The midday sun beat down on Suka Makmur Village like molten lead, searing the skin. In the middle of a parched, cracked rice paddy, Danu bent low, driving his rusted hoe into the stubborn clay. Each swing produced a heavy thud, keeping time with his ragged, desperate breathing. Sweat poured from his temples, stinging his raw eyes, but he had no time to wipe it away.

Several paces to his right, Pak Slamet—his father—hacked out a dry cough, clutching his aching, bent lower back. The middle-aged man wore a worn bamboo hat with broken reeds. His skin was baked dark by decades under the sun, reflecting a lifetime spent as an impoverished farmhand who would never truly own the land he tilled.

"Catch your breath, Dan," Pak Slamet rasped, his voice nearly swallowed by the dry afternoon wind. "We need to pace ourselves until sunset. If we don’t finish clearing the weeds in this section by two o'clock, Pak Darma is going to dock our wages again."

Danu paused, lifting the hoe slightly. He straightened his back, staring out at the vast expanse of farmland stretching before them. On paper, the fields looked lush with sprawling melon vines. But to Danu and his father, that sea of green was nothing more than an invisible prison cell. They weren't the owners; they were just slaves shackled to their ancestors' soil.

"You're always talking about docked wages, Dad," Danu muttered, his voice trembling with years of bottled-up fury. "How much longer are we going to live like this? Working from dawn until dusk, only for the money to vanish the second it touches our hands just to pay off the interest on last season's fertilizer loan!"

Pak Slamet winced as if struck. He dropped his hoe and shot his son a sharp, warning look, his wrinkled face etched with deep fear.

"Hush! Don't talk like that!" Pak Slamet hissed, low and fierce. He glanced around anxiously, making sure none of Pak Darma's enforcers were within earshot. "Do you want us driven out of this village? What are we supposed to eat if not for Pak Darma's mercy? We're still drowning in last season's debt, plus the medical loan for your mother’s illness last month..."

"But the way they calculate those debts makes no sense, Dad!" Danu retorted, his eyes blazing as he looked at his father. "The interest on the melon fertilizer loan triples in a single month! That's not a loan anymore—that's modern-day slavery!"

"Enough! Stop it, Danu!" Pak Slamet cut him off, his voice trembling, his eyes betraying utter defeat. "This world doesn't belong to poor people like us. Whoever holds the capital holds the power. Just do your section and keep your head down!"

Before Danu could fire back, the aggressive roar of an off-road motorcycle tore through the stillness of the irrigation path. Dust billowed thickly as an expensive, heavily modified moped rolled into view, ridden by a stout man wearing a thick, flashy gold chain. Seated behind him were two burly enforcers with dark tattoos wrapping around their thick forearms.

It was Pak Darma, the absolute economic dictator of Suka Makmur Village. The owner of the largest agricultural supply shop, the primary lender, and the most feared loan shark capable of deciding who prospered and who starved.

The motorcycle stopped right at the edge of the paddy where Danu and his father were working. Pak Darma pulled off his black Bogo helmet with arrogant flair, spat onto the ground, and cast a cold, predatory gaze at the two farmhands.

"Hey, Slamet! Danu!" Pak Darma bellowed, his voice shrill and condescending. He intentionally raised his volume so the laborers in the neighboring plots could hear.

Pak Slamet immediately hunched over in submission, dropped his hoe, and hurried toward the path with a forced, desperate smile.

"Y-yes, Boss Darma? How can I help you? We're almost done with this section, I swear," Pak Slamet fawned, debasing himself completely.

Pak Darma let out a mocking snort. He dismounted, strolling slowly along the ridge while patting his protruding belly, encased in a tight shirt. Pulling a crumpled ledger from his pocket, he waved it lazily in the air.

"Done? Ha! You think forced labor from the colonial era gets paid off with half-baked results like this, Slamet?" Pak Darma sneered. His eyes darted sharply past him to Danu, who was still standing tall in the middle of the field, refusing to budge an inch.

