In the year 1840, the land of Java was shrouded in gloom. The small towns along the coast were ruled more by fear than by hope. Dirt roads, once only crossed by carts, horses, or the slow steps of water buffalo, were now marked by the heavy boots of Nippon soldiers. The clanging of their weapons clashed with the sounds of village life: the rustle of bamboo in the wind, the crowing of roosters, and the laughter of children chasing each other along the rice paddies.
Houses with thatched roofs stood fragile, their bamboo walls never truly able to shield against rain or scorching sun. The rice fields stretched wide, yet the harvest was no longer fully owned by the farmers; much of it was taken by rulers from across the sea. In the town square, the market still bustled. Traders sold salted fish, vegetables, lurik cloth, and tobacco, their voices mixing with the clamor of bargaining. But the moment the footsteps of Nippon soldiers echoed nearby, the noise faded. Conversations died, laughter vanished, and only lowered heads remained.
Javanese men still wore black pangsi or faded lurik cloth, a simple headscarf tying back their sweat-soaked hair. The women wore thin kebaya blouses, a wrinkled shawl draped over their shoulders to carry children or baskets of produce. Life went on, even as the shadow of occupation haunted every street and corner.
Among those weary faces lived a boy whose life had never been the same since the loss of his mother.
His name was Mujima. Fifteen years old, with a thin body and long hair that often fell across his face. Every morning, he led the family's buffalo to the river, letting it bathe in the clear water and graze on fresh grass by the banks. There, as the wind carried the sound of children's laughter—running joyfully, chased by their mothers—Mujima could only stand in silence. His eyes followed them, his chest tightening. The world felt unbearably unfair. He asked himself why he had to lose a mother's love so soon. Rumors said his mother had been killed by Nippon soldiers while working, and that memory haunted him day after day.
By late afternoon, Mujima would return home with the buffalo. In the yard, he often found his father, Pramono, just coming back from the forest with bundles of firewood on his shoulders. Pramono, with his long hair neatly tied back and his simple black pangsi attire, always greeted his son with a gentle smile. Though his body was hardened by work and training, his words remained soft, his voice calm and kind.
Mujima often could not hold himself back. "Father, why don't you take revenge? They took Mother's life… and we just stay silent?" he asked, his voice trembling.
Pramono set down the firewood and sat on the porch. His hand gently stroked Mujima's head. "It is all fate, my son. You must not keep hatred in your heart. Death will come to every human, sooner or later."
The answer was always the same, leaving Mujima unsatisfied. "But why? Why did Mother have to die just like that?"
Pramono looked at his son with calm eyes, as if holding an answer far greater than words.
"We have no enemies, Mujima. There is no one worthy of your hatred. No one deserves to be harmed. Remember that."
"But I…" Mujima whispered, his voice carried away at the end of his words.
Pramono's hand rested on his son's shoulder. That large palm felt soft, as though it were touching the delicate feather of a bird, light enough to drift away. "Now you have me beside you. I will never leave you," Pramono said softly.
Every time, every minute, every second when Mujima repeated the same question, Pramono always answered with words full of calmness. That was why Mujima longed so deeply for his father's presence.
His daily routines often felt empty, especially when his eyes caught the sight of other children running joyfully with their mothers chasing behind them. The laughter pierced his heart. Mujima could only lower his head, realizing how he had lost an irreplaceable figure. Yet now, in his life, he still had something precious—the only thing left to him besides the memory of his late mother.
That absence was like a whistle blown in the middle of the wide sea; a sound that never reached the shore, swallowed by the roar of the waves.
Even so, Mujima's days with Pramono were never silent. They often joked together, laughing out loud over the simplest of stories. Pramono would tell tales of his youth as a disciple of the Santo school.
"Once, I was the best student there," he said with confidence.
Mujima would always give him a doubtful look, then chuckle.
"Father… you're not only gentle with your words, but also skilled at lying."
Their laughter would break out, filling the simple afternoon. Mujima always wished those days could go on forever, as if they would never end.
But that hope shattered when the sound of a bell echoed from afar.
A young man came running down the road, his lurik cloth drenched in sweat. In his hands he clutched a bell and its striker, ringing it loudly as he shouted,
"Nippon! Nippon is coming!"
As fast as fire spreading, the news swept through. People rushed out of their houses, some running while dragging their children along. Hysterical screams tore through the air, while the dust on the road rose, bearing witness to the frantic footsteps.
Mujima stayed inside the house. He did not dare to go out, his mind shackled by the shadows of the past that haunted him again. Pramono had not yet returned, and that made his anxiety grow even heavier.
Cold sweat streamed down his temples, his body trembling violently when, through the gap of the window, he saw a line of young men in green uniforms. On their chests and sleeves, red and white circles were emblazoned. Long katanas gleamed in their hands.
