The sun had yet to rise fully when Arka arrived at a secluded cabin at the mountain's foot. Mr. Surya's hideout was far more modest than he had imagined—a wooden structure with a backyard veiled by dense foliage. The perfect place to disappear.
Arka scanned the surroundings cautiously before pulling out the key he'd found among Mr. Surya's documents. The door creaked open, releasing a breath of stale air. Dust greeted him—a quiet testament to how long the place had been left untouched.
"Mr. Surya's second home," he murmured, placing the suitcase on the dusty wooden floor.
He spent the rest of the morning cleaning the cabin. Behind it, he discovered a well, clean clothes in the wardrobe, and a supply of dried food still fit for consumption. Mr. Surya had prepared the place meticulously—perhaps as a last resort, should his dirty dealings ever unravel.
That afternoon, after securing the cabin, Arka pulled out all the money from the suitcase. He counted it carefully—enough to live comfortably for years. But he had no intention of hiding. His plan was bigger.
"I need a new identity," he whispered to himself. "Someone who can move freely, without suspicion."
He retrieved a small notebook from his bag and began writing. First, he listed everything he knew about Surya—his speech patterns, gestures, the quirks in his behavior. Then he turned to a fresh page and began drafting potential identities.
"Merchant from the capital," he wrote first. "Or a representative of a foreign company. Maybe a successful farmer from another region?"
After long deliberation, Arka settled on the image of a merchant from the capital—a persona respectable enough to earn trust, yet unremarkable enough to avoid scrutiny.
"A name…" he mused. It had to be memorable, but not conspicuous. "Raka Adi. A textile trader from the capital."
A satisfied smile curved on his lips. Raka Adi—close enough to his real name that he would instinctively respond to it, yet distinct enough to stand apart.
That night, under the glow of an oil lamp, Arka began to rehearse. He used a shard of mirror he'd found, practicing different expressions, altering his tone.
"Good morning, I'm Raka Adi," he said in a deliberately deeper voice, different from his own. "A leading textile merchant from the capital."
He shook his head, unimpressed. Too stiff. Too forced.
"Raka Adi," he tried again, this time with a relaxed tone, laced with confidence. "Pleasure to meet you. Textiles? Oh yes, my family's been in the trade for three generations."
Better, but still not quite there.
For an entire day, Arka practiced without pause. He created a complete backstory for Raka Adi—place of birth, education, family, even minute details like favorite foods and his afternoon tea habits. The more vivid the identity he built, the more real it became to him.
The next morning, he decided to test his skills. Donning the best outfit he found in the wardrobe, he combed his hair neatly and studied his reflection.
"With these eyes I gaze," he whispered to the Cadurian ring on his finger, "grant me a new form."
This time, he didn't picture a specific person. Instead, he imagined the features he desired—a sharper jawline, a more prominent nose, narrower eyes, and thicker hair.
A cold sensation—by now familiar—crept across his face. Bones shifted, skin stretched, and his hair darkened to a soft chestnut. When the transformation was complete, the man staring back from the mirror was no longer Arka the poor farmer, but Raka Adi—a handsome man in his thirties, with a dignified presence.
"Perfect," he murmured, startled by how different his voice sounded—deeper, with a resonant timbre.
He stepped out of the cabin and walked with confidence toward the nearest village, about an hour away. It was the perfect chance to test his new identity.
The village was unlike his own—more prosperous, with permanent houses and well-maintained roads. As he entered a modest eatery in the center of town, a few villagers glanced his way with curiosity.
"Good afternoon," he greeted the middle-aged woman behind the counter warmly. "Long journey's made me hungry. What do you recommend?"
She beamed. "Our fish soup's the best in the region, sir. Just made."
"Then I'll have that," Raka said, settling into an empty table.
Minutes later, a steaming bowl of soup was placed in front of him. Its rich aroma reminded him that he hadn't eaten all day.
"You're not from around here, are you?" the woman asked as she poured him tea.
"I'm from the capital," Raka answered casually. "On a business trip. Textiles."
"Ah, that explains your fine clothes," she nodded with admiration. "Not often a city merchant stops in a village like this."
"Sometimes, the greatest potential lies in places most people overlook," Raka replied with a meaningful smile.
