By the time dawn began to breathe against the horizon, the outskirts of the mainland were already crowded.

Familiar faces gathered in uneasy silence–merchants who had closed their stalls early the day before, hunters who had watched from a distance, men and women who bore bandages where tongues once were. They did not stand shoulder to shoulder, nor did they cluster for comfort. Each kept a measured distance, as though proximity itself carried risk.

Among them stood three unfamiliar figures.

Their presence was unmistakable. Their posture was upright, their movements controlled, their gazes steady without being arrogant. They spoke little, yet others instinctively gave them space. These were not warriors or cultivators, but leaders–men whose authority came from order, commerce, and quiet command rather than force. Heads of mainland trade, accustomed to negotiation, now standing before power they did not control.

The mainland itself seemed to wait.

Above and around the camp, the treasure hunters remained alert. Though night had passed, vigilance had not softened.

Chief and Mu Long had slept only in name.

Their eyes had closed during the night, but their senses never truly lowered guard. Guilt clung tighter than fear, pressing against their chests with every shallow breath. What they had failed to do the previous day replayed endlessly, sharper than any threat from outside.

Then, in the absolute stillness before dawn, a sound broke through.

A low, involuntary moan.

It came from the edge of the gathered crowd, thin and fragile, almost swallowed by the morning air. Most endured their pain in silence, teeth clenched, heads lowered. But this man could not.

He had been born with a hyper-pain constitution.

What others endured as lingering agony became unbearable torment for him. Sweat soaked his clothing, clinging to his skin. His breathing was uneven, lips cracked and pale. Dehydration had drained his strength through the night–unable to eat, unable to drink properly, his body weakening with each passing hour.

The sound he made was faint.

Yet to Chief and Mu Long, it rang clearer than any shout.

Mu Long's eyes snapped open.

Without a word, he signaled the others. One by one, treasure hunters rose from their rest, movements silent and practiced. No weapons were raised in threat, yet none were far from reach.

Chief felt the instinct surge within him–to summon Kiaria.

The urge was immediate, almost desperate.

But guilt crushed it.

He remembered the look Kiaria had given him the night before. Not anger. Not contempt. Indifference–calm, distant, and final. Calling him now would only confirm his failure.

So Chief made another choice.

He stepped forward.

Not as a subordinate seeking mercy.

Not as a sinner begging judgment.

But as a man willing to stand before consequence.

To defend them like a leader.

Like a husband.

Like a father.

Like an elder brother.

Mu Long and the treasure hunters formed a protective perimeter around Kiaria's and Princess's tents, their bodies a silent wall. Chief climbed onto the roof of Hylisi's house with his two closest subordinates, positioning themselves above her dwelling–not to threaten, but to shield.

The crowd did not advance.

They did not retreat.

They remained where they had gathered, waiting in tense stillness.

Inside her home, Hylisi woke before sunrise.

The oil lamp had burned low through the night. She extinguished it quietly, careful not to wake her son. Rising, she prepared to follow her usual routine–heading into the forest to bathe, gather herbs, and check the Golden Berry Beads.

She opened the door.

Steel greeted her eyes.

Treasure hunters stood outside in defensive formation, weapons drawn–not aimed at her, but ready to intercept anything that approached. Their presence filled the narrow space before her home like a living barrier.

Her breath caught.

She slammed the door shut and staggered backward.

Her heart pounded violently. Sweat broke across her palms, fingers trembling. Fear rushed through her limbs, draining strength from her legs. Before she could steady herself, her knees gave way and struck the floor.

Numbness spread upward, locking her body in place.

Then–

Soft footsteps.

Her son emerged from the inner room, stretching his arms, hair tousled with sleep.

She looked at him.

And everything inside her shifted.

Fear folded inward.

Pain vanished.

A gentle, practiced smile bloomed on her face, as though it had never left.

"Good morning, Mother," her son asked drowsily. "Did I wake up late?"

"No," she replied softly. "It's still early. Sleep more."

"Oh. Okay."

He turned without suspicion and padded back inside.

Only after the door closed did Hylisi exhale.

Hylisi did not linger.

The moment her son returned to sleep, she stepped out of her room and moved straight toward Kiaria's tent. She kept her eyes lowered, refusing to look at anything else–at the armed silhouettes, at the shadows on rooftops, at the silent pressure pressing down on the camp.