Seeing that Danu hadn't cowered like his father, Pak Darma’s brow furrowed in displeasure. He pointed the rolled-up ledger straight at him.

"Hey, kid! Are your eyes painted on? When an elder—when I—arrive, you bow! Don't just stand there like a telegraph pole! No wonder your work is so slow; you clearly lack any basic manners!" Pak Darma snapped.

Pak Slamet hurried to bow even lower, frantically elbowing Danu's leg to force the boy to duck. "Please forgive my son, Boss. He's just... he's exhausted from the heat today. Have mercy on him."

Danu clenched his fists so tightly that his knuckles turned stark white. Veins stood out on his neck as he fought to suppress the raging emotions threatening to burst from his chest. Deep inside, a boiling mix of hatred and disgust churned as he watched his father reduce himself to nothing before this greedy parasite. Their family's dignity was trampled upon daily, bought and sold for the cheap price of a bag of subsidized fertilizer.

"I don't want his apologies, Slamet!" Pak Darma barked, stepping right to the edge of the field, standing mere feet away from Danu, separated only by the muddy ridge. "I didn't come here for excuses—I came to collect!"

Pak Darma thrust the ledger right into Danu's face. "Listen up, kid! Your family's debt for last season's melon seeds and fertilizer came due last week. With accumulated interest, it's hit eight million rupiah!"

Pak Slamet gasped, his face draining of all color. "E-eight million?! But... but Boss, didn't it just stand at four million last month? How did it double in just thirty days?!"

"Don't argue with me, Slamet!" Pak Darma cut him off, his face flushing with anger. "That includes administrative fees, late penalties, and the risk of crop failure that I have to shoulder! If you can't pay, hand over the deed to your ancestral land!"

"What ancestral land are you even talking about, Pak Darma?!" Danu finally snapped, unable to hold back any longer. His voice cracked through the afternoon heat with an absolute firmness that momentarily stunned Pak Darma. "You stole that land through your predatory crop-mortgage scam back when my grandfather was still alive! We aren't your business partners—we're just slaves you're bleeding dry on our own soil!"

The surrounding paddies fell into an eerie, suffocating silence. Laborers in the distance stopped swinging their hoes, turning around with wide, horrified eyes locked on Danu. No one in that village dared talk back to Pak Darma, let alone an impoverished farmhand's son.

Pak Darma's smug smirk hardened instantly, plunging into a dark, murderous glare born of wounded pride before his enforcers.

"Insolent brat! You dare talk back to me?!" shouted one of the enforcers, stepping forward with a hand sliding down to grip a small machete at his belt.

Pak Darma raised his right hand, signaling his men to hold. He stalked closer to Danu, locking eyes with him in deep, venomous hatred before flashing a cold smile.

"Fine... just fine," Pak Darma hissed, low and threatening. "A broke kid with zero capital and a third-rate education, yet you've got a remarkably sharp tongue."

Pak Darma tore a page right out of the ledger, tossing the dirty scrap of paper directly into the muddy water near Danu's feet. The page slowly sank into the murky depths.

"Burn this into your brain, Danu," Pak Darma whispered, his voice sharp as a razor. "Next season is your family's absolute last chance to clear this entire debt. If harvest time comes and you fail to pay me in cash with top-grade melons..."

Pak Darma pointed a thick finger straight toward their dilapidated shack at the edge of the village.

"...I am going to bulldoze that shack of yours down to the dust, and I’ll throw your family out onto the streets to beg. Remember my words!"

With that terrifying ultimatum delivered, Pak Darma spun around arrogantly, hopped back onto his trail bike, and roared away, leaving a thick cloud of dust to choke Danu and his father.

Pak Slamet collapsed weakly, dropping to his knees in the wet paddy mud as he wept silently, mourning their cursed fate.

Meanwhile, Danu stood frozen under the blazing sun. He stared at the spot where the ledger page had sunk into the mud, then tightened his fists until his fingernails bit deep into his palms, drawing a trickle of fresh blood that mingled with his sweat. Deep within his soul, a vow was carved in stone: This wretched reality would not stand a day longer.