The conversation flowed naturally. With practiced ease, Raka shared tales of his "experiences" in the capital, his travels, even lighthearted stories about his fictitious family. The woman listened intently, occasionally laughing or nodding in amazement.
Without realizing it, other patrons began joining the conversation. They asked about city life, textile prices, and current trends—questions Raka answered with ease, as though he had lived that life for years.
"If you're planning to stay a while, my house has a spare room for rent," offered an old man who introduced himself as the village chief.
"Thank you for the offer," Raka nodded politely. "I still have to continue my journey today. But perhaps another time."
When Raka finally stood to leave, paying with a generous tip that left the shopkeeper bowing in gratitude, he felt a quiet triumph. For two hours, no one had doubted him. Raka Adi had passed his first test.
On his walk back to the cabin, Arka reflected on the experience. Being someone else, he realized, was more than changing your face. It was about how you carried yourself, how you spoke, and the tiny details in the stories you told. Identity was a performance—and mastery lay in consistency and nuance.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, Arka stepped back into the cabin, his mind awhirl. He had never felt so alive—playing another man gave him a taste of intoxicating freedom. For the first time in his life, he was no longer bound by his poverty, his worthless name, or a past steeped in suffering.
"With this ring," he looked at the Cadurian on his finger, "I can become anyone. A life without limits."
That night, he resumed his practice. This time, he transformed into the people he had met—the shopkeeper, the village chief, even strangers who had glanced at him in passing. The more closely he had observed someone, the more precise his transformations became.
On the second day at the cabin, Arka decided it was time to carry out the next step of his plan. He couldn't hide forever. His mother was surely worried, and he needed to assess the situation in his village after the theft of Mr. Surya's identity.
The next morning, in his original form, Arka set out for home. He carried only a small amount of money—just enough to avoid suspicion. The rest he hid securely beneath a loosened floorboard in the cabin.
The journey took almost half a day. By the time he glimpsed the village rooftops from afar, the sun was already leaning westward. From a distance, everything looked normal. But as he drew closer, a tension hung in the air.
At the village entrance, he passed a few neighbors who whispered among themselves at the sight of him. Arka nodded politely, pretending not to notice the wary glances. But his heart pounded. Did they know? Had someone grown suspicious?
"Arka! Where have you been?" The booming voice of Old Man Rehan stopped him in his tracks. The elder strode toward him, his expression a mix of relief and irritation. "Your mother's been worried sick!"
"Sorry, sir. I went to the city looking for work," Arka replied calmly. "How is she?"
"You'd best go see for yourself," Rehan shook his head. "But be careful. The police have come around a few times, asking about villagers who traveled to the city last week."
Arka's heart skipped a beat. "The police? What happened?"
"Haven't you heard? Mr. Surya was robbed. Someone impersonated him and cleared out all his bank accounts." Rehan lowered his voice. "They say the thief used some kind of dark magic to change his face."
Arka struggled to keep his face neutral. "Goodness, that's terrible. No wonder the village feels so tense."
"Yes, and Mr. Surya is furious. He's threatening to raise land rents if the thief isn't found within a month." Rehan stared at Arka. "You sure you didn't see anything strange while in the city?"
"I was just focused on finding work," Arka shook his head. "But I'll ask around next time I go."
Rehan seemed satisfied with the answer. He patted Arka on the shoulder and walked away, leaving him deep in thought. The situation was more serious than he had imagined. The police were involved, and Mr. Surya wasn't bluffing.
Hurrying now, Arka made his way home. The old hut looked more crooked than he remembered. Inside, his mother lay on the bamboo cot, her face paler than before.
"Ma," he called softly.
The old woman opened her eyes, and her face lit up. "Arka! Oh thank God, where have you been, son?"
Arka knelt by her side, gently clasping her hand—it felt colder than he remembered. "I'm sorry, It's been hard to find work in the city."
"I worried so much. Especially with all the chaos surrounding that robbery."
"I heard from Mr. Rehan. It sounds awful."
His mother studied him with eyes still sharp, though her body had grown frail. "The police came, Arka. They asked about you."
Arka felt his blood freeze. "About me? Why?"
"They said some people saw you in the city on the day it happened," she whispered. "I told them you went to find work, not to do anything wrong."
