moment. Don't bring that foul air here."

Though his words were a reprimand, Arok could detect a deep note of frustration and resignation. Kebo Ijo, the arrogant commander, clearly felt the same rot. He simply chose to ignore it, drowning it in his duties and personal ambitions. He was loyal to his position, to his status as a commander, but Arok knew his heart was no longer fully loyal to the man, to Tunggul Ametung. This was a crucial note Arok filed away in his mind. The cracks in Kebo Ijo's soul were deeper than he had imagined.

After a short rest, the party continued. The closer they got to Wanamarta Forest, the wilder and more deserted the landscape became. The once-busy road was now a narrow footpath.

When they finally arrived at the edge of the forest, they were greeted by a line of giant trees that seemed to form a foreboding natural gate. The sounds from within the forest were a clamorous symphony of wild life, at once majestic and dangerous.

Camp was quickly set up on a flat piece of land sheltered by several large boulders. Attendant soldiers deftly pitched tents while the officers began to inspect their bows, arrows, and spears. A bonfire was lit, its smoke curling towards the sky, a marker of human presence in the territory of wild beasts.

Gajah's duty, as instructed, was to guard the horses and the entire camp. He had to ensure the horses remained calm, were well-fed and watered, and that no wild animals dared approach. He was left behind with a few other low-ranking soldiers, while Kebo Ijo and the main officers ventured into the forest to begin their hunt.

For Arok, this was an invaluable opportunity. Left alone, far from the supervision of the high-ranking officers, he could move more freely. He could be himself, if only for a moment.

But he was a patient strategist. He did not act immediately. He waited. He let time pass, letting the low-ranking guards with him become lax. For the first few hours, he played his part perfectly. He fed the horses, cleaned the dirty equipment, mended a slightly torn saddle. He did it all with a diligence that made the other soldiers see him as a hardworking and slightly dim-witted servant.

As the afternoon began to wane, and he was certain that no eyes were truly watching him, the real Arok began to emerge from within Gajah. He felt a call from the wild, a primal urge he had long suppressed within the suffocating walls of the palace.

With the excuse of needing to gather more firewood, he asked for permission from the low-ranking guard in charge. The soldier, who already considered Gajah harmless, just waved his hand dismissively.

With movements that made no sound, Arok slipped away from the camp. He did not enter the dense forest like Kebo Ijo's party. Instead, he walked along its edge, heading in the opposite direction. His wild instincts, sharp as a wolf's, told him there was something in this direction. Not the vibration of a beast of prey, but something else. Something that radiated a powerful and strange aura of tranquility, a stark contrast to the ferocity of Wanamarta Forest.

He walked on, guided by that feeling. And he did not know that his steps were not leading him to firewood, but towards the gate of his new destiny, a destiny that would change the entire course of his struggle.

***⭐⭐🇮🇩🇮🇩⭐⭐***

7.2: A Voice from a Hidden Heaven

Ken Arok moved through the twilight stillness. Each step was a whisper upon a carpet of dry leaves. He had left the clamor of the camp far behind, allowing himself to be swallowed by the tranquility of nature, a feeling so familiar yet long lost. Here, under the canopy of giant trees that soared like pillars of the heavens, he could shed the heavy mask of Gajah. He could be Arok again, a son of the mountains who understood the language of the wind and the rustle of leaves.

His sharp instincts continued to guide him, pulling him in a curious direction. The farther he walked, the stronger he felt an inexplicable aura of peace. The usual chorus of forest insects, normally boisterous, sounded softer here, as if lulled by the serenity that enveloped the place. Even the air he breathed felt cleaner, purer, as if sanctified by an unseen force.

After nearly an hour of walking, passing over a small ridge thick with tall grass, he finally arrived at a place that stopped him in his tracks. His heart, which usually beat to the rhythm of a warrior, seemed to pause for a moment, captivated by the scene before him.

