The sky was still cloaked in grey when Arka awoke to a strange sensation. The Cadurian ring hidden beneath his pillow seemed to hum, as if whispering in a language only his blood could understand. He stared at his calloused fingers, conjuring an image of Mr. Surya's plump, jeweled hands. The feeling of power from the night before still clung to him—intoxicating, seductive, and all too real.
"Are you awake, my son?" his mother called gently from the corner of the room. The old woman sat propped against the wooden wall, her face looking more alive than it had in days.
"Did the medicine help?" Arka walked over and took her hand. It wasn't as cold as yesterday.
"Yes, thank you." She smiled faintly. "But you shouldn't spend all your wages on this."
Arka smiled back. "Soon we'll have more than enough, Ma. I promise."
"Don't do anything dangerous, Arka." Her voice trembled with worry. "I know we carry a heavy burden, but please—stay on the right path."
The words pierced him. The right path. Was there such a thing, when the world had treated you so wrong? He only nodded, swallowing the truth she didn't need to know. The "right path" was no longer the road he intended to walk.
"I have to go now, Ma. Mr. Surya wants me in early today."
Half an hour later, Arka made his way to the far end of the village—not toward the fields, but toward the enclave of the powerful, where the landlords lived. He needed to study Mr. Surya's routine more closely. Knowledge was power. And to rise above, one must first know their enemy in intimate detail.
From behind a wall of thick shrubbery, Arka observed the grand colonial house. It wasn't just a home—it was a monument to the chasm that divided them. On one side of the village, Arka and his mother lived in a leaky shack. On the other, Mr. Surya occupied a two-story estate with towering columns and a perfectly groomed garden.
"Let me go! I'll pay you next week!"
The voice drew Arka's attention. Beside the estate, two burly men were dragging a middle-aged man across the ground. Arka recognized him—Pak Mahmud, who ran the small food stall at the market.
"You said that last month, Mahmud," one of the men growled. "Mr. Surya doesn't like to wait."
"Add more interest if you have to!" Pak Mahmud pleaded. "My child's gravely ill—I need to pay the hospital bills!"
The second man let out a cruel laugh. "Not our problem. You took the money, now pay it back. We'll be back tomorrow morning. If you still don't have it, the stall is Mr. Surya's."
They shoved Mahmud to the ground and walked away, laughing. Slowly, the man picked himself up, dusted off his clothes, and limped away. His face was pale, a cold sweat clinging to his brow despite the crisp morning air.
"Loan shark," Arka muttered under his breath. His eyes narrowed with new understanding. "So that's how he builds his empire."
The front door of the mansion opened, and out stepped Mr. Surya in his usual finery. The heavyset man entered a waiting carriage, barking brief orders at the driver.
Arka followed at a distance, slipping between alleyways and bushes to keep the carriage in sight. But Mr. Surya wasn't headed to the fields today. He was bound for the city—a full hour's journey from Sukamaju.
Arka had no choice. He would follow, even if it meant showing up late for work. Whatever the cost, he needed to know what his boss was up to.
The city—Malang, as the locals called it—was a bustling trade hub, alive with voices and color. People from every nearby village gathered to sell, buy, gamble, or simply escape the dullness of rural life. For Arka, who rarely visited, the city was always a marvel—towering buildings, crowded streets, and the rich aroma of street food drifting from every corner.
Mr. Surya's carriage stopped in front of a towering red pagoda. Unlike its weathered neighbors, this building gleamed with fresh paint and golden trim.
"Golden Dragon Gambling House," Arka read the sign aloud. A sly smile curled on his lips.
He crossed the street and hid among a crowd of street vendors, watching as Mr. Surya was greeted with deep bows by two Chinese men in silk coats. They escorted him inside with practiced deference.
So, Mr. Surya was a gambler.
Arka waited for hours, taking mental notes of who came and went. He recognized a few faces from the village—wealthy merchants and local officials, most of them. Mr. Surya didn't reappear until sundown.
When the fat man finally emerged, his face was flushed—drunk, angry, or both. He staggered toward the carriage, nearly falling before the driver caught him.
