Jumanji walked toward the Senate Council with slow, measured steps, wrapped in a strange and unsettling calm.

  Throughout the journey, he did not utter a single word. His empty gaze remained fixed on the distant horizon, his expression stiff and lifeless, as though his body stood here while his soul wandered through distant worlds.

  The unsettling silence made the young man walking ahead of him glance back from time to time.

  He watched Jumanji with confusion and unease, yet he chose to remain silent as well, unwilling to break the thread of quiet that hung heavily between them.

  At last, they arrived before a grand house.

  It stood like an unbreakable fortress in the very heart of the tribe, the largest and most magnificent residence within Experia.

  Inside, the atmosphere was filled with dignity and quiet intimidation.

  Ten elders sat upon spotless white cotton cushions, arranged opposite one another with faces filled with deep concentration. Their gazes were all directed toward the center of the hall.

  At the forefront of the chamber sat a single figure in absolute composure.

  A powerful aura seemed to radiate from him. From his luxurious garments and dignified posture, it was clear that his authority surpassed even that of the ten elders combined.

  He was the tribal leader, Erikson Experia.

  The man whose command bent necks in submission.

  The very man who had summoned Jumanji.

  His sharp, hawk-like eyes missed nothing.

  The ten elders filled the grand hall—eight men and two women.

  One of the women was extremely old, her hair long since consumed by silver. The other appeared to be in her forties, her presence radiating authority and unshakable prestige.

  Among those seated were Galvan, Jumanji’s father, and his uncle Limar, Taskast’s father.

  The remaining elders were shrouded in quiet mystery, their identities concealed beneath the calm weight of age.

  Suddenly, one of the elders broke the silence.

  He was extremely old, dressed in a striking red robe and wearing black glasses. His gray hair was tied tightly above his forehead.

  His name was Sikot.

  “We no longer have time to waste discussing the opening of the Spiritual Farm,” he said firmly.

  “News has reached us that the Gray Bear Tribe has already begun opening theirs for their youngsters. The Carp Fish Tribe has done the same.”

  At that moment, the woman in her forties spoke.

  “I have also heard that one of the Carp Fish children awakened a farm of excellent quality,” she said with concern.

  “That is something none of us have witnessed for a very long time. You all understand exactly how dangerous that is, don’t you?”

  An elder wearing a loose, wrinkled green suit sighed deeply.

  He casually placed his wooden cane beside him before replying.

  “Of course we understand what that means, Kiona.”

  “If that boy learns how to properly cultivate and utilize his farm, he will undoubtedly leave everyone behind.”

  “And that would become a direct threat to the future and standing of our tribe.”

  “You’re right, Jorko,” said another man whose head and long beard had both been overtaken by gray.

  His name was Rohan.

  He wore a faded brown robe, and a deep scar stretched across the area around his eye.

  “The only thing we can hope for now,” he continued, “is that one of our children awakens a farm of high quality.”

  “If two of them do... then it will be a tremendous victory for us.”

  At that moment, a quiet voice emerged from the elderly woman whose pink robe was decorated with violet flowers.

  “I have great faith in my grandson Kairos,” she said calmly.

  “I am certain he will awaken a farm of high quality.”

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  Galvan turned toward her and spoke with mild curiosity.

  “It seems Lady Farin, the Great Sage, possesses unwavering confidence.”

  “Could it be that you gave him some of those secret herbs you prepare?”

  Rohan, the bald elder, immediately interjected.

  “If that is the case, then why not give those herbs to all the children?”

  “Wouldn’t that serve the interests of the tribe?”

  Lady Farin simply smiled.

  “You gentlemen are thinking too much.”

  “If herbs alone could raise the quality of a spiritual farm, do you believe the world would remain as it is today?”

  “Heh... heh... heh...”

  A faint laugh escaped the lips of an extremely old man whose skin seemed almost fused to his bones from age.

  Despite his frailty, a terrifying aura surrounded him.

  “My son Galvan is merely joking with you, Lady Farin,” he said mockingly.

