The morning sun had barely climbed into the sky when the raucous laughter and familiar chatter of the coffee stall at the Suka Makmur Village Hall pierced the morning quiet. The rich aroma of robusta coffee mixed with the thick, pungent smoke of clove cigarettes rising from beneath the weathered tile roof of the hall's veranda. This spot was always the epicenter of village news, gossip, and social theater for the local farmers.

Yet this morning, all eyes were locked onto a single, hot topic serving as the town's favorite punchline: Danu, the farmhand's son.

Danu and his father, Pak Slamet, had no choice but to cross the village hall grounds on their way to the sub-district market to pick up the shallot seeds allocated for their marginal plot. The moment they stepped foot into the courtyard, sharp, sarcastic barbs flew from the long table where the farmers had gathered.

"Well, look who's here! Who's walking by? The genius son of a field hand!" crowed Mang Udin, a middle-aged farmer wearing a frayed straw hat, pointing a coffee glass straight at Danu.

"Hahaha! I heard he tried to stop his father from planting melons last night! Said our golden melons were doomed because of some ghost disease!" chimed in Mardani, a petty loan shark working for Pak Darma, pitching his voice deliberately loud so everyone in the yard could hear. "My, what a brilliant young man we have today! Barely out of high school and he already thinks he's smarter than national agricultural experts!"

Instantly, every villager sitting around the coffee stall exploded into laughter. Derisive jeers echoed across every corner of the courtyard, driving Pak Slamet to slump his shoulders, his face flushing a deep, humiliating crimson. His legs felt heavy, as though dragging tons of lead.

Pak Slamet nudged Danu’s arm gently, whispering with a tight, shaking voice. "Enough, Dan... don't look at them. Don't go looking for trouble. Hurry up, let's just take the back trail."

Danu didn't budge. He kept his chin held high, staring straight into the mob of farmers mocking him. At the edge of his vision, the blood-red system countdown ticked quietly: (Time Until Total Outbreak: 19 Days)

"Why should we take the back way, Dad?" Danu replied loudly enough for everyone around them to catch every word. "We aren't thieves, and we don't owe these people a damn thing. Let them laugh now."

Hearing Danu respond with such fearless calm, the farmers' laughter faltered. A few frowned, deeply offended by the insolence of a boy lacking basic respect.

"Hey, beggar kid! You've got a lot of nerve talking like that in front of the village elders?!" snapped Kasim, a stocky farmer, slamming his ceramic mug down onto the wooden table. "You're just a farmhand's brat living off everyone else's charity! Who do you think you are, challenging the village market?!"

Before Danu could fire back, the aggressive roar of a luxury engine shattered the atmosphere. A sleek black sedan belonging to Pak Darma rolled slowly into the courtyard, parking right in front of the hall. The door swung open, and out stepped Pak Darma clad in a tight batik shirt adorned with a heavy gold chain, strutting with arrogant swagger flanked by two towering enforcers.

Spotted by the crowd, the villagers instantly leaped to their feet, bowing respectfully as though greeting a petty king.

"Ah, good morning, Boss Darma!" Mardani greeted him with a deep bow. "Look, Boss, we were just discussing this morning's comedy routine courtesy of Slamet's boy here. Says our golden melon harvest is heading for total failure because of his magical fortune-telling!"

Pak Darma halted his stride. A thoroughly repulsive, cynical smirk spread across his face as he crossed his arms, looking down his nose at Danu and his father standing by the roadside.

Stalking closer, Pak Darma exhaled a heavy cloud of stale cigarette smoke right into Danu's face. "Oh... so this is the punk who was running his mouth at me down in the paddies yesterday?" Pak Darma mocked, pitching his voice shrilly to humiliate them before the gathered crowd.

Pak Slamet immediately folded into a trembling bow, clasping his hands together in desperate plea. "P-please forgive my son, Boss Darma. He's young, hot-headed, and his mind wanders sometimes. Please don't hold it against him..."

"Shut your mouth, Slamet!" Pak Darma barked, his smirk never wavering. Waving a hand to silence the older man, he locked his gaze dead onto Danu's eyes.

"Listen to me, Danu," Pak Darma sneered condescendingly, raising his voice for maximum theater. "In Suka Makmur, agricultural matters aren't decided by the half-baked hallucinations of some wet-behind-the-ears kid! Look at this!"

Pak Darma gestured toward several large wooden crates filled with expensive imported seeds resting on the hall table. The seeds looked fresh, sealed in transparent plastic stamped with golden overseas labels.

"These are super-imported F1 hybrid golden melon seeds! Fifty thousand rupiah per vine! Every single family in this village has invested tens of millions into buying these seeds from me!" Pak Darma bellowed proudly, thumping his own chest. "And you—some destitute laborer's kid farming a worthless patch of rocks—you have the unmitigated gall to tell people to stop planting melons and switch to cheap onions?!"

"He's right, Boss!" Kasim shouted from the crowd. "The kid's just stressed out because he's too broke to buy our melon seeds! That's why he's spreading garbage rumors so everyone else crashes right along with him!"

"An insolent brat like that needs to be taught a lesson!" another chimed in. "This season is our golden age! Don't let a beggar's mindset poison the spirit of our village!"

Abuse, mockery, and derisive cheers rained down on Danu from every direction. The villagers grinned with smug satisfaction, certain of their superiority and unmatched agricultural expertise.

Standing beside Danu, Pak Slamet looked ready to cry, crushed under the sheer weight of public humiliation. He tugged frantically at Danu's sleeve, begging his son to apologize and get them out of there.

"Please, Dan... let's just say sorry... let's get out of here..." Pak Slamet whispered in utter despair.

Yet Danu didn't move an inch. He gently brushed his father's hand away, took a single step forward, and planted himself directly in front of Pak Darma without an ounce of intimidation. His gaze was so icy, sharp, and piercing that Pak Darma’s smug grin hitched slightly in genuine surprise at the boy's unrelenting stare.

The noisy courtyard gradually fell into a dead silence. The villagers blinked, stunned by Danu's uncharacteristic spine.

Taking a deep breath, Danu lifted his chin. With a voice deep, resonant, and echoing across the entire hall grounds, he broke the silence.

"Are you all really that proud of those expensive imported seeds?" Danu asked coldly, cutting through the morning quiet. "Flashing tens of millions in capital, laughing at everyone else, and acting like you own the ground beneath your feet?"

Pak Darma let out a harsh snort, trying to mask his surprise with a cynical laugh. "Ha! Of course we're proud! What the hell is there to be proud of in your pathetic rock patch, huh? A wannabe farmer!"

Danu offered a faint, ironic smile—steeped in profound pity. He swept his eyes over the faces of the people who had oppressed his family for years.

"You can laugh all you want today. You can parade your fake wealth across this stage," Danu said, his tone sharpening until it pricked the conscience of everyone listening. "But remember my words today..."

Danu pointed a single finger skyward, aiming directly toward the vast expanse of melon farms stretching across the village's western side.

"...Your arrogance, your collective stupidity, and your greed for dirty money are going to destroy everything within a matter of weeks!" Danu shouted fiercely. "When rotting roots and black sludge swallow every drop of your hard work without a trace, don't expect a soul to lift a finger to save you."

The courtyard went stone dead. Complete silence.

Pak Darma's smug face flushed a violent red, boiling over with sudden rage. He thrust a trembling finger straight at Danu's face.

"Insolent bastard! You dare curse our village harvest twice, you little rat?!" Pak Darma roared in fury.