The sun had not yet fully risen when Arka straightened his aching back. Beads of sweat trickled down his oily forehead, stinging his eyes as they dripped into them. All around him stretched the wide expanse of brown soil—not his own, but that of Mr. Surya, the wealthiest landowner in Sukamaju village. He swung his hoe once more, striking the hardened earth that stubbornly resisted his weakening arms.
Arka let out a long sigh, his gaze drifting toward the horizon now streaked with shades of orange. Ten years—ten years of his life had been spent working another man's land. Digging, planting, harvesting—everything for a handful of wages, just enough to buy rice for a few days. His frail body was draped in a tattered shirt patched in several places, an heirloom from his father who had passed away a decade ago.
Sukamaju—its name promised prosperity, yet to Arka, it was a graveyard for the dreams of small farmers. Modest homes with thatched roofs lined the edges of the fields. Though they appeared peaceful, each one held stories of quiet struggle. Arka's house, a crumbling hut at the far end of the village, had only one room, its bamboo walls slowly decaying with time.
"Arka! Stop daydreaming!" Mr. Surya's voice shattered his thoughts. The portly man, with a scowl etched deep into his face, stood at the edge of the field, watching his workers with the eyes of a hawk, never satisfied. "The northern plot must be finished by noon! Or don't expect to be paid!"
Arka nodded obediently and resumed his work. In his heart, he counted the swings of his hoe, trying to estimate how many more it would take before he could afford the medicine for his ailing mother.
As noon approached, the sun bore down on his bronze skin. Arka moved to the untouched northern plot, beneath the shade of an ancient banyan tree that marked the boundary of Mr. Surya's land. Legend had it that the tree had stood since the time of their ancestors, bearing silent witness to the rise and fall of kingdoms.
He struck the ground again—once, twice. On the third swing, something unusual happened. Instead of breaking through the soil, the hoe rebounded with a sharp metallic clang. Arka frowned and struck the same spot again.
Clang!
His heart pounded. There was something buried beneath. Driven by curiosity, he set his hoe aside and began digging with his hands. It didn't take long before his fingers touched something hard and cool—not a rock, but something smooth and glinting.
"What is this?" he whispered, digging faster now, driven by a strange urgency.
Without warning, the ground beneath his feet gave way. Arka cried out as his body plunged into darkness, swallowed by a hole that hadn't existed moments ago. He slid through a narrow, muddy tunnel, his heart racing, his breath caught in his throat from the swirling dust. After what felt like an eternity, he landed with a dull thud on a cold, unyielding surface.
Darkness wrapped around him like a shroud. Arka groped blindly, feeling the damp, polished surface of stone. The scent of earth mingled with something foreign—cinnamon and ancient perfume. Slowly, his eyes adjusted. He was inside a narrow corridor, the walls meticulously carved, clearly not formed by nature.
"By the ancestors…" he breathed, his voice trembling with fear and wonder.
With hesitant steps, he followed the tunnel, his hands tracing the cold stone and the intricate engravings etched upon it—images too delicate to see clearly. The tunnel descended deeper and deeper, until a faint light appeared in the distance.
The light grew as he moved closer, driven by both fear and fascination. Was someone else down here? What if he stumbled upon something dangerous? Yet curiosity outweighed his fear.
At last, the tunnel opened into a chamber—and the sight that met him stole the breath from his lungs.
The room was a perfect circle, its vaulted ceiling adorned with luminous constellations painted in gold. The marble walls, veined with glowing blue, shimmered faintly like the inside of a crystalline cave. Slender columns reached skyward, wrapped in delicate carvings of vines and mythical creatures that seemed to dance in the dim light.
At the center of the chamber stood a magnificent octagonal altar. Resting atop it, glowing with a soft crimson light, was a ring.
Arka stepped forward, drawn to it. His eyes locked on the object—a golden ring, adorned with an intricate design and a small red gem. A strange aura emanated from it, thickening the air around him, sending chills down his spine.
"What is this?" he whispered, his hand hovering inches above it.
But something held him back. His instincts, shaped by a farmer's life, warned him this was no ordinary trinket. Power lay within it—power that could destroy a simple man. He pulled his hand away, choosing caution over impulse.
Instead of touching the ring, Arka explored the room. On the walls, he found carvings that told a story he couldn't fully grasp—figures wearing the ring, surrounded by shadows that seemed to absorb light, their faces transforming.
On the far side of the chamber, he discovered a wooden bookshelf. Most of the scrolls were brittle and yellowed with age, but a few remained intact. With trembling hands, Arka picked one up and gently unrolled it.
The script was ancient, yet strangely, parts of it made sense—as if the knowledge had always been hidden somewhere within him. The scroll told of the Cadurian Ring, a relic from a forgotten civilization. It possessed the power to transform its wearer into anyone they laid eyes upon.
"With blood and will, the shadow shall take form. With eye and heart, the face shall become mask," Arka read aloud, his voice shaking.
His breath quickened. This was no folk tale—this was the very artifact from the old stories whispered by the village elders on long, fire-lit nights.
Another scroll described how the ring was used—a drop of blood on the red gem, a simple incantation, and a warning. Arka read carefully, absorbing every detail.
As he pored over the text, distant voices echoed from above—Mr. Surya shouting, workers calling his name. Arka jolted upright, realizing how long he had been down here.
With sudden resolve, he slipped the scroll into the pocket of his ragged shirt and approached the altar. The ring shimmered as though calling his name. He reached out, slowly, and at last, his fingers touched it.
A strange sensation swept through him—a cold that pierced to the bone, then warmth that bloomed outward from his hand. The ring shrank to fit his finger perfectly, as if it had always belonged there.
Arka stared at his hand, now adorned with the ancient ring. Something had changed—not his body, but something deeper. It was as if his soul had fused with a long-dormant power.
Mr. Surya's shouts grew louder. Hurriedly, Arka retraced his steps, the Cadurian Ring now firmly on his finger and its secret lodged in his mind. As he neared the hole he had fallen through, a single thought took hold:
His life as a poor farmer was over.
Emerging from the tunnel, Arka quickly concealed the entrance. No one must ever find it. Mr. Surya's furious face waited for him above—but for the first time, Arka didn't feel afraid. The ring on his finger glowed faintly, whispering promises of power and possibilities yet to come.