The scattered fragments of the rotting melon fruit across the village hall veranda emitted a pungent stench that mingled with the suffocating tension in the air. Before dozens of Suka Makmur villagers gripped by blind panic, Pak Darma stood tall with his chest puffed out in sheer arrogance. He deliberately weaponized the wave of mass terror to protect his own interests and his thoroughly shattered pride.

Pak Darma spun around to face the crowd, throwing both arms high into the air as though he were a savior calming his flock.

"My fellow villagers! Calm down! Listen closely to my voice!" Pak Darma bellowed, intentionally raising his volume to cut through the weeping across the courtyard.

Instantly, the sobbing and panic began to subside. Confused farmers and laborers turned their attention toward Pak Darma, pinning their final scraps of hope onto the massive loan shark.

Kasim, standing in the front row with mud-stained clothes, glared at Pak Darma with bloodshot eyes. "Boss... what is the meaning of all this? Why did our fields suddenly rot overnight? Was that boy's prophecy true?"

Pak Darma snorted harshly, letting out a brief, cynical laugh—a manufactured sneer specifically engineered to flip the narrative. He pointed a gemstone-ringed finger squarely at Danu's face.

"Prophecy, my foot, Kasim! Don't be fools falling for the ramblings of this wet-nosed brat!" Pak Darma roared, casting a cunning glare over the crowd. "Don't any of you dare fall for the foul drama he's playing right now!"

At those words, the villagers broke into uneasy murmurs. Mardani, the farm foreman, stepped forward with his brow furrowed in suspicion. "What foul drama do you mean, Boss? Care to explain?"

Pak Darma smiled slyly, sensing his manipulation taking root in the panicked minds of the farmers. He paced across the veranda, then pointed toward the distant hillside slope.

"Use some common sense!" Pak Darma cried passionately. "Why did our melon farms suddenly rot all at once, right after this kid spent days spreading terror and curses here at the village hall? Answer me!"

"You mean... our farms were sabotaged?" an elderly farmer asked, his voice trembling with fear.

"Of course they were sabotaged, Mang Udin!" Pak Darma seized the argument with enthusiastic validation. "He intentionally poisoned part of the irrigation canals or released artificial spores so the market value of our melons in the city would instantly crash!"

Danu's eyes widened in utter shock at the baseless, malicious slander. He strode forward across the edge of the veranda, locking a burning, piercing stare onto Pak Darma.

"Shut your mouth, Pak Darma! Don't twist the truth with cheap lies!" Danu shouted in a deep, furious voice. "I never poisoned anything! Those crops rotted because of natural soil fungi driven by your greed for monoculture planting without proper crop rotation!"

"Silence, crop murderer!" Pak Darma cut him off instantly, shouting at the top of his lungs to drown out the youth's argument. He turned back to the crowd, aggressively planting the seeds of suspicion deeper into their minds. "You heard his confession yourself?! He knows all about fungi and soil decay as if he's the mastermind behind this entire disaster!"

The villagers began to snap. Whispers of fear slowly morphed into poisonous murmurs of hatred directed at Danu.

"Pak Darma's got a point..." a farmer muttered suspiciously. "How could he possibly know our crops were going to rot unless he planned it himself?"

"That ungrateful brat has always been jealous of our families living prosperously off melon harvests!" another farmer chimed in bitterly.

Seeing the mob rallying to his side, a triumphant grin spread across Pak Darma's lips. He delivered the final, devastating blow designed to crush Danu completely before the village.

"Open your eyes wide, Suka Makmur!" Pak Darma yelled, pointing aggressively at Danu for emphasis. "This isn't just about farm sabotage! Haven't you all wondered why, while every single one of our fields has collapsed into black sludge, Danu's marginal cliffside plot is thriving with lush, emerald-green shallots?!"

Instantly, the entire courtyard fell dead silent. The noisy commotion vanished.

The villagers exchanged stunned glances. Their panic-addled brains rapidly absorbed the poison planted by Pak Darma.

Kasim’s eyes bulged as he glared at Danu with boiling rage. "Shallots on a rock pile...? Could it be... could it be he's been growing his shallots all this time by stealing the nutrients and sucking the fertility right out of our farms?!"

"Spot on, Kasim!" Pak Darma crowed with manipulative satisfaction. "He intentionally wrecked our harvest so melon prices would plummet to zero, and then with his cunning capital, he could snatch up all our land and remaining wealth for pennies!"

"Damn you to hell, Danu!" a young farmer snapped, snapping under the emotional strain as he stepped forward with balled fists. "Give us our investment money back! Don't play the saint while acting like a thief!"

"Thief! Village traitor!" other villagers shouted, completely swept up in the mob's fury.

Danu shook his head violently, feeling a heavy weight crush his chest at how easily these fools fell for an oppressor's lies. He raised both hands, fighting desperately to shout the truth over the wall of abuse.

"Wait! Hear me out!" Danu screamed hoarsely, pouring every ounce of strength into his lungs. "My land is fertile not because I stole from your farms! My system detected total collapse because your imported melon varieties lacked immunity to—"

"ENOUGH! No more garbage lies about systems or ghost mold!" Pak Darma roared, cutting Danu off with a booming voice, his face flushed with triumphant glee.

Pak Darma stepped up to the edge of the veranda, looking down at Danu with a patronizing, demonic grin before dropping an open challenge that made the entire courtyard hold its breath.

"You want to keep lying and playing theater in front of a crowd, huh?!" Pak Darma challenged loudly and arrogantly.

Danu fell silent, locking eyes with Pak Darma through ragged breaths.

Pak Darma spread his arms wide, delivering the final, manipulative punchline to cap off his wicked morning performance:

"If within three days our farms don't bounce back to a grand harvest like I said—or if you can't prove your filthy slander—then you and your senile old man will be driven out of Suka Makmur forever! Without a single shirt on your backs! Do you dare accept my challenge, you little bastard?!"