She moved quickly, but not recklessly.

Her shoulder brushed the hanging bell at the tent entrance.

The sound was soft, but in the morning stillness it rang clear.

Inside the tent, Kiaria and Diala woke almost instantly. There was no panic–only trained awareness. The fabric shifted as they stepped out, the morning air cool against their faces.

Kiaria's gaze swept the surroundings once before settling on Hylisi.

"Oh?" he remarked lightly. "Quite a rush."

Without waiting, he turned and stepped back inside.

Diala blinked once, then looked at Hylisi with mild curiosity. "What happened? Did the Chief ring the bell?"

"No," Kiaria replied from within the tent, his tone even. "They're occupied outside. It was Lady Hylisi."

He paused briefly.

"She's here."

"Then let her in," Diala said immediately.

She wiped a wooden log clean with her sleeve, clearing a seat before moving aside. The gesture was casual, unforced–meant to ease rather than impress.

Kiaria pulled the tent curtain aside.

"Lady," he said calmly, "please come inside."

Hylisi hesitated for only a heartbeat before stepping in.

"Greetings, Patron. Greetings, Shade," she said, bowing slightly. "Did I disturb your rest?"

Diala smiled. "Not at all. Please, sit."

Hylisi obeyed, her posture straight despite the tension still clinging to her shoulders.

"You don't need to panic," Kiaria said as he settled opposite her. "The treasure hunters are not weak. They can handle themselves."

He added, almost as an afterthought, "Ah. I forgot to mention something yesterday. Golden Berry Beads won't form in the swamps for a long while."

Hylisi looked up sharply.

"We accidentally killed the creatures that nurtured them," Kiaria continued, scratching the back of his neck with faint awkwardness.

Hylisi considered this for a moment, then nodded.

"That's fine," she said. "It only means the abundance will be limited for a time. I simply didn't expect all of you to be… this strong."

Diala laughed softly. "We weren't. He did it alone."

Hylisi froze.

"…What?"

"No need to be shocked," Kiaria said calmly. "Lady Hylisi, this is the gift I prepared for you and your son."

He raised his hand.

Two pairs of bangles appeared, suspended in the air, their surface faintly luminous.

Hylisi rose abruptly from her seat.

"N–Nushen Spiritual Wood?" Her voice trembled. "What have you done? That tree was planted by God Heru Di himself–to shield the mainland from the island's curses."

Her breath quickened.

"Calm yourself," Kiaria said without the slightest tension. "Nothing has been harmed. You may verify it later."

He met her eyes steadily.

"With these bangles, you and your son will be protected. Whether you inherit that tree's will or bloodline in the future… that will depend on fate."

Then he added, "Bring your son."

Hylisi hesitated.

Then nodded.

"I trust you."

She stepped out of the tent.

Only then did she truly see them.

Treasure hunters stood in disciplined formation, weapons held not in threat but readiness. And above–on the roof of her home–sat the Chief. His posture was rigid, watchful, like a predator frozen mid-strike. The pressure of his presence spread outward, infecting the others with an air of restrained arrogance.

She turned away at once.

Returning inside, she woke her son gently.

"Don't look around," she told him quietly.

He nodded without asking why.

Together, they entered Kiaria's tent again and offered greetings.

The boy stood straight, respectful.

Grateful.

And yet–something dark flickered beneath his calm eyes.

He did not like Kiaria.

Not after what had happened to his mother.

But he hid it well.

Kiaria raised his hand, and the bangles floated forward, stopping before them.

"Drop your blood onto them," he instructed.

They did.

The reaction was immediate.

The bangles responded to Hylisi first, slipping onto her wrists as though they had always belonged there. Their color softened, adjusting subtly to her attire, their form elegant rather than imposing.

Then–

A crack of light flared.

The bangle before her son trembled.

A trace of spiritual lightning surged within it–not violent, but unmistakably punitive.

Kiaria's gaze sharpened.

"You hate me?" he asked.

The boy hesitated.

"…A little," he admitted.

Kiaria nodded, unoffended.

"Good. Don't deceive your will," he said calmly. "Stay true to it. You'll understand why, when the time comes."

He turned back to Hylisi.

"These bangles will prevent those with malicious intent from approaching you. They will warn you when caution is needed."

