The Heritage Weaver

Chapter 3: The Challenge

"Eight weeks?" Pak Hadi's weathered hands paused over his work, canting tool hovering above fabric. "To compete with a corporation like Jung-Ho?"

I sat cross-legged on the workshop floor beside his station, my laptop balanced on my knees. Around us, the afternoon sun painted everything in warm gold, catching the steam rising from wax pots and creating halos around hanging fabrics.

"Not compete," I corrected, pulling up my presentation. "Transform. Look."

I turned the screen toward him, showing the mock-ups I'd been working on all semester. Modern designs that incorporated traditional patterns in unexpected ways. A high-fashion blazer with subtle parang motif worked into the lapels. A series of tech accessories featuring geometric interpretations of classic batik elements.

"Interesting," a voice came from behind me. I turned to find Tya, one of our younger artisans, peering at the screen. At twenty-three, she straddled the line between traditional training and modern sensibilities. "But can we actually produce these?"

"That's where it gets fun," I grinned, switching to another slide. "We combine traditional techniques with digital printing for the base layers, then add hand-done details for the elements that matter most. It's like... like those fusion restaurants that use traditional recipes but modern presentation."

"Sacrilege," Pak Hadi muttered, but I caught the hint of a smile under his stern expression.

"Evolution," I countered. "Like when we switched from hand-ground dyes to commercial ones.

 The soul stays the same, we just... give it new clothes."

"Speaking of new clothes," my mother's voice drifted over. She approached with a stack of fashion magazines – Korean, Japanese, Indonesian editions. "I made some calls. Three boutiques in Seoul are interested in seeing samples."

I blinked. "Already?"

She smiled that slight, knowing smile that always made me wonder just how many connections she maintained from her pre-batik life. "Time management is very important in Korean business, chagi. Eight weeks will go by quickly."

As if to emphasize her point, the workshop door opened, admitting a familiar figure. Kim Minho had switched his suit for more practical clothes, but somehow still managed to look like he'd stepped out of a business casual photoshoot.

"Hope I'm not interrupting," he said, though his tone suggested he didn't particularly care if he was. "Just wanted to see how the... alternative proposal... is progressing."

I resisted the urge to close my laptop. Instead, I turned it slightly, letting him see the designs. "Feel free to take notes for your report."

His eyes scanned the screen, and for a moment, something flickered across his face – surprise? interest? – before his corporate mask slipped back into place. "Ambitious. But mass production of these designs would require—"

"Who said anything about mass production?" I stood, brushing workshop dust from my skirt. "Not everything valuable needs to be mass-produced, Mr. Kim. Sometimes..." I gestured to where Pak Hadi had resumed his work, hands steady as they traced a pattern born from generations of knowledge, "...sometimes value comes from the human touch."

"The market—" he began.

"Is changing," I finished. "But not just in the direction you think. There's a growing appreciation for authenticity, for pieces that tell a story. We're not just selling fabric, Mr. Kim. We're selling heritage, creativity, and innovation that honors its roots."

"Pretty words," he said softly. "But pretty words don't—"

"Pay artisan salaries?" I echoed his words from earlier. "No. But these will." I pulled up the pre-orders my mother had apparently already secured. Not huge numbers, but significant. Prestigious. The kind of clients that could start trends rather than follow them.

For the first time, Minho looked genuinely startled. He covered it quickly, but I'd seen it. Good.

"Interesting strategy, Miss Wijaya," he said finally. "I look forward to seeing how it develops." He turned to leave, then paused. "Oh, and one more thing... your mother's right. Eight weeks will go by very quickly."

After he left, I let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding.

"That boy," my mother mused, "reminds me of someone."

"Oh?" I was only half listening, already making notes about production timelines.

"Mm. Your father, twenty years ago. So sure he knew the only right way to do things." She patted my shoulder. "Until a certain exchange student suggested some... alternative perspectives."I looked up sharply, but she was already walking away, humming a Korean folk song under her breath.

Pak Hadi chuckled softly. "Your mother," he said, carefully lifting a finished piece to dry, "has always understood that the strongest patterns come from unexpected combinations."

I turned back to my laptop, but my reflection in the screen caught me smiling. Eight weeks to prove that tradition and innovation could coexist. Eight weeks to save my family's legacy. Eight weeks to show Kim Minho that sometimes the best business strategy was the one you couldn't put in a spreadsheet.

Game on.

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Notes:
- Canting: Traditional tool used in batik-making
- Chagi: Term of endearment in Korean
- Parang: A classic Indonesian batik pattern

[End of Chapter 3]

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