In a small, hidden valley, sheltered by lush trees and natural rock walls, stood a hermitage. It was unlike any hermitage he had ever imagined. There were no grand gates or fortified walls. The buildings were simple, made of beautifully arranged yellow bamboo and old teak wood that looked to be centuries old. Its dark palm-fiber roof blended perfectly with the shadows of the trees.

The wide, clean courtyard was landscaped with an unpretentious beauty. Green grass spread like a carpet, and in several corners grew clumps of colorful flowers: jasmine spreading its sweet fragrance, vibrant red hibiscus, and other wildflowers whose names Arok did not even know. A small, clear stream flowed through the yard, creating a soothing murmuring sound before ending in a lotus pond whose water was as clear as a mirror.

The atmosphere of the place was so serene, so sacred. It felt as if this place were a fragment of heaven fallen to earth, protected by the mantras of the gods from all the corruption and violence of the outside world. An unbearable curiosity overcame Arok's caution. Who could be the pure-hearted soul capable of creating such a hidden heaven so close to the hell of Tumapel?

With steps lighter than the breeze, he drew closer. He saw no guards, no disciples practicing martial arts. Everything seemed open, as if welcoming any who came with good intentions. He hid behind a large, shady Nagasari tree, which gave him a perfect view of the hermitage's main pavilion.

And that is when he heard it.

A voice.

The voice came from the pavilion, drifting gently, parting the twilight silence. It was the voice of a woman, humming a song. Not a majestic hymn of praise, nor a cheerful folk tune. It was a tembang macapat, an ancient epic poem sung with a tone full of wuyung—a deep, melancholic longing and an infinite sadness.

⭐🎼🎼🎼🎼⭐

(Verse 1) A classic verse from the Serat Wedhatama to begin, showcasing her deep knowledge of high literature, before she transitions to her more personal composition.

"Turn away from evil,

For the sake of the people's freedom,

The official song is sung,

The sacred book is sung,

The great knowledge of the great science is revealed,

Which is true in the land of Java,

Religion is of great value."

(Verse 2 - Ken Dedes's Personal Composition)

"The twilight clouds frame this heart of mine,

Why does this soul feel a sorrow so keen,

Staring at the gray threads of fate's design,

Woven with worries of what will be and has been,

A shadow looms at the edge of time,

Will it come as a master, wise and serene,

Or a tempest that brings a tragic scene?"

(Verse 3)

"The garden flowers bloom with fragrant art,

A butterfly dances on a silent stem,

But in this soul, a lonely, empty heart,

Like the moon that wanders all alone,

Waiting for a dawn that will not start,

Within the confines of divine decree,

When will this spirit ever be free?"

(Verse 4)

"I gaze at the water, in the pond so clear,

My pale face reflected, a haunting guise,

But behind it, a foreign feeling is near,

A great destiny that shadows my skies,

Bringing a throne and a sharp-edged spear,

Blood and tears that endlessly rise,

Oh, Great One… is there no other prize?"

(Verse 5)

"This humming is not a joyful song,

But the whisper of a long, silent wait,

For a knight, I know not where he belongs,

Who will come to bring freedom from this fate,

Or will he instead bring ruin and wrong,

In a vortex of fire and sacrifice great,

Only silence answers, sealed and straight."

⭐🎼🎼🎼🎼⭐

Arok stood frozen. He, who was raised in the wild and was more accustomed to the roar of a tiger or the cry of an eagle, had never heard anything so beautiful. The voice was so clear, so melodious, it seemed to come not from a human throat, but from the strumming of celestial harp strings. Each note felt like a drop of morning dew falling upon his parched soul, cleansing every speck of hatred and fatigue that clung to him. He felt as if the entire burden he had carried for so long was lifted for a moment, carried away on the wings of that heart-wrenching song.

The voice seemed to have a magical power, drawing him to see its owner. With his heart pounding with an emotion he did not recognize, he shifted his position slightly, peeking through the leaves.

And there he saw her.

In the simple wooden pavilion, kneeling before a traditional loom, was a young maiden. The sight hit Arok with a force more powerful than the strongest blow he had ever received. Time seemed to stop. The entire universe around him vanished. There was only her.

