The sun had not yet fully risen when Arka straightened his weary back. Sweat streamed down his oily forehead, forming thin rivulets that stung his eyes. All around him stretched a vast expanse of brownish soil—not his, but the property of Mr. Surya, the wealthiest landowner in Sukamaju village. He swung his hoe once more, striking the stubborn earth that refused to yield to his weakening strength.
Arka let out a long breath, eyes fixed on the horizon tinged with a faint orange glow. Ten years of his life had been spent on land that wasn't his—plowing, planting, harvesting—all for a handful of wages barely enough to buy rice for a few days. His lean frame was clad in a tattered shirt patched in several places, hand-me-down fabric from his father who had died a decade ago.
Sukamaju, despite its name promising joy, was for Arka merely a place where the dreams of small farmers were buried along with the seeds that never sprouted. Modest homes with thatched roofs lined the rice fields, serene in appearance but concealing the hardships of those who lived within. Arka's house—a frail shack at the edge of the village—had only one room, its bamboo walls slowly rotting with age.
"Arka! Stop daydreaming!" Mr. Surya's shout shattered his thoughts. The burly man with a stern face stood at the edge of the field, watching every movement of his workers with hawk-like eyes, never satisfied. "The northern field must be finished by noon! Or don't expect to be paid!"
Arka nodded obediently and returned to his work. Inwardly, he calculated how many more swings of the hoe it would take to afford medicine for his ailing mother.
By midday, the sun scorched his bronze skin. Arka moved to the untouched northern part of the field, right beneath an old banyan tree that marked the boundary of Mr. Surya's land. Legend had it the tree had stood since the time of their ancestors, bearing silent witness to the rise and fall of kingdoms.
He struck the ground—once, twice, and on the third swing, something strange happened. Instead of cutting through the clay, his hoe rebounded with a metallic clang. Frowning, he struck the same spot again.
Clang!
His heart pounded. Something was buried beneath. Curious, he set his hoe aside and began digging with his hands. Soon, his fingers brushed against something hard and cold—not stone, but smooth and gleaming.
"What is this?" he whispered, digging faster, excitement rising.
Without warning, the ground beneath him gave way. Arka cried out as his body plunged into a dark hole that had seemingly opened from nothingness. He slid through a narrow, muddy shaft, heart racing, breath caught in the swirling dust. After what felt like an eternity, he landed on a cold, solid surface.
Darkness wrapped around him like a thick blanket. Arka groped his surroundings, feeling the damp, polished stone beneath his fingers. The scent of earth mingled with something unfamiliar—a mix of cinnamon and ancient perfume. Slowly, his eyes adjusted. He was in a narrow tunnel, its walls carved with precision, clearly not a natural formation.
"By the ancestors," he whispered, voice trembling with a mix of awe and fear.
Cautiously, Arka moved forward, his hand trailing the cold wall, tracing delicate carvings he couldn't yet see. The tunnel led deeper, and deeper still, until a dim light shimmered in the distance.
The light grew brighter as he walked, driven by both dread and curiosity. Was someone else down here? What if he found something dangerous? But his need to know overcame his hesitation.
At last, the tunnel opened into a chamber. What he saw stole his breath.
The room was a perfect circle, its high domed ceiling adorned with golden constellations that glittered in the faint light. The walls were made of white marble veined with glowing blue, giving the illusion of being inside a crystal cavern. Slender pillars rose elegantly, carved with twisting vines and mythical creatures that seemed to move in the flickering glow.
At the center stood a grand stone altar, octagonal in shape. Resting atop it was a ring—gently pulsing with a soft red light.
Arka stepped closer, eyes fixed on the object—an ornate golden ring, engraved with intricate patterns and set with a small crimson gem. A strange aura surrounded it, thickening the air, making it heavy and sharp.
"What is this?" he murmured, his hand rising, fingers inches from the ring.
But something stopped him. A quiet instinct—one honed by years of living simply—whispered that this was no ordinary trinket. There was power in it, perhaps too much for someone like him. He drew his hand back, deciding to be cautious.
Instead of seizing the ring, Arka began examining the chamber. His eyes caught the reliefs on the walls, depicting scenes he couldn't fully comprehend—figures wearing the ring, surrounded by shadows that swallowed light, faces shifting into new forms.
On the far side of the room stood a wooden bookshelf, ancient and frail. Most of the papers had yellowed and crumbled, but a few scrolls remained intact. With trembling hands, Arka picked one up and unrolled it.
The writing was in an old language, yet somehow he could understand parts of it—as if the knowledge had always lived within him. The scroll spoke of the Ring of Cadurian, a relic from a lost civilization with the power to transform its wearer into anyone they looked upon.
"With blood and will, shadow becomes real. With eyes and heart, the face becomes a mask," Arka read aloud, voice shaking.
His breath caught. This was no ordinary ring—it was a legendary artifact he'd only heard of in bedtime stories told by village elders.
Another scroll described how to use it—a drop of blood on the red gem, a short incantation, and a warning. Arka read every detail carefully, determined not to miss a thing.
As he absorbed the ancient text, voices from above reached his ears—Mr. Surya and the other workers calling his name. Arka started, realizing how long he had been underground.
Thinking quickly, he slipped the scroll into the pocket of his threadbare shirt and turned back toward the altar. The ring gleamed, as if whispering his name. His hand rose again, hesitant, until at last his fingers touched the ring.
Instantly, a strange sensation flooded his body—a chill to the bone, followed by a spreading warmth. The ring tightened, fitting perfectly around his finger.
Arka stared at his hand, now adorned with the ancient relic. Something had shifted inside him—not physically, but deeper, as if his soul had brushed against a dormant power now awake.
The shouts above grew louder. Hurriedly, Arka retraced his steps through the tunnel, the Cadurian Ring on his finger and its secrets burning in his mind. As he reached the hole he had fallen through, he realized that his humble life as a poor farmer was about to change forever.
When Arka emerged from the tunnel, he immediately sealed the opening, determined that no one else would find it. Mr. Surya's angry face awaited him—but for the first time, Arka felt no fear. The ring shimmered faintly on his finger, whispering of power and new possibilities now within his grasp.