Barracks

The twilight hours descended upon Xiaxo with a quiet hum as the second quake in two days struck. This time, panic did not erupt. People braced themselves, their resilience honed by years of living in harmony with a land that was as capricious as it was generous. The tremors rippled through Tlangthar, shaking homes but leaving little damage thanks to the foresight of engineers enhanced by magical techniques. These specialists worked tirelessly to stabilize the infrastructure, ensuring life continued with minimal disruption.

As the sun rose, spilling golden light across the hills, Tlangthar came alive with purpose. It was the month of First Green, the season of renewal after the restful, celebratory months of Frost. The air was alive with the scent of wildflowers and fresh dew as the people resumed their daily routines. Down by the rivers, women fetched water in reinforced bamboo sections as large as tree trunks, their movements deliberate and graceful. Nearby, men prepared breakfast with a reverence that spoke of the Xiaxoan connection to their land.

The rich aroma of boiled Xiaxoan rice mingled with the smoky scent of sambhar broth. Green and red chili paste sat alongside plates of steamed lettuces, each dish prepared with intricate spells and rituals. These were not mere meals; they were expressions of gratitude to the land. The rituals infused the food with magic and honored the spirits that blessed their harvests. Every Xiaxoan child learned these practices from the moment they could walk, ensuring the traditions endured.

In the Zakop household, the family gathered around the breakfast table. Zakop, the Chief of Tlangthar, sat beside his wife, Moimui. Across from them sat their son, Larin, his expression curious as he watched his parents.

"Father, Mother," Larin asked, his voice tinged with curiosity, "why do we need to perform all these spells for our food? Isn't it enough to just cook it?"

Moimui smiled gently, her eyes warm with understanding. "Larin, our food is a gift from the land. The spells aren't just about cooking—they honor that gift. Every ingredient has a spirit, a story. Preparing it with care shows our gratitude."

Zakop nodded, his tone firm but kind. "It's about balance, my son. The land gives to us, and we must give back. These rituals ensure we take no more than we need. You'll understand better as you grow."

Larin furrowed his brow. "But doesn't the land just grow things on its own? Why do we need to do anything at all? Isn't that just nature's way?"

Moimui leaned forward, her voice soft but resolute. "Nature's way includes us, Larin. Sinlung and Khiuniu connect everything. By participating in these rituals, we ensure harmony continues. It's not just survival—it's our way of being in sync with the world."

Zakop added with a smile, "The spell starts at the harvest, even before that in the caring and noticing of the potential of harvest, of taking just enough to satisfy ourselves, how we treat the yields of nature with dignity, to how we prepare it in the kitchen and how we eat them. The spell is not just one formula but a way of life, keep this in mind."

Larin nodded slowly, savoring the mana-tufted serow broth as he considered their words. The flavors were rich, each bite a testament to the reverence and care poured into its preparation. As Larin swallowed, a prickle danced across his tongue—not the broth's heat, but a dissonant note in its mana. The flavors soured for a heartbeat, as though the land itself recoiled. He blinked, and the sensation vanished. His parents ate undisturbed, but Larin's fingers tightened around his bowl. Was this Sinlung's warning? The question burned, unasked.

Later that morning, Larin wandered to the barracks, drawn by the hum of activity that always surrounded it. The barracks were the heartbeat of Xiaxoan cities—a place of learning, collaboration, and community. These vast buildings were hubs where young adults and elders organized fishing expeditions, hunting trips, construction projects, and even raids. Elders delivered lectures on politics, philosophy, and magic, fostering an environment where knowledge and effort were rewarded. The Magic Academies tied their credit system to the barracks, offering points for completed missions that could be exchanged for books, artifacts, and charms.

Larin entered the barracks, where he found Pupi, a wise elder, a master of magical arts and a 'retired' rebel. The elderly man sat cross-legged on a woven mat, his sharp eyes twinkling as he watched the bustling scene around him. The barracks thrummed with purpose, yet divisions lurked beneath its camaraderie. Hunters from the different factions of Xiaxo gathered together, their laughter edged with rivalry. Elders from the different factions muttered over scrolls, casting wary glances at Pupi's mat.

"Pupi," Larin said hesitantly, "may I ask you something?"

Pupi chuckled, gesturing for Larin to sit beside him. "You may, young one, though I can't promise I'll answer everything."

"Why do we need practice the Dysno religion in the open and not our ways?" Larin asked. "Why do the Dysno feel so foreign?"

Pupi raised an eyebrow. "Ah, Young Larin, you are as sharp as you are wise, this is truly a crucial question. Why do you think so?"

"We practice prayers at Church but we also do our Sakhua rituals in all aspects of our lives, we don't even cremate people like how the Dysno teaches" Larin pressed. "Dysno, they feel like we are not them"

Pupi smiled knowingly. "You speak exactly as how a chief's son is supposed to, in my opinion anyway, haha"

Larin frowned thoughtfully. "Well ?"

Pupi's gaze turned wistful. "Before the Great War, things were different. Your father was only 200 years old then, and your grandfather gave his life in that war. Back then, we didn't have these systems—but the war changed everything. 'we have to adapt' they say, but in truth we were forced."

Pupi leaned forward, his expression serious. "We are still not free to do as we please, we have been subjected to much pain. We must remember, it is an obligation. Remember well, Young Larin, you will face greater dilemmas as we go on. Things will change, I am sure."

Larin's eyes brightened. "I know, Pupi, I will do my best."

Pupi nodded. "Exactly. You're beginning to see the bigger picture, Larin. That's the first step to wisdom."

Their conversation was interrupted by a commotion nearby. A young man, Thanpau, was sprawled on the floor, shoved there by Shylo, a burly woman with a defiant expression.

"Thanpau, you don't belong here!" Shylo sneered. "Dysno will not stand for this kind of slander. You're not even pure!"

Thanpau remained silent, his gaze steady despite the insults. Pupi rose to his feet, his voice commanding. "Shylo, this is the barracks. Conduct yourself with dignity."

Shylo grumbled but left with her entourage, casting one last glare at Thanpau.

Larin hurried to Thanpau, helping him to his feet. "Are you okay?" he asked.

Thanpau gave a small smile. "You shouldn't associate with me, young lord. It'll only bring you trouble."

Larin's voice was firm. "We're all equal under the gaze of Sinlung and Khiuniu."

As Shylo disappeared into the distance, Larin turned back to Pupi. "Why do things like this happen? Why didn't you punish Shylo?"

Pupi sighed, his expression weary. "This has always been our struggle, Larin. Some cling to old prejudices, valuing bloodlines over character. It's not the way of Sinlung or Khiuniu, but such beliefs linger. Change takes time—and strength."

Larin watched Thanpau retreat, his posture defiantly straight. Around them, the barracks buzzed on, but whispers trailed in the bullied boy's wake. An elderly weaver met Larin's gaze and nodded, approval etched in her frown. Others looked away. The moment crystallized in Larin's mind: This is the "adaptation" Pupi meant—not progress, but silence. His jaw set. Silence, he decided, should be broken.

Pupi's hand drifted to his sleeve, where a strands of ethereal tendrils erupted out—a hidden homage to Sinlung. "Remember," he said softly, "the Dysno's priests see obedience as strength. But our ancestors knew true harmony thrives in diversity and challenging rules. Even the river's song needs both rapids and calm." His eyes gleamed. "Some spells are quieter than others."