Her jet-black hair, as dark as a starless night, cascaded freely down her elegant back, shimmering in the last rays of the twilight. A few stray strands fell to frame her oval face, a face that seemed to have been sculpted by the god of love himself from the purest marble. Her dark eyebrows curved beautifully like a crescent moon. Her eyes, though focused downward on the threads of her loom, looked large and serene, holding an unexpected depth. Her fair, golden-brown skin was so smooth and flawless, it seemed to radiate a soft light from within.

She was weaving. Her slender, nimble fingers moved with incredible speed and grace, inserting and pulling colorful threads, creating an intricate and beautiful pattern. Every movement was a dance, a harmony of gentleness and diligence. And from her small, pomegranate-red lips, the sad song that had enchanted Arok's soul continued to flow.

But it wasn't just her physical beauty that made Arok forget to breathe. It was the aura that enveloped her. A very complex aura. There was the purity of a hermit, the intelligence of a scholar, and most powerfully, an aura of sorrow so deep, so dense, it was as if she carried all the suffering of the world on her fragile shoulders. She was an impossible fusion of the most sublime beauty and the most silent grief.

As Arok remained transfixed in his fascination, a small miracle occurred. A giant butterfly, with wings the color of shimmering sapphires, flew in circles above the maiden's head, as if dancing to her song. Strangely, the girl did not seem surprised. She paused her work for a moment, lifted her face, and extended her slender index finger into the air.

The butterfly, tamely, landed on her fingertip.

And at that moment, the maiden smiled.

That smile... Oh, Gods. That smile was the most beautiful thing Arok had ever seen in his life. It was not a coy smile or a polite one. It was a smile born from the purest depths of the heart. A smile so sincere, so warm, that Arok felt as if the sun had risen again in the twilight sky. That smile seemed to possess the power to make the flowers in the garden bloom all at once, to make the water in the pond cease its rippling.

Arok stood petrified behind the Nagasari tree, his breath caught in his throat. A strange, unfamiliar feeling coursed through his veins. He was a man whose life had been carved by violence and battle. He knew the smell of blood better than the scent of flowers. He understood the language of the sword more fluently than the language of a smile. But here, before this simple scene—a maiden, a butterfly, and a smile—his entire harsh world seemed to crumble. He felt like a traveler who had walked a thousand miles through a fierce desert and finally found a clear spring. His thirst was so overwhelming that he was afraid to approach, afraid that this was all just a mirage that would vanish if he blinked.

A piercing question suddenly arose from the deepest part of his soul. Was it for this that he fought? All this time, he had fought for abstract concepts: justice, liberation, resistance against tyranny. Those concepts gave him strength, gave him a reason to kill and to lie. But now, he saw something far more tangible. He saw a peaceful life, a pure beauty, a harmony worth protecting. His struggle, which had always felt like a destructive storm, now seemed to have a new purpose. No longer just to destroy what was rotten, but to protect what was sacred like this. To protect that smile so that it would never fade, to protect that song so that it would not be silenced by the marching of soldiers.

His mind unconsciously compared the maiden before him with the women he had seen in the palace. Tunggul Ametung's consorts, with their glittering clothes and abundant jewelry, seemed like proud but empty peacocks. Their smiles were masks, their laughter a stratagem. They were beautiful, but their beauty was cold and lifeless. Whereas this maiden, in her simple clothes and without a single piece of jewelry, radiated a light a thousand times brighter. Her light came from within, from a pure soul in harmony with nature. He realized, this was true beauty. Beauty that could not be bought with gold or seized with power.

Arok completely forgot who he was. He had found something he had never searched for. He came to Tumapel to seek justice, to seize power. He never knew that in a remote corner of this land, a treasure far more precious than any throne was hidden. A hidden heaven, and in the middle of that heaven, enthroned, was an angel humming a sad song.

Arok did not know how long he stood there, hypnotized by the sight. Perhaps only a few blinks of an eye, perhaps for hours. Time had lost its meaning.

