The afternoon in Suka Makmur Village offered no warmth; instead, it baked the crown of the head with a blazing, blistering glare. In the upscale residential enclave at the edge of the village, the luxury Pak Darma had flaunted for so long collapsed into ruins of utter despair. That grand, high-walled mansion was now surrounded by unfamiliar vehicles bearing out-of-town license plates.

Four broad-shouldered men dressed in neat black suits and expressionless faces stepped down from a large pickup truck. They were the asset-recovery team from a private financial institution and representatives of the city's corporate loan sharks holding the reins over Pak Darma's billions in debt.

The lead debt collector marched purposefully toward the mansion's front doors, clutching an official seizure warrant stamped in red.

Tap... tap... tap!

The ornate carved teak doors received a harsh pounding. Moments later, the door cracked open. Pak Darma’s pale, disheveled face, his eyes betraying deep, cowering terror, emerged from the gap.

"G-good afternoon..." Pak Darma stammered, his once-booming voice reduced to a pathetic, raspy squeak. "Can we talk this over reasonably? About extending the loan payment deadline..."

The lead collector snorted coldly. He brushed the document away from Pak Darma's hand and shoved the door wide open.

"Reasonably? Your grace period expired at dawn, Pak Darma!" the debt collector barked, his heavy voice echoing across the opulent room. "Your total principal and accumulated interest have hit three billion four hundred million rupiah! And your collateral melon farm land deeds are completely worthless now that the soil has turned to poisonous, rotting sludge!"

Pak Darma immediately dropped his knees to the cold ceramic floor, slumping in supplication at the debt collector's feet while clasping his hands together in desperate plea.

"Please... I'm begging you, give me three more months!" Pak Darma wept hysterically, tears spilling freely over his expensive trousers. "I can secure other capital! I can force the villagers to pay their installments! Don't seize my home and my assets, sir... I'm an old man, where else am I supposed to live?!"

The collector looked down with utter contempt upon the heavy-set man groveling on the floor. He grunted with disgust, pulling his hand away from Pak Darma's grasp.

"Time's up! Business is business, Pak Darma!" the collector declared mercilessly. He waved a hand toward his men outside. "Execute the order! Slap the asset-seizure stickers on the front doors, and haul all remaining valuables, cars, and assets onto the truck right now!"

"You got it, Boss!" the enforcers chorused.

Instantly, the mansion that had once stood as a symbol of absolute authority in the village turned into a shipwreck. The debt collectors raged through every room. Flat-screen televisions, high-end sound systems, carved display cabinets, and iron safes were dragged out by force.

Pak Darma could only sit weakly on the floor, staring blankly as he mourned his destruction. He watched his luxury sedan hoisted onto a flatbed truck with an ear-splitting engine roar.

Outside the gates, dozens of passing villagers—including Kasim and Mardani—stood frozen by the roadside. They stared in horror at the asset seizure with empty, lifeless eyes.

Gone was the fear. Gone was the submissive deference they used to show the village ruler.

"Look at that... our protector is completely shattered..." Kasim whispered in a violently shaking voice, staring blankly at Pak Darma's mansion now plastered with a massive red sticker reading: [THIS ASSET IS SEIZED BY THE STATE AND CREDITORS].

Mardani let out a hollow laugh, a tear slipping down his filthy cheek. "What protector, Mang Kasim? He wasn't a protector... he was a leech that sucked us dry, then tossed us aside the moment the ship sank."

The villagers bowed their heads low, realizing that the figure they had feared and worshiped was nothing more than a fragile man crashing into poverty in the blink of an eye. Pak Darma's empire of power in Suka Makmur was officially dead.

Hours later, after all valuables inside the house had been hauled away and the debt collectors departed, leaving behind heavily chained front gates, Pak Darma stumbled out of his mansion grounds with an unsteady gait. His clothes were filthy, his hair tangled, and his gaze completely vacant. He walked without a destination, dragging his feet away from the elite neighborhood.

His steps carried him far outside the village, tracing an outer pathway leading toward the western agricultural zone—the exact birthplace and graveyard of his golden melon empire.

A harsh afternoon wind blew, kicking up street dust. Pak Darma finally halted at the edge of the vast expanse of land that had once been his proudest melon farm.

No lush green vegetation remained. Only a sea of pitch-black mud exhaling a suffocating stench as far as the eye could see. Rotting stalks lay scattered everywhere, swarmed by flies.

Pak Darma dropped himself into the foul mud. He no longer cared that his expensive clothes were ruined. His trembling fingers reached into his pocket, pulling out an official bankruptcy document from the bank—a thin slip of paper stating he now carried billions in debt and held the status of the poorest man in the region.

He stared hard at the paper beneath the blazing sun, while the afternoon breeze whispered the stench of the surrounding sludge.

Amidst his rotting melon fields, Pak Darma sat in desolate isolation with nowhere to turn, realizing at last that his arrogance and greed had dragged him down to the bottom of an abyss he could never climb back out of.