A light drizzle tapped against the glass window of a minimalist modern office on the 11th floor of Nakamura Logistics & Trade, a prestigious and solid export-import company under Zentrix Holdings.
Behind the large window, Edward sat quietly on the guest chair, his shoulders slightly slumped. His fists clenched unconsciously on his lap.
His father, Mr. Leonard, a middle aged man with sharp eyes and perfectly slicked back hair, stood behind the desk. He stared at a report just thrown at him by his assistant. His brow furrowed deeply.
"This," he said with a heavy voice, pointing at the bright red numbers in the report. "This is the project you promised would be a booming innovation? A campus design knockoff?
Edward, do you know how many contracts have been canceled lately?"
Edward stared at the floor. His jaw tightened. He wanted to respond, to defend himself, but not a single sentence seemed strong enough to erase the marks of failure.
"I... I was just trying to find a fast-growing market. It's a simple design, anyone could have made something like that."
"And you got caught copying. Caught." His father's voice cut sharply.
"That's not market adaptation. That's theft. Do you realize the company's reputation is tied to your actions? Nakamura is not a playground for ambitious teenagers jealous of their ex's old friends."
Suddenly, Edward stood up, his chest rising and falling.
"You always compare me to others! I have ideas too. I just... I just..."
"Just what?" Mr. Leonard interrupted, stepping closer. "Just play with this family's reputation? You think just because you're my son, you can do as you please?"
Silence.
Then his father's voice lowered but cut even deeper.
"Starting today, you will no longer be included in the board meetings. Just focus on finishing your degree. I'll reconsider whether you're even fit to inherit this company."
Edward's world collapsed—not because he was kicked out, but because, for the first time, he lost his father's trust.
..
The city mall was quieter than usual. Neon lights flickered along the second-floor corridor where Clarissa and Edward sat on a bench near the indoor garden.
Clarissa was silent, fiddling with the cap of her drink while Edward sat beside her, leaning back with his head tilted, staring blankly at the ornate ceiling lights.
"Edward," Clarissa finally spoke, softly. "Wanna grab something to eat? There's a new ramen spot downstairs."
Edward let out a small scoff. "Not hungry."
Clarissa didn't respond. She was used to his short tone by now. But it wasn't the tone that bothered her—it was how distant he had become.
He was the one who once pulled her out of the emptiness after her breakup with Alaric—even when she was still with Alaric. He used to be confident, always ready to listen.
Now, he felt like a stranger.
"I..." Clarissa mumbled, trying to start a conversation.
But before she could finish, Edward turned abruptly. "You think I'm a loser too, don't you?"
Clarissa flinched. "What? No, I—"
"Everyone thinks that. My friends, my dad... now you."
"It's not like that. I'm just worried—"
"I don't need pity!" Edward snapped, his tone rising.
Clarissa fell silent, trying to calm the air. Her voice softened. "I just think... maybe you could try starting fresh. Work somewhere else first, somewhere that doesn't put so much pressure on you."
Edward stared at her. For a moment, he didn't react.
Then suddenly—his voice shot up.
"Don't you dare tell me what to do!"
He stood up, shoulders tense, eyes sharp.
Clarissa froze. She didn't mean to command. But now, every word felt wrong.
Edward stared for a moment longer, realizing the harshness in his tone. He sighed and sat back down. "Sorry. My mind's a mess."
Clarissa didn't pull away. She wasn't angry. But in her eyes, something fragile had shifted. No tears. No crying.
Just a silence that weighed heavy.
In her mind, Clarissa whispered,
"You've changed, Edward. Or maybe... I've just started to see it."
And deep within her, for some reason, Alaric's face came to mind again.
Meanwhile, Alaric stood in a different place—at a local creative market in Bandung. Dressed in a plain black hoodie and cap, he adjusted a small board that read:
> Crafted from Heart – Handmade Series
> Phone/Bag Charms – Limited Design
> Handcrafted, Custom Name Available
Some vendors glanced at him, a few smiled, others just glanced and moved on. Alaric didn't care. His focus was elsewhere. He was testing the strength of the local market.