Suddenly, from within the main wooden building of the hermitage, an august old man emerged. His simple white robe fluttered gently in the breeze. His hair and beard, as white as cotton, flowed down to his chest. His wrinkled face radiated an extraordinary authority and wisdom. He walked toward the maiden with light but firm steps.

"Dedes, my daughter," the old man said, his voice soft but full of strength. "The day is growing dark. The twilight is not good for your eyes if you continue to force them to weave."

The girl called Dedes turned to her father, and the smile she had given the butterfly, she now gave to him. "Just a little longer, Father Mpu. Just a few more threads, and this cloth will be finished."

Father Mpu!

Arok's heart pounded. So, this old man was an Mpu. A wise sage, a great teacher. And this maiden... this maiden was his daughter. Ken Dedes. A name he had heard in faint whispers in the market. The Flower of the Panawijen Hermitage, the Pearl of Mount Kawi, whose beauty was said to be able to make hermits break their meditation.

Arok now knew, all the rumors meant nothing. They had utterly failed to paint the reality before his eyes. This reality was a thousand times more breathtaking.

The Mpu, whom Arok suspected was the legendary Mpu Purwa, smiled lovingly. He reached out and gently stroked the top of his daughter's head. "Alright, alright. You have always been as diligent as your late mother." He paused for a moment, then continued, "But do not forget your duties. After this, prepare the offerings of flowers and incense for the evening worship in the grand shrine."

"Of course, Father Mpu," Ken Dedes replied in a melodious and respectful voice.

After that, Mpu Purwa did something that made Arok's blood run cold. He lifted his face and looked straight towards the forest. His gaze seemed unhindered by the trees or the distance. His old but incredibly sharp eyes stared directly at the spot where Arok was hiding.

Arok was instantly jolted from his long reverie. His entire body tensed. The feeling of awe and fascination was now replaced by the tension of an intruder who had been discovered. Did this powerful Mpu know of his presence?

Mpu Purwa said nothing. He showed no expression of surprise or anger. He just stared in Arok's direction for a few moments, with a look that was deep and difficult to read. It was as if he were reading Arok's entire soul, all his dark past and all his burning ambitions. Then, with a very long sigh, he turned and walked back into his house, leaving Arok with a body now drenched in cold sweat.

This chance encounter had shaken Arok to his very core. He had seen a beauty that made him question his life's purpose. He had felt a tranquility that made him long for a different life. And he had been seen by a powerful Mpu who seemed to know all his secrets.

***

10.3: A Gaze that Changed Destiny

Mpu Purwa's sharp gaze was like an invisible sword that pierced directly into the heart of Arok's hiding place. All the charm and beauty that had captivated him vanished in an instant, replaced by the coldness of reality. He was discovered. There was no doubt. An Mpu of such a high level of spiritual power could surely sense the presence of an ant from a hundred paces, let alone a human whose soul was in such turmoil as his.

Cold sweat like corn kernels began to trickle down his temples. All his muscles tensed, his dormant fighting instincts now awakened with vigilance. He was ready to jump, ready to run, ready to fight if necessary. He had trespassed into a sacred territory, a holy mandala. The punishment for an intruder like him could be severe.

But what happened next was even more confusing. The Mpu did not shout for disciples or guards. He showed no anger. He just stared, as if reading an ancient scripture laid out before him. Then, with a sigh laden with the weight of a thousand years, he turned and went back into his house, as if Arok wasn't there.

The Mpu's attitude was more terrifying than anger. The disregard felt like a judgment. It was as if the Mpu had seen everything—his dark past, his burning ambitions, and his hidden intentions—and deemed him unworthy of a response. Arok felt small, naked, and judged by a wisdom far beyond his reach.

He knew he had to leave immediately. Every second he remained in this place, he felt he was further defiling its purity. With very careful movements, he began to step backward, trying not to make the slightest sound, his heart still pounding furiously.

But fate seemed to enjoy playing games with him. As he turned amidst the bushes, his feet, accustomed to traversing the most difficult terrain, betrayed him this time. He accidentally stepped on a dry twig hidden beneath a layer of leaves.

CRACK!