"How am I supposed to come up with that kind of money?" Arka heard him mumble. "The big boss will kill me if he finds out I took…"
The rest was swallowed by the roar of the carriage pulling away. But Arka had heard enough. His grin widened as a plan began to take shape.
"So you're drowning in gambling debt, Mr. Surya," he whispered. "And it sounds like the money wasn't yours to lose. How very interesting."
Arka didn't return to the village right away. He trailed the carriage a little longer, curious to see if his boss had another destination.
Sure enough, the coach came to a stop at a small house on the city's outskirts. Its shutters were drawn, but a warm light glowed from within.
Peering through a gap in the curtains, Arka saw a young woman greet Mr. Surya at the door—far more beautiful than his legal wife in the village. She embraced him with practiced intimacy, leading him inside and into the bedroom.
"Mistress," Arka hissed. "Just how many secrets are you hiding, Mr. Surya?"
Night had deepened by the time Arka returned to the village. His body ached from the long trek, but his mind buzzed with everything he had learned. Instead of going home, he made his way to the riverside—his makeshift laboratory.
From behind a large stone, he retrieved the Cadurian ring. The full moon cast its silver light over the water, illuminating the ring's reflection on the still surface.
"With eyes that see, grant me his form," he whispered, envisioning Mr. Surya in flawless detail.
The transformation was swifter this time, as if his body had begun to adapt. When it was done, Mr. Surya's face stared back at him from the water—every wrinkle, every sag of flesh, perfectly mirrored.
"Tonight, I become you," he murmured, his voice now identical to Mr. Surya's. "And tomorrow, I take what should have been mine all along."
No disguise would be complete without the proper attire. From a nearby sack, Arka pulled out a shirt and trousers—borrowed from the clothesline of a well-off farmer. Good enough to complete the illusion.
With steady steps and newfound certainty, Arka walked toward the great house of Mr. Surya. The gates stood open. The guards bowed as he passed.
"Good evening, sir," they greeted him.
Arka gave a curt nod, mimicking the haughty gestures he'd so often seen his boss display.
"I don't wish to be disturbed tonight. I have important documents to review."
The guards nodded obediently, not daring to question him further. Arka stepped into the courtyard, his heart pounding. For the first time, he was entering Mr. Surya's house not as a laborer, but as the boss himself.
The house was quiet. The servants had retreated to their quarters in the rear. According to the whispers that floated around the village, Madam Surya was away visiting family in another city. Perfect.
Arka crossed the threshold with deliberate calm. The interior was more lavish than he had imagined—marble floors, teakwood furniture, expensive paintings adorning the walls, and crystal chandeliers glinting overhead. Every inch of the house exuded wealth and status.
He studied every detail—the dining room, the boss bedroom, the study. If his plan was to succeed, he had to know this house as intimately as the lines on his own hand.
At last, he found what he was looking for: Mr. Surya's study. Smaller than the other rooms, it was impeccably ordered, with a large desk at the center and filing cabinets lining the walls.
"What are you doing here, sir?"
The voice startled him. He turned to see a middle-aged maid standing in the doorway, her face marked with confusion.
"I thought you said you'd be back tomorrow morning?"
Arka froze. Apparently, Mr. Surya was meant to be staying at his mistress's house tonight—information Arka hadn't known. But as someone who had endured the man's fury more than once, he knew exactly how his boss reacted when challenged.
"Are you questioning me?" Arka barked, perfectly mimicking Mr. Surya's harsh tone. "I come and go as I please! This is my house!"
The maid immediately bowed, flustered. "I—I'm sorry, sir. I didn't mean to be insolent."
"Return to your room. And don't disturb me again. I have matters of great importance to attend to."
"Yes, sir. Forgive me." She backed away quickly, disappearing into the dim corridor.
Arka exhaled slowly. The ability to mimic Mr. Surya's voice and mannerisms seemed to come as naturally as wearing his face. He locked the study door behind him, ensuring no further interruptions.
He moved swiftly to the filing cabinets, pulling them open one by one. Dozens of folders lay neatly arranged inside. Arka scanned them quickly, absorbing what he could.
