"Every great kingdom is born from the ashes of someone who once dreamed simply."
The sky that night was red.Not because of dusk, but because of fire devouring the wooden houses of Sagara Valley — a small village by the banks of the Brantas River, under the rule of Tumapel. The wind from the east carried the scent of burning and the cries of people, all blending into one.
Eza — an eight-year-old boy — ran barefoot among the flames. His breath was ragged, his eyes stung from the smoke. He had just seen the roof of his house collapse, and his mother's body lying beneath the burning bamboo debris.
"Mother! MOTHER!"
There was no answer, only the crackling of fire and screams from the direction of the rice fields.
His father, a low-ranking palace guard named Ranu Wijaya, had managed to drag Eza out of the house before a group of unknown soldiers arrived. They were not Singhasari troops — their clothes were black, marked with a coiled dragon emblem on their chests.
Ranu had managed to fend off two of them, his spear piercing through one enemy's chest before he himself was stabbed in the side.
"Run, Eza… Don't stop. Remember… our name…"
"Father!"
"Ranu of Sagara… don't forget your blood…"
And his father fell — among the embers and dust.
Eza ran. He didn't know where. He only followed the footpath toward the hill behind the village, where he used to play with other children. But that night, there was no laughter, no crickets. Only fire and the stench of death.
At the top of that small hill, Eza stopped.From there he saw his entire village — Sagara Valley — had become a sea of red.The houses burned like lanterns from hell. He saw the shadows of horses, the black-clad soldiers, and a flag he had never seen before.
His tears flowed silently. His small body trembled.
"Why…?""What did we do wrong…?"
Then, a hand tapped his shoulder from behind.
Eza turned. An old man stood there — wearing a long black cloak, his face half-covered by cloth. His aged eyes were sharp, but not cruel.At his waist hung a curved short sword — its shape unlike any Singhasari weapon.
"The child survived," the old man murmured.
"Who… are you?" Eza whispered, frightened.
"A friend of your father's. He saved you so you wouldn't become ashes with the rest."
Eza stared at the man, unsure whether to run or kneel. But the man bowed, then gently patted Eza's head.
"From tonight on, you are no longer a child of Sagara Valley."
"Then… who am I?"
"A child of the shadows. This world is bigger than rice fields and rivers. And behind every kingdom, there is always an unseen world."
Lightning struck in the distance. Fire still blazed in the valley.Eza looked at his village one last time — then followed the man westward, into the dense forest of Mount Kawi.
The sky turned pitch black, with only the red glow of fire behind the trees.And under the falling rain, the boy made a vow to himself:
"I will find them. I will uncover the truth. And I will not die before the world knows who lit the fire that night."