The sound was deafeningly loud in the twilight silence, like a clap of thunder in a clear sky. The sound shattered the magical tranquility of the hermitage.

In the pavilion, Ken Dedes, who was just about to tidy up her loom, flinched in shock. Her body tensed. As a hermit's daughter living in silence, her senses were extremely sharp. She immediately lifted her head, her gaze darting as quick as lightning straight to the source of the sound, to the spot where Arok stood frozen in horror.

And for a split second that felt like an eternity, their eyes met.

The world stopped spinning. Time froze. The entire universe seemed to vanish, leaving only two pairs of eyes locked in a soul-shaking gaze.

Arok looked into Ken Dedes's eyes, and he felt as if he were sinking into the deepest ocean. He saw there not just the surprise of a young woman. He saw more than that. He saw a sorrow so ancient, the sorrow of a soul that had lived through many lives. He saw an intelligence that sparkled like a star in the darkest night. And what made him tremble the most, he saw a destiny. A great destiny, both majestic and tragic, that enveloped the maiden like a shroud of mist.

On the other hand, what did Ken Dedes see? She saw a pair of eyes she had never seen before. Eyes as wild as a mountain eagle's, yet holding a hidden suffering. Eyes that reflected a burning rage, but behind it was an unspoken fragility. And she saw it too—fire. A tremendous fire of ambition, a fire that could both destroy and build, a fire that seemed to be the answer to the restlessness that had long haunted her dreams.

In that brief gaze, a wordless conversation took place, a recognition of souls that transcended logic. They were two opposite poles—Arok who came from the mud of violence, and Dedes who came from the heaven of purity—but somehow, they felt as if they were looking at a reflection of their own lost piece of soul in each other.

Ken Dedes was the first to break the enchanting eye contact. Her pale cheeks were now slightly flushed. She did not scream for her father. She showed no fear. With an extraordinary grace, she simply lowered her head again, pretending to continue her work of tidying the threads. But Arok, with his sharp sight, could see that her slender fingers were trembling slightly.

Ken Dedes's gesture was a signal. A pardon in silence. She would not expose his presence.

Arok understood. With a heart still pounding like a war drum, he turned. This time he did not hesitate. He ran, bolting through the forest with the speed of a wounded deer, leaving the hidden heaven behind him. He did not look back, but the image of a pair of eyes that held all the sorrow and beauty of the universe was forever imprinted in his mind, never to be erased.

Throughout the journey back to the camp, his mind was in turmoil. The encounter had messed everything up. He felt like a blacksmith who had painstakingly forged a sword—a sword of hatred and plans—and then suddenly that sword was thrown into holy water, making it soft and lose its shape.

Who was that maiden, really? Why did meeting her feel so fundamental? Why was her gaze able to strip away all his defenses? This feeling was different from his anger towards Tunggul Ametung. That anger was hot and destructive. This feeling... this feeling was the opposite. It was warm, calming, yet also torturous with an inexplicable longing.

When he arrived back at the camp, the sun had completely set, replaced by a thick darkness. Kebo Ijo's party had apparently returned earlier than he had expected. Their faces were grim and exhausted. Their hunt was a total failure.

"This forest is strange!" Panji Laras grumbled, throwing his bow to the ground in frustration. "We followed tracks all day, but we didn't see a single deer or boar. It's as if all the animals have been swallowed by the earth."

Kebo Ijo, sitting near the bonfire, looked pensive, his face serious. "This isn't normal," he said in a heavy voice. "I feel there's another power protecting this forest. A mystical power that makes the animals hide. The power from Mpu Purwa's hermitage."

Wirang, who was cleaning the tip of his spear, nodded in agreement. "I felt it too, Commander. The air around the hermitage feels so sacred and authoritative. We should not disturb this place any further. Mpu Purwa is no ordinary man. Even the Akuwu is reluctant to cross him."

Arok, who had now put back on his Gajah mask and was busy cleaning Kebo Ijo's muddy boots, listened to the conversation intently. So,Even Akuwu Tunggul Ametung respected and was in awe of Mpu Purwa.