"Of course, Ma," Arka forced a smile. "I had nothing to do with it. They must have mistaken me for someone else."
She nodded weakly, but Arka caught a flicker of doubt in her eyes. Something had shifted between them—a sliver of mistrust that had never been there before.
"You look different, Arka," she murmured, reaching up to touch his face. "There's something in your eyes…"
"Just exhaustion, Ma," Arka deflected gently. "How are you feeling? Do you still have medicine?"
"It ran out yesterday," she replied softly. "But I'm fine. I feel a little better."
The lie was plain—in her labored breath, the cold sweat on her brow. Arka's chest tightened. All his life, his mother had sacrificed for him. Now it was his turn to give something back.
"I'll go to the city tomorrow. I'll buy medicine and proper food for you," he said, brushing back her white hair. "I've found a good job—with better pay than anything I've had before."
"Don't lie to me, son," the old woman looked at him, piercing. "What kind of job pays so much so quickly… for people like us?"
The question cut deep. He hesitated, searching for words. "I… met a merchant from the capital. He offered me a position—managing his goods, helping with distribution."
"A merchant?" Her voice held doubt. "What's his name?"
"Raka Adi," Arka said without pause, naming the identity he'd crafted. "He trades in textiles. A good man. He trusts me."
She gave a faint nod, too exhausted to press further. That night, Arka stayed by her side—changing the damp cloth on her brow, making porridge from the last handful of rice, spinning stories about his "new job" to distract her from the pain etched into every line of her face.
The next morning, Arka left early to gather more information. The village buzzed with unusual activity. In the central square, a group of uniformed men—city police, he realized—stood in conversation with the village chief and a handful of elders. Arka drifted closer, pretending to browse vegetables at a nearby stall while his ears strained to catch their words.
"…the description is inconsistent," one officer said. "Witnesses gave conflicting accounts. What we do know is that the suspect was able to disguise himself extremely well."
"How could anyone mimic another person's face so perfectly?" the village chief asked, incredulous.
"We believe he used something—perhaps a special mask or… some other means," the officer said, his tone uncertain. "This wasn't just a theft. It was calculated. Precise."
"And you suspect someone from our village?" The chief sounded affronted.
"We suspect anyone who was in the city that day," the officer replied firmly. "That includes residents of this village."
Arka swallowed hard. He hadn't expected such a thorough investigation. But if they were searching for a mask or disguise, they'd never find the Cadurian Ring. No one knew of its power but him.
"Arka, right?"
A voice behind him made him start. He turned to find a young officer watching him closely.
"Can we have a word?"
"Of course, sir," Arka said, forcing calm though his heart thundered in his chest.
"I heard you were in the city on the day of the robbery," the officer said without preamble.
"Yes, sir. I was looking for work. My mother is ill—her medicine is expensive."
"And did you find work?"
"I was lucky," Arka nodded. "A merchant offered me a position."
The officer pulled out a small notebook. "Name of the merchant?"
"Raka Adi," Arka answered smoothly. "He sells textiles. From the capital."
"And where did you meet him?"
"At a food stall near the main market. I was resting after job hunting all day."
The officer jotted down each answer, glancing up now and then as if to read the truth in Arka's face. "Did you notice anything strange that day? Anyone suspicious? Perhaps someone who looked like Mr. Surya, but behaved oddly?"
Arka shook his head. "The market was packed, sir. I was too focused on finding work."
After a few more questions, the officer seemed satisfied. He closed the notebook and gave a curt nod. "All right. But don't leave the village just yet. We may need to speak with you again."
"I understand, sir," Arka said politely. "But I need to return to the city tomorrow—my mother needs her medication."
The officer hesitated, then sighed. "Fine. But return quickly. And if you see or hear anything suspicious, report it immediately."
As soon as the officer left, Arka hurried home. The situation was growing dangerous. He needed to change his plans—move faster, before the investigation closed in.
That night, once his mother had fallen asleep, Arka sat by the window, gazing at the Cadurian Ring glinting under the moonlight. His mind was made up. Tomorrow, he would take his mother to the city and get her the best treatment money could buy. Then, with the ring, he would start a new life—somewhere far away.
"No one can stop me now," he whispered into the darkness. "Not Mr. Surya. Not the police. No one."