  “Could such a thing truly be achieved with herbs?”

  “That would be nothing short of impossible.”

  This elder was the father of both Limar and Galvan.

  He was the grandfather of Jumanji and Taskast.

  Among everyone present, he was considered the eldest and most powerful of the elders—so much so that he even surpassed the tribal leader himself in age and experience.

  “Even if none of our younger generation awakens a high-quality farm,” another elder said while taking a sip from his clay jug, “we still possess the advantage among our youths.”

  “Taskast, Solkir, and Jinji have all awakened farms of medium quality.”

  “This gives us clear superiority within the Mountain Region.”

  “After all, both the Carp Fish Tribe and the Brown Bear Tribe each produced only one such farm among their young.”

  Silence briefly filled the hall.

  Then the tribal leader slowly raised his head.

  His hawk-like gaze swept across everyone present before he spoke with a calm, authoritative voice.

  “I believe we should open the Spiritual Farm three days from now.”

  “Those who agree may raise their hands.”

  Excitement surged through the elders immediately.

  Without hesitation, every single one of them raised their hands.

  There was no longer time to delay.

  The future of their children and grandchildren depended entirely on the opening of that farm—an event that would determine the shape of their coming power.

  Thus, the Senate Council session came to an end.

  Before anyone could leave, the young man who had escorted Jumanji entered the hall.

  He bowed respectfully before the elders and the tribal leader.

  “Jumanji is outside,” he said briefly.

  Erikson nodded.

  The young man bowed once more and departed.

  Seconds later, Jumanji entered the hall quietly.

  His presence cut through the stillness like a blade.

  He walked forward with composed steps before bowing in the same respectful manner Taskast had shown the day before.

  When he straightened, he immediately felt dozens of eyes examining him from head to toe.

  The atmosphere inside the hall was suffocating.

  A spiritual pressure filled the room, pressing down heavily upon him—especially since he had not yet awakened his farm.

  Yet Jumanji endured it calmly.

  His expression remained cold and unshaken.

  The tribal leader finally spoke.

  “We have heard that you broke the restriction and ventured deep into the forest.”

  “Is this true?”

  “You are fully aware that leaving at this time is strictly forbidden.”

  “You were supposed to remain in your home in preparation for the imminent opening of the Spiritual Farm.”

  For a moment, Jumanji felt as though he were completely exposed before these men.

  Their gazes were like those of hungry beasts observing prey—especially the leader.

  He gathered his thoughts and recalled the quiet serenity of his old village.

  Then he spoke calmly.

  “I was searching for the peace that the walls of my home could no longer contain.”

  “I wished to hear the whisper of the wind brushing against the leaves.”

  “To enjoy the birdsong and the gentle murmur of flowing water.”

  “Is there any better way to prepare for entering that place than immersing oneself in the calm of nature?”

  The words had come spontaneously.

  Yet they struck the ears of those present with a strange weight.

  The old grandfather smiled inwardly without anyone noticing.

  Meanwhile, Galvan looked visibly surprised by his son’s unexpected response.

  Erikson stared at him sharply.

  “Even so, you broke the rules.”

  “You should have informed one of the elders—your father or your grandfather—to accompany you.”

  Jumanji remained steady.

  “I did not wish to distract them from their responsibilities for something they might consider trivial.”

  “So I informed my cousin Taskast instead.”

  Silence fell once again.

  Then Kiona suddenly spoke with sharp authority.

  “You have broken the laws of the tribe.”

  “No one here stands above them—not even us elders.”

  “Since you committed this mistake, you must face its consequences.”

  “We cannot continue monitoring you every time, spoiled child.”

  Jumanji’s old reputation preceded him.

  He had long been known as a reckless and ill-mannered youth.

  Thus, Kiona’s reaction reflected what many of them already thought.

  Galvan remained completely silent.

  Jumanji did not even look at the woman.

  Instead, he kept his eyes fixed coldly upon the tribal leader.

  This only fueled her anger.

