The sound of chess pieces clicking against the polished wooden board filled the quiet penthouse office. It was late—past midnight—but the city outside Adrian Wiratama's window still glowed with restless energy. Skyscrapers stretched into the heavens, their lights piercing the dark like stars born from greed and ambition.
Adrian leaned back in his leather chair, the soft hum of the air conditioner whispering in the background. His sharp eyes studied the board in front of him. The white queen hovered above the checkered tiles between his fingers before he dropped it into place.
"Checkmate," he murmured to himself.
No opponent sat across from him. He never needed one. In his world, he was both the player and the referee. He set the rules. He broke them. He rewrote them when necessary.
The office phone rang. He let it buzz for a moment, savoring the silence that preceded power. Finally, he picked it up.
"Report." His voice was calm, cold.
On the other side, a nervous voice answered. "M-Mr. Adrian, the competitor in Singapore has agreed to the merger. Their CEO signed the terms you requested—uh, the hostile acquisition clause included."
Adrian smirked faintly. "Good. That company was weak. Their people will adapt, or they'll be discarded. Either way, the board is mine."
He ended the call without a farewell. Courtesy was wasted breath.
Adrian turned his gaze back to the chessboard. Pawns, knights, bishops—all pieces of limited value, yet indispensable in the grand design. Only the king and queen truly mattered, but even they could fall without careful strategy.
That was life. That was power. And Adrian had mastered both.
His phone vibrated again. This time it was a message, short and desperate:
"Sir, the union leaders are threatening to strike. They're demanding higher wages and benefits. How do you want to respond?"
Adrian's lips curved into something that was neither smile nor frown, but the cruel satisfaction of a predator. He typed his reply with deliberate slowness.
"Remind them who feeds their families. Cut off negotiations. Fire three of their spokesmen publicly. Replace them with loyalists. Fear is more efficient than bargaining."
He set the phone down, the glow of the screen casting shadows across his sharp features. His reflection in the darkened window looked almost regal, like a monarch surveying his domain. Yet behind the perfection lay exhaustion, the toll of endless victories.
Adrian poured himself a glass of whiskey, swirling the amber liquid slowly. "What's a king," he muttered, "without an empire to conquer next?"
The words lingered in the empty room.
Then, a sudden sharp pain struck his chest. The glass slipped from his fingers, shattering against the marble floor. Adrian staggered, clutching his heart as his breaths grew shallow.
He fell forward, the chessboard clattering to the ground. Pieces scattered across the floor like fallen soldiers—pawns rolling under the desk, the black king spinning before stopping face down.
Darkness swallowed him whole.
---
When Adrian opened his eyes, he was no longer in his office. The scent of sandalwood and burning incense filled the air. His vision blurred, but gradually, a gilded wooden ceiling and red silk banners came into focus.
The air was heavy with the distant notes of a gamelan ensemble, faint yet steady, as though the palace itself was breathing.
He sat upright on a mat of woven rattan. His hands—slimmer, smaller, youthful—trembled before his eyes. He touched his chest, but the stabbing pain was gone. Instead, he felt the weight of embroidered robes draped across his shoulders.
Around him, servants knelt, their foreheads pressed to the ground. Their voices rose together in reverence:
"Long live Prince Hayam Wuruk."
The words froze Adrian in place. His mind raced, as fragmented memories not his own surged into him like crashing waves—images of ceremonies, lessons in etiquette, the weight of a crown not yet worn. A kingdom fractured by corruption. Nobles with daggers hidden behind their smiles.
Adrian's breath steadied. He understood.
He had transmigrated.
His reflection shimmered faintly on a polished bronze mirror beside him. A young face stared back—sharper than a boy's, but not yet hardened into a man's. A crown prince. A prince of Majapahit.
Adrian—no, Hayam Wuruk now—let a slow, dangerous smile curve his lips.
"A prince in a kingdom of vultures," he whispered under his breath, his voice low enough that the servants could not hear.
He clenched his youthful hands into fists.
"Very well. If this is the board I've been given… then I'll play."
The servants lifted their heads, eyes wide at the sudden shift in his expression. Gone was the fragile boy they had known. What sat before them now was a predator wearing royal robes.
For Adrian, death had not been an end. It was merely a reset.
And this time, the game was the world itself.
