Samye continued walking through Kamaskh beside Kayal, observing more closely now.

  The deeper they went, the more the village revealed its structure.

  Large cooking fires had been lit across the central square. Long wooden tables were being assembled. Clay pots simmered with thick stews and roasted grains. The smell of herbs and smoked meat drifted through the air.

  Women worked together in coordinated groups—some cooking, some weaving ceremonial cloths, some preparing lantern banners for the evening banquet. No shouting. No disorder.

  Everything moved with rhythm.

  With purpose.

  “It’s… systematic,” Samye said quietly.

  Kayal smiled slightly. “That’s intentional. In Kamaskh, celebration is organized like defense. No chaos. No waste.”

  They passed a textile platform where colored cloth strips were being stitched with tribal patterns—symbols of the Jhil lineage, animal spirits, and old war marks.

  Further ahead—

  Samye heard sharp, synchronized shouts.

  He turned.

  A large training ground opened before them.

  Dozens of tribal soldiers moved in formation — striking, stepping, turning with perfect timing. Some practiced weapon drills with bows, spears, and curved blades. Others trained empty-hand techniques that looked fluid but lethal.

  Their movements were unlike modern combat.

  Older.

  Sharper.

  Refined through generations.

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  “They train even during festivals?” Samye asked.

  “Especially during festivals,” Kayal answered. “Because that is when enemies assume you are relaxed.”

  Samye approved of that logic.

  Kayal continued:

  “The world outside is unstable. Governments fall. Militias rise. Ability conflicts spread. We don’t know what future waits for us — so we prepare for the worst one.”

  Samye watched two fighters exchange rapid weapon disarms with frightening precision.

  “What are those techniques?” he asked. “That’s not standard military combat.”

  Kayal shook his head.

  “No. These are Jhil Secret Arts — unique martial systems and weapon techniques passed from generation to generation. Every stance, every strike has a recorded lineage.”

  He gestured toward an older instructor correcting a student’s wrist angle by a fraction.

  “It’s not just fighting. It’s cultural inheritance.”

  Samye nodded slowly.

  A society that trains its future instead of gambling on it, he thought.

  Rare.

  Eventually Kayal stopped outside a guest residence built into a massive tree-root structure.

  “You should rest,” Kayal said. “The banquet will take time to prepare. You’ve traveled far — and you’re still injured.”

  Samye didn’t argue.

  Exhaustion had been living in his bones for days.

  “I’ll come for you when it’s ready,” Kayal added.

  Samye gave a small nod. “Thanks.”

  The guest room was simple but clean.

  Wooden bed. Clay water bowl. Folded cloth bandages. A small oil lamp.

  Samye sat down slowly and exhaled. For the first time in many days, he was somewhere that didn’t smell like blood or fear.

  Yet his mind refused to rest.

  He kept replaying the village scenes — order, discipline, inherited knowledge, protected children.

  A functioning human system, he thought.

  Not perfect — but alive.

  His hand moved absently toward his bag.

  He searched for something without knowing why.

  His fingers touched metal.

  The watch.

  The old man’s watch.

  Samye lifted it and studied it carefully.

  The casing was worn. The glass scratched. The leather strap aged. Nothing about it looked mystical or rare.

  He held it close to his ear.

  tick… tick… tick…

  Normal rhythm.

  Normal sound.

  “No glow. No marks. No mechanism shift,” he murmured.

  “It’s normal… nothing special.”

  But that wasn’t true.

  Because he wasn’t normal anymore.

  Since the facility incident, something inside him had changed — subtly but undeniably. His perception felt sharper. His reactions faster. His awareness wider — like he could sense moments before they fully happened.

  He couldn’t name it.

  Couldn’t measure it.

  But he felt it.

  Samye looked at the watch again, eyes narrowing slightly.

  “If you’re connected to this…” he said quietly,

  “…you’re hiding it well.”

  The ticking continued — innocent, steady, patient.

  Samye leaned back against the wall, watch still in his hand.

  Outside, the village prepared to celebrate.

  Inside, time sat quietly beside him.

  Waiting.