The morning mist still clung to the village roads as Arka helped his mother into the rattling minibus heading to the city. He wrapped a thick shawl around her frail shoulders, shielding her from the sharp chill of dawn.
"Are you sure about this, son?" her voice was weak, her gaze lingering on their small house—one they might never return to. "What about our crops? The house?"
"Mr. Rehan promised he'd take care of everything," Arka replied, tightening the straps of their worn bag. It held their clothes, a few keepsakes, and a sliver of hope. "Right now, nothing matters more than your health."
Hidden beneath his tunic was a pouch with what little money he dared to carry—just enough for her treatment and maybe a modest roof over their heads in the city. The rest, he had stashed away in the woods, near the Cadurian ring that still pulsed with silent promise.
As the vehicle lurched forward, the village slipped behind them. Some neighbors waved with kind smiles. Others whispered behind half-closed windows, suspicion in their eyes. The theft from Mr. Surya—and the sudden police visit—had left stains Arka couldn't wash off.
"They're talking about us," his mother whispered, eyes downcast.
"Let them," Arka said, forcing a smile. "Their tongues are sharper than their memories. Tomorrow, they'll find new gossip."
But the journey was long, and her condition worsened with every mile. Her coughs grew violent, her breaths shallow. Arka asked the driver to stop more than once, giving her water and space to rest.
"I'm sorry, Arka," she wheezed. "A mother shouldn't burden her son like this."
"You raised me with everything you had," he said, squeezing her cold hand. "Now it's my turn."
And still, a part of him kept thinking about the ring. He hadn't dared to use it in her presence, but knowing it was there—its power, its potential—was like a hidden ember of control in a world that had offered him none.
The sun dipped low when they reached the city's edge. Lights flickered to life, and the streets buzzed with people hurrying home. The city was alive, overwhelming—and full of unknowns.
"We need a place to stay, Ma," Arka said, pointing the driver toward a block of buildings that looked slightly better kept than the rest. "Tomorrow, we'll find the best Doctor in town."
His mother didn't reply at first. Then, quietly: "With money from that textile merchant?"
Arka's pulse quickened. "Yes. Raka Adi. He paid me in advance for future work."
"How much did he pay?" Her voice sharpened. "Enough to cover a top Doctor?"
"Enough," he answered shortly, not daring to lie further. "You don't need to worry about money anymore."
She fell silent, but he could feel her doubt hanging between them. After a life of scraping by, the idea of "not worrying about money" was foreign—almost laughable.
They stopped at a modest but clean inn downtown. Nothing fancy, but far more comfortable than their home in the village. The kind of place a sick mother might recover in peace.
"Good evening," Arka greeted the innkeeper, a middle-aged woman with a gentle smile. "I need a room with two beds, close to the entrance. My mother can't walk far."
"Of course, dear," she said, her eyes softening as she saw Arka's mother. "We have one downstairs with a window facing the garden. How long will you be staying?"
"A few weeks, maybe longer," Arka replied, pulling out a thick wad of hundred-thousand rupiah notes—far more than any villager should carry. "I'll pay for a week in advance."
The woman raised her eyebrows, but kept her tone professional. "Very well. Any special needs for your mother?"
"Hot water for bathing. And if possible, chicken soup for dinner. Also… if you know of a skilled healer nearby, I'd appreciate any advice."
"Doctor Wijaya is the best in the city," she said, lowering her voice. "But... he's not cheap."
"That won't be a problem," Arka replied calmly. "Thank you."
He settled his mother into the room—a simple space, yet clean and warm, with a soft bed, fresh linen, and even a rocking chair in the corner. She looked more at ease than she had in weeks.
"Rest now, Mom. Dinner's on the way."
But as he turned to leave, she stopped him.
"Arka," she said, voice barely above a whisper. "Tell me the truth. Where did all this money come from?"
He froze.
He wanted to tell her—but the truth was dangerous. Even for her.
He turned slowly, a soft smile on his lips. "Didn't you always say our hard work would be rewarded? That someday, luck would find us? Well... maybe today's that day."
She watched him, searching his eyes. "What do you have that a wealthy merchant would want, Arka? We're just poor farmers. You're just like your father."
That hurt. Because it was true.
"Trust, Mom," he said softly. "He trusts me. And now... I need you to trust me, too." He knelt beside her bed. "I promise—everything will be okay."
She stared at him for a long time before finally nodding. "Alright, son. I believe you."
Dinner passed quietly. The soup was warm, the room peaceful, and for the first time in weeks, his mother ate without a struggle. Once she fell asleep, Arka stepped outside under the excuse of fresh air.
But he needed more than air—he needed clarity.
The city at night was nothing like the village. Streets glowed with lanterns, voices echoed from alleys, and taverns brimmed with laughter and secrets. Arka wandered aimlessly, letting the pulse of the city draw him forward.
He stopped in front of a grand building with carved wooden doors and a sign above: Merchant's Rest. Laughter and music spilled from inside.
Just as he was about to turn away, the door burst open. A group of well-dressed men emerged, laughing loudly. They were clearly not ordinary citizens—their clothes were too fine, their steps too confident.
"Tomorrow at nine, don't be late," said one man with authority in his voice. "The governor's office. This contract is our golden ticket."
Arka's eyes narrowed.
The speaker was in his forties, tall and commanding, his silk robes embroidered with gold thread. But more than his clothes, it was his presence—calm, confident, sharp—that caught Arka's attention.
"Of course, Mr. Arjuna," another man replied. "We won't miss it."
Mr. Arjuna. The name etched itself into Arka's mind.
Their eyes met briefly.
Arka felt the ring in his pocket pulse with heat. The urge to use it—become this man, take his face, his life—was almost unbearable.
But he resisted.
"Good evening," Mr. Arjuna said, surprising him.
"Good evening, sir," Arka replied, bowing slightly.
"New to the city?" Arjuna asked, studying him.
"Yes, sir. I brought my mother here for treatment. She's very ill."
"Ah, a devoted son." Arjuna nodded. "What's your name?"
"Arka."
"Unusual name," Arjuna mused. "I'm Arjuna Wijaya. I trade between islands."
Arjuna Wijaya... Not just a merchant. A gatekeeper to a world Arka had never touched.
"If your mother needs help," Arjuna continued, pulling a gilded card from his pocket, "show this to Doctor Wijaya. He's my cousin. He'll treat her well."
Arka took the card, hands trembling. "Thank you, sir. I won't forget this."
"Don't mention it," Arjuna said, patting his shoulder. "Maybe we'll meet again—under better circumstances."
With that, the man disappeared into the night, leaving Arka alone under the moonlight, a business card glowing faintly in his palm.
A new path had just opened.
He returned to the inn with quick steps, his mind ablaze. Arjuna Wijaya—connected, powerful, and generous. Far more valuable than Surya. Even more useful than the false identity of Raka Adi.
His mother slept peacefully.
Arka sat by the window, eyes on the empty street. One hand held the Cadurian ring. The other, the business card.
"The first step," he whispered.
Heal Mother. Step two…
He looked at his reflection in the mirror—just a poor farmer. A nobody.
But not for long.
"Arjuna Wijaya," he whispered the name again, letting it settle on his tongue like prophecy. "Yes… we'll meet again. In a very different way."
Outside, the full moon bathed the city in silver. The road ahead shimmered like a dream—and Arka had already taken the first step.