And the hermitage had the power to protect the entire forest. This information was invaluable. It explained why the hermitage could stand in peace. It was protected not by walls, but by an unrivaled spiritual authority.

That night, Arok could not sleep. He lay on his rough straw bed, but his mind drifted far away, back to the peaceful pavilion. He tried with all his might to refocus on his mission, on his plan to destroy Tunggul Ametung. He tried to summon his hatred by imagining the faces of the suffering people.

But every time he tried, the image of Ken Dedes's face would appear, disrupting everything. Her smile at the butterfly, her melodious voice humming the song, and most powerfully, her gaze that seemed to hold all the secrets of the universe.

He realized something terrifying and exhilarating at the same time. His meeting with Ken Dedes had changed something fundamental within him. His struggle, which was originally based on abstract ideology and a cold hatred, was now colored by something else. Something deeply personal. A feeling he had never felt before, one that made him feel more alive than ever.

He now had two goals in Tumapel. Two fires burning equally strong in his chest.

The first was the black fire of hatred. The fire to overthrow Tunggul Ametung's throne and burn all his tyranny to ashes.

And the second, which had just been born this afternoon, was a warm, golden fire. An inexplicable desire to protect that beauty, to see again that pair of eyes that held all the sorrow and beauty of the universe. A desire to ensure that that melodious voice would never again sing a song of grief, but a song of happiness.

Without realizing it, destiny had woven a very intricate thread. His meeting with Ken Dedes was not a coincidence. It was the opening of a new chapter, one much larger, more tragic, and more colossal. The gate to his true destiny had opened. Not the grand stone gate of the Tumapel palace, but an invisible gate in a quiet hermitage at the edge of the forest.

And he, Arok, the rebel from the mountain slopes, had stepped through it, unable, and unwilling, to return. His struggle now had a face. And it was the most beautiful face of all.

A Song on the Edge of Wanamarta Forest

(A Poem in the Silent Reverie of Arok)

On the edge of the forest, at twilight's decree,

I walked a silent path, with no name for me.

My heart was stone, my world a shade of night,

Only vengeance was carved in my soul's dim light.

Then I heard it, drifting soft and low,

A sacred song from a hidden heaven's glow.

That voice, oh, that voice...

Like a drop of dew on the soul's barren plain,

Cleansing the soot, washing away the stain,

Making the sword in my spirit cease its strain.

My eyes searched, piercing the veil of my own pain,

And there you were, weaving time's soft skein.

In the wooden hall, under the amber gleam,

You knelt in grace, a lotus in a dream.

Your hair unbound, a dark and flowing stream,

Your fingers danced, weaving a silken seam.

The world stood still, my breath a silent scream,

When a butterfly landed, a living, vibrant theme.

And then you smiled...

Oh, Gods, that smile...

It was the dawn that broke the night's long trial,

The fullest moon that ends a lover's guile.

All of my hatred crumbled into a dusty pile,

Before a purity I had not known for a long while.

All this time, my hands have only known the blade,

My eyes have only seen the dark, cruel charade.

But you revealed a different world, newly made,

A world where beauty still casts its gentle shade.

Now I know, my mortal struggle, my crusade,

Is no longer just about a throne to invade.

But to guard you, oh, sacred lotus flower,

From the putrid mud and the tyrant's cruel power.

To ensure your song no longer sounds so sour,

With deep-seated grief in your loneliest hour.

Then our eyes met, for a fleeting moment's test,

I drowned within an ocean of your unrest.

You saw the fire in my soul's blind quest,

I saw the destiny in your sorrow's crest.

Without a word, our spirits acquiesced,

In a silent promise, eternally blessed.

Oh, Dedes... your name is now engraved,

Not on a palm leaf, but in the blood that I've saved.

You are the reason when the final dawn has waved,

And the hope when the darkest night has braved.

My war now has a face, and lips I've craved,

And my victory will be your smile, forever saved.

⭐⭐⭐🇮🇩⭐⭐⭐

To be continued in Chapter 11...