Behind the screen, notifications glowed:
[New Mission: Connect with the Local Market]
[Goal: Partner with 10 local creative stores to distribute your products.]
[Reward: Digital Display Blueprint & Automatic International Sales Feature]
He opened his team management sheet on his phone, powered by the system. He had now built a small team for production, design, and distribution. Everything was integrated.
"This month's goal," Alaric muttered while jotting down notes, "5,000 new sales, stable distribution, and two active online branches."
He was also preparing a new product—a thematic phone charm with scannable features to access digital cards, allowing buyers to exchange messages through a local platform.
Alaric wasn't playing it safe anymore. He was creating trends.
..
At the end of the day, he sat alone in a café on the edge of the market, sipping milk coffee and eating a cheese donut. His eyes scanned the system dashboard.
[Weekly Sales Total: 4,217]
[System Progress: 63%]
[Selling Skill Boosted: Lv. 4]
He exhaled and smiled.
Not because of the numbers.
But because he knew—the further he advanced, the more true faces would reveal themselves. Including those who once wrecked his world.
Clarissa slowly scrolled her phone screen.
For nearly half an hour, she had been staring at the social media page without liking a single post, silently observing the account @craftedby.ric.
What started as curiosity had become routine. Now, she could identify Alaric's color palette and his casually sincere captions that made people stop scrolling.
Even the trending short video showing Alaric's hands assembling charms while explaining their meanings—she recognized his smile. That same genuine smile.
His brand had changed from AlaricCraft to craftedby.ric. Perhaps to strengthen the name and avoid another incident like the one before.
And suddenly, she felt awkward with herself.
It's just curiosity, she told herself. Even though she had checked that account three days in a row.
When Edward lashed out last week, she didn't cry. But today, just looking at those handmade pieces and customer comments like "this product made my day warmer" made her heart sink.
"How could I have left someone like him?" she thought.
But logic kicked in. "You made your choice, Clar."
Still, logic didn't erase the feeling that maybe she chose a safer future, not a happier one.
Her current boyfriend, Edward, was sinking. After his fall, he sat in silence, staring at the charm he once copied—and failed to recreate. But this time, he didn't throw it away. He framed it.
"My biggest mistake wasn't copying," he whispered. "It was doing it so cheaply."
He clenched his fists. "I won't lose to Alaric again. Just once... I need to win."
He began rebuilding his brand—not from the product, but from prestige illusion.
He hired a professional branding team, bought followers and engagement to fabricate an image that his brand was a youth lifestyle revolution.
He recruited influencer models for fake content. Claimed international inspiration without mentioning any handmade craft.
His new logo resembled Alaric's—abstract and luxury-styled, with golden rice petal fragments meant to appear unique enough to dodge lawsuits.
He also targeted influencers nearly collaborating with Alaric.
Through backdoor offers, Edward paid more to get them. He even paid Alaric's competitors to flood his store with fake orders and bad reviews, damaging the store's performance.
"This isn't cheating," he told Clarissa one night. "It's competition. That's how business works."
Clarissa just stared at the laptop screen, watching Edward's numbers rise. But there was no pride like before.
"Are you happy?" she whispered.
Edward chuckled. "Me? Doesn't matter. What matters is I win."
But deep down, he knew—he wasn't building. He was hollowing himself out.
..
That evening, Alaric arrived at an art and innovation gallery in central Jakarta.
The event was titled Local Meets Global—a place where local products met international investors and market observers.
He wore a crisp white shirt, gray slacks, and a small pin of his brand logo—a hand holding a shimmering charm.
Among the bustling booths, one simple stand drew constant attention.
"You're Alaric, right? Are these really handmade by you?" asked a Korean woman wearing an ID labeled KYO Brand Collaborations.
"Yes, ma'am. I started in Japan, then expanded to Indonesia," Alaric answered kindly.
"Oh, you started in Japan?" she raised her eyebrows, intrigued.
"Yeah, I tried selling in Kyoto parks at first... it was tough. But from there, the business grew and eventually launched pop-ups in big malls. Now, you could say this is my second branch."
"Impressive," she murmured.
From the side, a tall man in a navy blue suit approached. Late thirties, neatly combed hair, and a confident face.