His finger tapped lightly against the left bangle.

"This one is forged from the sacred tree's wood. It holds millions of crescent blades. You saw yesterday what even one can do."

His voice lowered slightly.

"When danger comes, a blade will act on its own."

"Not once," he added. "But endlessly."

"You and your bloodline will be protected."

Hylisi's hands trembled.

"This… this is too valuable," she said. "I cannot accept–"

"Mother," her son interrupted quietly, "you already became its master. Refusal is meaningless."

"Indeed," Diala said, tapping the boy's shoulder lightly. "And don't hate him too much."

She smiled faintly.

"I know why you do. But remember–your mother dragged me into her plan. If she hadn't, none of this would've happened."

The boy lowered his head.

Shame replaced resentment.

"Alright," Kiaria said, his tone shifting deliberately, "that's enough of this."

He glanced toward the tent entrance, then beyond it.

"Chief and the others have been standing outside for quite some time. And Sister…" He paused, sensing familiar mischief. "…we don't even know if she woke up properly."

The change of subject was intentional.

It cut cleanly through lingering tension.

They stepped out together.

The morning had fully arrived.

Princess Lainsa was already outside.

Kiaria exhaled deeply the moment he saw her.

"Hah," he muttered. "She really won't change at all."

At the center of the open space, Princess had rolled a flat stone into place. Around it, she arranged irregular rocks of varying sizes, stacking them one atop another with unnerving precision. Each stone leaned at an angle that should not have held–yet did.

Balance maintained through understanding, not force.

On one side of her stood the treasure hunters, rigid and silent.

On the other, the injured crowd and their families gathered together, including three unfamiliar figures whose posture and bearing marked them clearly as leaders of the mainland.

Princess searched the ground methodically, selecting stones as though choosing words.

She placed them carefully.

One mistake, and the structure would collapse.

"Sister Lainsa's way of mocking is becoming more refined by the day," Kiaria thought, watching her work.

"Should we join her?" Diala asked quietly.

Kiaria shook his head.

"You can," he replied. "But remember–intent matters."

Diala nodded and moved closer to Princess.

Kiaria remained where he stood.

He watched.

The three leaders stepped forward.

Their movements were respectful, measured. No sudden gestures. No raised voices. They arranged four chairs neatly, spacing them evenly, then stepped back.

An invitation.

Not a command.

"Greetings," one of them said, bowing deeply. "Great One."

The word God hovered on their lips, unspoken yet clear.

"We are representatives of the mainland's merchants," the man continued. "We have come to apologize for what transpired yesterday."

Kiaria sat.

He did not respond.

Silence stretched.

They continued anyway.

"It was our people's fault," another leader said carefully. "Their interference. Their words. We assure you such behavior will never repeat."

A pause.

"We will ensure her safety personally."

They exchanged glances before proceeding.

"Please… allow Lady Hylisi to treat the injured with Golden Berry Beads. These people are the backbone of mainland commerce. If they remain without tongues, harmony here will collapse."

Kiaria stood.

The chair scraped softly against stone.

He did not look at them.

He turned away.

Several steps later, his voice erupted across the square–deep, resonant, unavoidable.

"You harmed her," Kiaria said, each word striking like thunder. "Not me."

He stopped walking but did not turn back.

"Forgiveness does not belong to me," he continued. "If you wish to speak–speak to her."

Then, quieter–but far more dangerous–

"Good luck."

Hylisi stepped forward.

Her hands brushed the bangles instinctively.

There was no malice within them.

No coercion.

Only resolve.

"No need to apologize," she said calmly. "Take the beads."

She met the leaders' eyes.

"Just let us live freely. Let us live happily. That will be enough."

The beads were used.

Healing followed.

One by one, the injured recovered.

Tears fell freely.

Then, as one, they knelt.

Foreheads pressed to the ground.

Treasures were brought forth–coins, relics, goods–laid at her feet in repayment, in apology, in gratitude.

Hylisi did not touch them.

"Take them away," she said quietly. "Do not trouble me again."

She turned.

"We have no ties."

The crowd remained kneeling.

Heads lowered.

No one spoke.

Hylisi walked back toward her home.

The door closed behind her.

And for the first time, the mainland truly understood–

Even evil submits, when justice no longer asks for permission.

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