In an instant, Mujima lowered his head. His heart seemed to drop, then raced even faster. He dared not look any longer.
When another scream rang out, Mujima reflexively shut his eyes. His trembling hands pressed against his head, his body curling up in fear.
Heavy footsteps approached, echoing until they reached the front porch.
Another shout followed, this time closer, clearer, and the voice… was one he knew so well.
A man with tied hair and a black pangsi outfit appeared. It was Pramono. With a powerful strike, he sent one Nippon soldier crashing to the ground. The others, who had been about to break down Mujima's door, immediately turned, shouting angrily as they charged at Pramono without hesitation. One by one they fell, struck down by the fists of the seasoned fighter, yet each quickly rose again, standing firm to attack once more.
More Nippon soldiers, who had been looting the villagers' homes, now rushed toward Pramono, shouting words in a foreign tongue he could not understand. Long katanas were drawn from their sheaths, the blades aimed directly at him, who stood with nothing but bare hands.
The first attack came with a furious cry. Pramono moved swiftly, stepping left and right to evade, then launched a crushing punch that sent his enemy sprawling once more. For a moment, some of the Nippon hesitated, uncertain if they dared face a man who fought so boldly without a weapon.
From the window that remained open, Mujima's long hair fluttered, swept by the evening wind. His eyes were fixed on his father's figure. Every movement Pramono made reminded him of the gentle words so often spoken; the memories crowded his mind, and his vision blurred as tears gathered, falling one drop after another.
Yet the enemies only grew in number. The circle of Nippon soldiers tightened, surrounding Pramono from all directions. At that distance, Pramono managed to glance toward the window. His gaze met Mujima's—his son pale, his body trembling with fear.
Spotting an opening, Pramono burst through with quick, practiced movements, until he stood right in front of the window where Mujima was hiding. Up close, Mujima could see the sweat streaming down his father's face, his breath ragged. Pramono was tiring, while the wall of enemies kept closing in, limiting every step he could take.
A thrust came from the left. Pramono managed to dodge, then struck back. He had no time to catch his breath before three blades at once lunged from different directions. His body twisted, trying to evade, but as he stepped aside, more thrusts came in relentless succession.
One of the katanas he deflected flew through the window, the force slamming the wooden frame shut with a loud bang. Mujima flinched, his body ducking instinctively. At the same moment, another blade pierced Pramono's leg. He staggered, his movements no longer free.
The next strikes came swiftly. The first blade pierced his right chest, then his left. Blood spurted, choking his breath. More katanas followed, stabbing without pause: both arms, both legs, his hips, his right and left abdomen, and at last, his neck. Pramono's body was torn apart by the relentless assault, until finally, all the swords were withdrawn at once.
Pramono collapsed to the ground with a heavy thud.
Mujima, who had kept his eyes shut all this time, trembled even harder, his body shaking violently. When the foreign shouts of the Nippon soldiers slowly faded, silence pressed down upon him. Hesitantly, he opened his eyes and peeked through the narrow gap of the window.
Mujima's pupils widened instantly, as if something long buried had awakened. A deep-rooted grudge surged forth, swallowing the gentle voice of Pramono that had always calmed him. What remained was only the image of wounds, the stab marks still pouring fresh blood from his father's body.
In the next instant, Mujima sank weakly, his heartbeat in chaos, as though it wished to stop altogether. Both his hands clawed at his hair, pulling the strands harshly, as if hoping he could wake from this merciless nightmare.
Before his eyes, a katana lay on the wooden floor. Its cold blade gleamed under the evening light, blinding his gaze. Mujima froze. His old grudge—of his mother's death—suddenly fused with this new fury. Pramono's gentle words, his counsel never to harbor vengeance, slowly vanished from memory. To Mujima, all of this was the fault of the invaders.
With trembling hands, he grasped the katana. The bare steel without a sheath was now clenched tight in his grip. Mujima rose, his pupils darting back toward the window. No Nippon soldiers remained in sight along the street. Without another thought, he dashed outside.
The door creaked open with a shrill groan that pierced the heavy silence. Mujima rushed out, only to be met with a sight that shattered his chest.
Pramono's body lay lifeless, mangled with wounds, blood soaking the ground around him. Mujima halted, then his knees gave way. He collapsed beside his father, bowing until his face pressed against Pramono's chest. His sobs broke free, tears streaming uncontrollably, mingling with the pooling blood.
The golok that had always hung at Pramono's waist was gone. The weapon he had never once drawn was now missing, carried away by someone, leaving behind only its fallen master.
Inside his head, Pramono's voice echoed faintly, as if he were still there beside him.
"You must not keep hatred in your heart—"
Mujima shook his head violently, choking on his sobs, before screaming with a voice torn by rage.
"No!" his cry cracked, raw with fury. "I will avenge this, even if it takes every last drop of my blood!"