  “Arrogant brat,” she muttered under her breath.

  Erikson continued calmly.

  “As Kiona said, responsibility demands punishment.”

  “Normally, such an offense warrants one hundred lashes.”

  “However, due to your injury, we will postpone the flogging.”

  He then turned to the elders beside him.

  “If any of you believes there is a more suitable punishment for this boy, speak now.”

  Kiona immediately seized the opportunity.

  “One hundred lashes are far too light.”

  “He deserves a thousand lashes to restore his senses.”

  “We will simply wait until his injury heals.”

  Rohan raised his hand next.

  “Better yet, imprison him.”

  “Deny him food and water.”

  “Let him remain in complete isolation until the day the Spiritual Farm opens.”

  Then came the harshest suggestion.

  Jorko cleared his throat before speaking coldly.

  “Since he treated this monumental event with such indifference, why not deny him entry to the Spiritual Farm this year?”

  “Better yet—delay his entry for three full years.”

  At those words, Galvan shot Jorko a sharp and disturbed glance.

  Murmurs spread throughout the hall.

  To deprive a young warrior of opening his farm for three years was an unimaginably cruel punishment.

  Even for someone with Jumanji’s reputation.

  Jorko felt the weight of the stares around him.

  He smiled calmly.

  “Do not look at me like that.”

  “I merely proposed what I believed appropriate.”

  “The punishment must be strong enough to prevent anyone from breaking the rules again.”

  The elders continued proposing punishments.

  Opinions clashed and multiplied.

  Meanwhile, Erikson and Jumanji’s grandfather carefully observed the boy’s reaction.

  Yet throughout it all, Jumanji did not move.

  Not once.

  From imprisonment... to starvation... to three years of exclusion.

  He remained silent.

  His posture relaxed.

  His expression cold and unmoved.

  This unusual calm did not escape the leader or the old grandfather.

  A young man facing the destruction of his future would normally protest, plead, or rage.

  Yet the boy before them did none of that.

  They exchanged a silent glance.

  The tribal leader had only asked the question as a test.

  He already had a balanced punishment in mind.

  But he wanted to see how Jumanji would react.

  Yet what he saw instead was silence.

  A silence so unnatural that both he and the old grandfather realized something unsettling.

  The boy standing before them was no longer the same Jumanji they once knew.

  Only the name remained.

  ---

  Night eventually fell.

  Inside a dark prison cell, Jumanji sat alone.

  He stared at the moon through a small window that barely allowed light to pass.

  Earlier that evening, the tribal leader had delivered the final judgment.

  Jumanji would remain imprisoned until the opening of the Spiritual Farm.

  After recovering from his injuries, he would receive one hundred lashes.

  Furthermore, he was forbidden from leaving the borders of the tribe for an entire year.

  They were harsh punishments designed personally by Erikson to suppress the boy’s rebellious nature.

  Elsewhere within the tribe, inside a large room, another young man of Jumanji’s age lay upon his bed.

  His long white hair was scattered across the pillow.

  Yet he was not sleeping peacefully.

  His body twitched as though struggling within another world.

  Suddenly—

  He jolted upright, gasping for breath.

  Sweat poured down his pale face.

  For a moment, he simply breathed.

  Then a sinister smile slowly spread across his lips as he stared at his own hands in disbelief.

  He rose from the bed and walked steadily toward a large mirror in the room.

  He stared at the reflection of his young body.

  Then he exhaled slowly.

  “I truly returned in time…”

  “This small body… these features…”

  “It finally worked after all that struggle.”

  He clenched his fist tightly.

  Then he continued speaking as if addressing fate itself.

  “A thousand years of hardship…”

  “A thousand years of slaughter and blood that never dried…”

  “A thousand years of bitter life and endless experience…”

  “Who in this world dares stand before me now?”

  “Oh seven continents…”

  “I have returned from the abyss of death.”

  “I have returned carrying the inferno of a thousand years.”

  “So tell me…”

  “Who will stop me now?”

  End of Chapter