Crown of Blood

The rain came before the blood.

It fell endlessly over Tumapel, drowning the kingdom beneath sheets of silver and mud. The stone roads became rivers of filth. Market stalls collapsed beneath the storm. Oil lamps flickered weakly in the wind like dying spirits.Above the city, the palace of Tumapel stood untouched by misery.Golden.Silent.Watching.From the slums below, it looked less like the home of men and more like the dwelling place of gods.A boy stared at it from beneath the rain.Barefoot.Hungry.Fourteen years old.His name was Arok.Cold water dripped from his tangled black hair down the sharp angles of his face. His body was thin from years of starvation, but his eyes remained frighteningly alive—dark and restless like an animal that had learned too early how cruel the world could be.Thunder rolled across the sky.Arok lowered his gaze toward the nobleman’s residence before him.Warm light spilled through carved teakwood windows. Laughter echoed faintly from inside. The smell of roasted duck and spiced rice drifted into the rain-soaked alley.His stomach twisted painfully.Three days.Three days since he had eaten real food.He crouched beside the outer wall, hidden between offerings left for the gods—bowls of flowers now ruined by rainwater and melted incense. Somewhere deeper within the city, the slow rhythm of a gamelan echoed through the stormy night.Tumapel never truly slept.Not while men still hungered for gold.Or power.Two guards stood near the entrance gate, half-drunk and careless beneath the heavy rain. One leaned lazily against his spear while the other laughed at some vulgar joke.Arok watched them patiently.Like a wolf studying larger predators.Then he moved.Silent.Fast.The rain swallowed the sound of his footsteps as he slipped behind stacked jars near the kitchen entrance. He waited until lightning flashed overhead before lifting the bamboo screen and crawling inside.The kitchen glowed with firelight.Servants moved busily near boiling pots, too distracted by gossip to notice the starving boy emerging from the shadows.Arok’s eyes immediately found the food.Meat.Rice.Fresh fruit.Enough to feed a poor family for weeks.For a moment, hatred burned inside him so fiercely he thought it might consume him alive.Men inside the palace wasted more food in one night than entire villages could eat in months.He grabbed a plate quickly and shoved food into his mouth with desperate hands. Grease covered his fingers. Warm meat filled his stomach like fire after endless cold.Then—A servant turned.Their eyes met.Silence.The plate slipped from the servant’s hands and shattered across the floor.“THIEF!”The kitchen exploded into chaos.Guards shouted outside. Footsteps thundered across wooden floors.Arok ran instantly.He leaped over baskets and crashed through the rear doorway into the storm once more. Rain slammed against his face as voices roared behind him.“Catch him!”“There!”“He went toward the shrines!”Arok sprinted through the flooded alleys of Tumapel, barefoot against sharp volcanic stone. He knew these streets better than the guards ever would. Knew where the roads narrowed. Knew which rooftops connected. Knew which temples sheltered thieves and murderers after midnight.Another lightning flash split the sky.A hand suddenly seized his shoulder.Arok reacted without thought.The dagger at his waist flashed upward.A wet sound cut through the storm.The guard staggered backward.Blood poured from his throat.For one terrible heartbeat, neither moved.Rain mixed with crimson as the man collapsed into the mud.Dead.Arok froze.His breathing became ragged.The dagger trembled in his hand.He had stolen before.Fought before.But this…This was different.The guard’s empty eyes stared lifelessly toward the sky as rain washed blood through the streets of Tumapel.Arok felt fear rise inside him.Not fear of punishment.Not fear of death.Fear of himself.Footsteps echoed nearby again.More guards.Arok ran.He fled through narrow alleys until the noble district disappeared behind him entirely. Only then did he stop near the edge of the Brantas River, where ancient stone ruins stood forgotten beneath enormous banyan trees.An abandoned shrine.Old.Cracked.Half-swallowed by roots and darkness.Arok stumbled inside, breathing heavily.Rainwater dripped from broken statues of forgotten gods. The air smelled of wet earth, incense ash, and something older—something that reminded him of graves.He looked down at his bloodstained hands.A murderer.At fourteen.Strangely, guilt did not come.Instead, another feeling slowly emerged from somewhere deep inside him.Power.The guard had been stronger.Older.Armed.Yet he had fallen like any other man.Arok laughed quietly beneath the storm.A broken sound.Then his eyes lifted toward the distant palace towering above Tumapel hill.Even through the rain, it glowed like fire against the darkness.Beautiful.Untouchable.A kingdom built upon the backs of starving men.Hatred twisted inside his chest.He hated the nobles who spoke of honor while children begged in the mud beneath their walls.He hated the priests who sold blessings to the rich.He hated the gods who remained silent while the weak suffered.And for the first time in his life—Arok wanted more than survival.He wanted power.The thunder cracked violently overhead.In that brief flash of white light, the palace no longer looked impossible to reach.It looked conquerable.“One day,” Arok whispered.The rain swallowed his voice.“One day… they will kneel before me.”“You speak like a king already.”Arok spun instantly.An old man sat within the darkness beyond the ruined shrine.Thin.Motionless.His long white hair rested against dark robes stained with ash. Oil lamps flickered weakly around him, illuminating strange symbols painted across the stone walls.The old man’s eyes were sharp despite his age.Too sharp.Arok tightened his grip around the dagger.“I have nothing worth stealing.”The old man smiled faintly.“I did not come for gold.”Outside, rain hammered endlessly against the ancient shrine.The old man studied him quietly before speaking again.“Most starving boys dream of food,” he said softly. “But you were staring at the palace.”Arok said nothing.The old man’s gaze slowly narrowed.“There is anger inside you,” he murmured. “Dangerous anger.”“Anger keeps people alive.”“No,” the old man replied calmly. “Ambition does.”Silence filled the shrine.Then—“What is your name, boy?”Arok hesitated.Names carried power.In the streets of Tumapel, names could become chains.But something about the old man’s voice felt impossible to refuse.Finally, he answered.“Arok.”The old man repeated it quietly.“Arok…”The oil lamps flickered violently as thunder shook the earth once more.For a moment, the old man simply stared at him.Then he smiled.Not warmly.Not kindly.But like a man witnessing the birth of a catastrophe.Far above the storm, beyond the golden walls of Tumapel Palace, a young noblewoman named Ken Dedes stood alone beside her window, unaware that destiny had already begun walking toward her through blood and rain.And somewhere deep within the darkness of Java—the kingdom’s curse had finally awakened.