---
The sound of bamboo wind chimes drifted faintly through the palace corridors, carrying with it the scent of clove and jasmine. Outside, the cries of cicadas rose and fell, blending with the steady rhythm of a gamelan ensemble playing somewhere deep within the court.
Adrian—now Hayam Wuruk—sat upright, his gaze sharp as he studied the hall before him. The throne chamber of Majapahit was vast, supported by towering wooden pillars darkened with age and carved with lotus patterns. Red silk banners lined the rafters, and golden ornaments glimmered in the dim torchlight.
Dozens of ministers and nobles knelt on woven mats, their foreheads bowed low. Yet Adrian did not miss the subtle movements—the sideways glances, the faint smirks quickly hidden behind lowered heads. Respect was shown in form, not in heart.
They see me as a boy, Adrian thought, his eyes narrowing. An heir to be molded, a puppet prince. Just as vultures circle a dying beast, these men circle a throne they think will be theirs to control.
A tall, gaunt man rose from the line of courtiers. His robes were embroidered with the insignia of a noble clan, his movements slow and deliberate. He pressed his hands together in a gesture of respect.
"Your Highness," the man intoned, his voice smooth, almost oily, "the ministers of the court stand ready to guide you in the absence of His Majesty, who entrusts this kingdom to your care."
Adrian tilted his head slightly. "Guide me?" His tone was calm, yet every syllable carried an edge.
The noble bowed deeper. "Indeed, Your Highness. At your age, such burdens are heavy. Rest assured, we will shoulder them in your name."
A murmur of agreement rippled through the chamber. Adrian's lips curled faintly. He recognized the game immediately—it was no different from corporate boardrooms, where old men smiled while plotting to bleed him dry.
He rose slowly to his feet, his slender figure draped in royal robes of crimson and gold. His steps echoed across the polished floor as he descended from the dais, each one deliberate, heavy with intent. The courtiers lowered their gazes further, unsure of what he intended.
Adrian stopped before the gaunt noble. Though his borrowed body was youthful, his gaze was that of a predator.
"You speak of guiding me," Adrian said softly. "Tell me, Lord Arya, when a hawk soars, does it ask sparrows to show it the sky?"
The noble froze, his lips parting in shock. A ripple of unease passed through the chamber.
Adrian's voice sharpened. "You call me a child, yet I see clearly what you desire. You wish to wear the crown without sitting on the throne. You want a puppet prince who nods at your command."
He leaned closer, his tone dropping to a whisper only the noble could hear. "But hear me well. I was not born to be guided. I was born to rule."
The noble's face blanched.
Adrian straightened and turned his gaze upon the rest of the court. His words rang across the hall, each one like the strike of a hammer.
"Majapahit is not a carcass for scavengers to feast upon. From this day forward, I will not tolerate corruption. I will not tolerate betrayal. Those who test me will find the law sharper than any blade—and I am the hand that wields it."
The silence that followed was suffocating. No minister dared to breathe too loudly. Servants trembled where they knelt.
Adrian's eyes swept the hall, calculating, dissecting. Some men's faces betrayed fear. Others masked their hatred poorly. He memorized them all—friends, enemies, and pawns yet to be placed.
At last, he returned to his throne and seated himself with unshaken poise. He raised one hand, and a servant hurried forward with a bronze goblet of water, bowing so deeply the boy nearly spilled its contents. Adrian took it with a calm grace, sipping as though the silence of the court was a feast laid out before him.
Inside, he was already three moves ahead.
So this is Majapahit. A kingdom fractured by greed, ripe for the taking. They think me weak, but weakness is the mask I shed tonight. If this is the game I have been thrown into… then I will not simply play. I will win. And when I win, there will be no pieces left but mine.
The goblet touched the dais with a soft clink. Adrian leaned back, his expression unreadable.
"Court dismissed," he said.
The nobles rose in unison, bowing deeply. Yet as they retreated, Adrian could feel their gazes burning into his back—some with respect, most with hatred. It did not matter. He welcomed both.
Hatred was fuel. Fear was loyalty in disguise.
When the hall finally emptied, leaving only the echo of footsteps fading into silence, Adrian let out a quiet chuckle.
"A kingdom," he whispered to himself, staring at the chessboard his mind had already begun to construct. "And every man in it, a piece."
His reflection in the polished goblet smirked back at him. The face was young, but the eyes belonged to a king of iron and blood.
For Adrian Wiratama, death had been no ending. It was the opening move of the greatest game in history.