The morning sun had barely crested the ridges surrounding Suka Makmur Village, yet the courtyard outside the Village Hall was already buzzing with raucous laughter and barbed commentary. Pak Mardani’s coffee stall, situated right at the edge of the hall's grounds, was packed shoulder-to-shoulder with farmers enjoying their morning brew while chewing over the juiciest gossip of the week.

Naturally, the hot topic on everyone's lips was Danu and his desperate gamble on the marginal cliffside plot.

Word that the impoverished farmhand's son had blown his last remaining savings to rent the most barren, rocky patch of dirt in the entire village had spread like wildfire. To make matters worse, instead of joining the rest of the community in planting golden melons, Danu had been spotted hauling crates of cheap shallot seeds up the hill.

Danu strode across the village hall courtyard with a woven basket of seed bulbs slung over his shoulder. Trailing close behind him was Pak Slamet, walking with his head bowed low, his frail frame trembling under the weight of crushing humiliation every time a sharp whisper cut through the air around them.

"Well, look at that! The village idiot from the end of the alley is back for more!" sneered Kasim, a stocky farmer, pointing a coffee mug directly at Danu. "Yesterday he wanted to play the village savior, and today he’s playing the court jester, trying to farm a gravel graveyard!"

"Hahaha! Shallots in solid rock? What is that crop even supposed to turn into? Give it two days under the sun and those stalks will fry straight to charcoal!" Mardani barked from behind the counter, greeted by a fresh wave of roaring laughter from the farmers seated nearby.

Pak Slamet ducked his head even lower, his face a pale, ghostly mask of profound heartbreak. He tugged gently at Danu’s sleeve, his voice choked with desperate panic.

"Dan... please, stop..." Pak Slamet whispered, trembling. "Don't go this way. Where am I supposed to show my face? Everyone is laughing at us. Why on earth were you stubborn enough to rent that cursed dirt and plant shallots? Why couldn't you just listen to me from the beginning?"

Danu stopped in his tracks. He turned to his father, gently patting the old man's weathered hand with firm, unshakable reassurance.

"Dad, keep your chin up," Danu said quietly, loud enough to carry clearly to the onlookers nearby. "We aren't thieves, and we aren't leaching off anyone else. Let them laugh now. Time will prove who ends up weeping and who stands tall."

"Weeping? Ha-ha-ha! Listen to the broke farmhand's brat—he thinks time is going to prove him right!" a shrill, arrogant voice cut across their conversation from the hall veranda.

Instantly, the mob of villagers parted to clear a path. Pak Darma strolled forward with an obnoxious swagger, clad in a tight batik shirt set off by a heavy gold chain glinting in the morning glare. Flanking him were two towering, broad-shouldered enforcers casting hostile glares at Danu and his father.

At the sight of the village’s reigning economic tyrant, Pak Slamet immediately doubled over in a desperate, frantic bow, frantically clasping his hands together in supplication.

"M-morning, Boss Darma..." Pak Slamet stammered, his voice barely a breath. "Please forgive my son, Boss. He's young, hot-headed, and his mind wanders when he lets himself dream too big..."

Pak Darma waved a hand dismissively, brushing off Pak Slamet’s apology with a look of pure disgust. He stalked forward, halting a mere half-meter away from Danu, crossing his arms over his chest with a revolting, patronizing smirk.

"Well, well, well! Look who it is!" Pak Darma mocked, pitching his voice to carry across the entire courtyard for maximum theater. "The brilliant young prophet who cursed our melon fields with an apocalypse yesterday! But why are you lugging around a basket of pathetic little shallots today, huh? Did your magic fortune-telling expire?"

The surrounding crowd erupted into vicious applause and laughter at Pak Darma’s punchline, the jeers washing over the courtyard in a noisy wave.

Danu didn’t flinch an inch. He locked eyes with Pak Darma, refusing to blink. "My prophecies never miss, Pak Darma. If anything, I just feel sorry that you're all so proud of nursing crops that are about to rot into stinking corpses underground."

Hearing Danu speak with such unmitigated insolence, Pak Darma’s condescending grin vanished instantly. His expression hardened into a mask of pure, venomous fury that radiated straight from his eyes.

"Insolent brat! You dare repeat that cursed trash right to my face?!" Pak Darma roared, jabbing a trembling index finger straight at Danu's nose.

Pak Slamet collapsed weakly onto the dusty ground, clutching his knees in sheer terror at the loan shark's boiling wrath. "Have mercy, Boss! Forgive my son! He doesn't know what he's saying!"

Pak Darma shot a cold glance down at the old man groveling in the dirt, snorting with cruel contempt. "Get that old stray off the ground! Look how his little protégé turned into a rabid dog with no respect!"

Danu moved swiftly, bending down to haul his father back to his feet and tucking him safely behind his back. He fixed Pak Darma with a gaze that grew steadily colder. "My father doesn't need to crawl in the dirt at the feet of a parasite like you, Pak Darma."

Pak Darma let out a short, choked laugh born of suppressed rage. He stepped in closer, dropping his voice into a vicious, razor-sharp whisper meant only for Danu's ears.

"Listen to me very carefully, you little rat," Pak Darma hissed. "You think I don't know what you're up to on that cliffside? You think renting dead dirt and growing cheap onions is going to slip you out of my grip?"

Danu stood silent, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

A demonic smile twisted Pak Darma’s lips. "I'll tell you one thing, Danu. This entire village answers to me! Every single soul bows to my name because they need my money!"

Stepping back, Pak Darma threw his shoulders back and raised his voice back to a booming public volume, ensuring every villager caught every word.

"And now, right here before all these witnesses!" Pak Darma bellowed, jutting his chin out arrogantly. "I am issuing a formal, public warning to you and your family!"

The courtyard fell into an abrupt, suffocating hush. The farmers held their breath, completely gripped by the display of absolute power.

Pak Darma pointed a thick finger squarely at Danu’s chest. "Your cheap shallot harvest on that rock pile is due in a few months. Hear my terms clearly: If your harvest fails completely—and I guarantee you it will—then your family's entire debt will be instantly doubled! And by that exact deadline, the rundown shack you call home will be seized and flattened by my men!"

Hearing that brutal ultimatum, Pak Slamet let out a piercing cry of despair behind Danu, nearly collapsing again. "No... Dear God... it's the only roof we have left..." he sobbed helplessly.

The villagers exchanged murmurs, a good number of them grinning with malicious satisfaction, believing Danu had finally reaped what he sowed for defying the natural order of the village.

Yet amid the crushing hostility, the hostile glares, and the absolute threat of ruin delivered by the village's undisputed ruler, the corners of Danu's mouth twitched upward into a quiet, terrifyingly calm smile.

He took a deliberate step forward toward Pak Darma, catching the older man off guard as zero trace of fear registered on the poor boy's face.

"An interesting set of rules, Pak Darma," Danu said, his deep, steady voice ringing clearly across the silent courtyard. "But what if the exact opposite happens?"

Pak Darma narrowed his eyes in confusion and irritation. "What are you rambling about, you little bastard?!"

"What if my shallots on that rocky ground thrive and pull in a massive profit, while your precious golden melon empire rots away into stinking black sludge without a single survivor?" Danu challenged, his voice ringing with absolute, unshakable conviction that left every single villager utterly stunned.

The courtyard plunged into a dead, electric silence. A sharp morning gust whipped across the open ground, kicking up fine dust around their boots as an unspoken witness to the high-stakes war freshly declared between an impoverished farmhand's son and the tyrant of Suka Makmur Village.