"Loan Recipients," he murmured, picking up a thick leather-bound ledger. Inside were names of villagers, alongside the amounts borrowed and the interest they owed. The rates were outrageous—50 to 70 percent. No wonder so many were shackled by lifelong debt.
He kept going, filing every useful detail to memory: where Mr. Surya kept his cash, the extent of his assets, and his key contacts.
In one drawer, Arka found a personal notebook. Its contents made his eyes widen—gambling records, including staggering debts. On the last page, scrawled in red ink: Deadline: 3 days. Pay, or the eastern land will be seized.
"The eastern fields," Arka whispered. "That's where we work."
Suddenly, it all became clear. Mr. Surya wasn't the true owner of the fields. He was merely a steward, entrusted by the real boss—the Big boss. And now, drowning in his addiction, he had been siphoning money from the farmers to cover his gambling debts.
"You're not just a tyrant," Arka muttered. "You're a thief. A liar."
Another document caught his eye—a land deed bearing Mr. Surya's name, in a region Arka didn't recognize. It bore a bank seal and an official signature.
"A secret stash," Arka smirked. "For darker days, perhaps?"
He tucked the most important documents into a small satchel he found in the corner of the room. In the desk drawer, beneath a stack of irrelevant papers, he discovered a safe key.
The safe was hidden behind a large painting on the wall. Arka opened it carefully, and his breath caught—pouches of gold and gemstones, stacks of banknotes, and more confidential papers.
"You're cunning," Arka whispered, marveling at Mr. Surya's craftiness while despising him all the more. "But I'm cleverer still."
He didn't take everything. Just a few bills—enough to pay for his mother's medicine for several months—and one document that looked especially significant: a bank passbook stamped with the city's emblem.
"Tomorrow," he whispered to himself. "We'll see how deep your debts really go, Mr. Surya."
Just as he reached to close the safe, footsteps echoed in the corridor. He snapped it shut, restored the painting, extinguished the oil lamp, and darted behind the heavy curtains that framed the tall window.
The study door creaked open. Someone stepped inside, their gait heavy.
"Strange," a man's voice said. "I could've sworn I saw a light in here."
Arka held his breath. Through the gap in the curtains, he saw a servant patrolling with a lamp, peering into every corner.
"Must've been a shadow," the man eventually muttered, turning away.
Arka waited several minutes before emerging from his hiding place. He grabbed the satchel, then crept toward the window. Fortunately, it faced the unguarded garden at the back of the estate.
He eased it open and slipped out. The moment his feet touched the ground, he felt it—a jolt of fear laced with exhilaration. He had just stolen from the man who had stolen from everyone else. Did that make him any better?
He shook the thought away. There was no room for doubt now. The plan was in motion. Tomorrow, he would take the next step—the one that would change his life forever.
Leaving the estate was easier than he had imagined. The guards, too confident in their authority, never expected anyone to rob their boss house. Without trouble, Arka passed the gates and vanished once more into the shadows of the night.
He walked swiftly to the riverbank. The Cadurian ring still clung to his finger, Mr. Surya's form still wrapped around his own. Arka peered into the water, watching the illusion flicker in the moonlight.
"Restore me," he whispered, reciting the closing incantation.
A chill rippled through him as bones shifted and skin reshaped. Within seconds, his own face stared back at him from the water's surface. He slipped the ring off and tucked it into his pocket. The stolen documents remained hidden beneath his ragged shirt, safe.
With a lighter step, Arka made his way back to his hut. Tomorrow would be the day of reckoning—the day he would play the greatest role of his life.
In the distance, a car rolled into the village. Arka ducked behind a large tree, watching as the vehicle halted in front of Mr. Surya's house. His corpulent boss stumbled out, looking worn and agitated.
"So he didn't stay the night," Arka muttered, grateful for his narrow escape.
"Drive me to the city tomorrow morning," he heard Mr. Surya instruct his driver. "I need to reach the bank before noon."
Arka's grin widened. The final piece of the puzzle had fallen into place. Tomorrow, Mr. Surya would go to the city. And tomorrow, Arka would be there first—in his boss skin, ready to claim what was never his, but would soon belong to him.
"Sleep well, sir," Arka whispered from the darkness. "Tomorrow will be a long day for both of us."