The morning after Valthuun's dramatic flyby was surprisingly… mellow.
The villagers, rather than panicking or fleeing in ritual terror, instead treated the whole encounter like a divine thumbs-up.
They bustled with renewed energy—washing shrine stones, repainting carved wooden serpents perched on rooftops, and arranging fresh fruit baskets under the towering statue of the sky-wyrm that loomed benevolently over the square.
Jin yawned from his perch on the academy's roof, feet dangling and a half-eaten sweetroot bun in hand. "So, either that snake's cryptic warning was totally normal for them… or I've accidentally become the celestial mailman."
Professor Beakley clucked in agreement and stole the rest of Jin's breakfast.
Nira approached moments later, holding a bundle of vibrant cloth. "For Zhaat'mor," she said with a grin.
Jin arched an eyebrow. "If this is a robe, I'm only wearing it if it has at least four triangles embroidered somewhere."
She unwrapped it—it was a robe. Bright blues and golds, patterned with curling clouds and a coiled serpent stitched along the hem in metallic thread. Definitely handmade, definitely reverent.
"You're spoiling me," Jin muttered, donning it with a dramatic flourish. "All hail Professor Starfall, first of his name, breaker of runes, conjurer of shiny distractions."
Nira giggled and handed him a woven crown of braided reeds and skyflower petals.
Jin sighed. "The birds are going to attack me. I can feel it."
That day marked the start of a new festival—the Sky Remembering, as Nira translated. A once-a-cycle celebration of the Great Serpent's covenant with the village. Before Jin, it had been more tradition than spectacle: honoring the sky-wyrm with chants, rice wine, and stories by the fire.
But now, with rune magic reborn, things were… evolving.
There were puppet shows animated with glowing sigils. Sky-lanterns that danced mid-air thanks to a wind glyph loop. Children drew glowing serpent spirals in the dirt that shimmered under moonlight. Even Professor Beakley participated, wearing a ceremonial ribbon and guarding the fire pit like a divine gatekeeper.
Jin, naturally, went overboard.
He built a floating glyph projector—essentially a flat disc that bounced light through carved rune frames. With help from his students, he used it to display dancing serpent illusions in the air, their translucent forms weaving in time with the drumbeats.
The elders nearly fainted from joy. Or possibly confusion.
As the celebration rolled deep into the night, Nira tugged Jin's sleeve.
"Show you," she said, eyes twinkling.
She led him through the crowd, beyond the shrine, and up a winding staircase carved into a rocky outcrop behind the village—a place Jin hadn't yet explored.
At the top, lit by flickering torches, stood a half-collapsed archway of stone. Wrapped around it was a carving of the serpent—not stylized like the statue in the square, but ancient. Chipped, moss-covered, yet unmistakably the same form. Below it were weathered glyphs—spirals, not too different from those Jin had learned, but older, more precise.
"This was… here before the village?" he asked softly.
Nira nodded. "Always. We build below."
Jin stepped closer, brushing moss from the base. Beneath the wear, he found etched rings—almost like planetary orbits—centered around what looked like a dodecahedron.
His heart skipped. "They knew. They knew."
"Serpent come from sky," Nira said. "We learn from stars. Long ago."
Jin crouched, eyes darting over the geometry. These weren't just decorations. They were diagrams.
Instructions.
Lost technology woven into faith, preserved across centuries as ritual.
The village hadn't just survived because Valthuun watched over them—they were once part of something much larger. A civilization perhaps not unlike the ones Jin had glimpsed through the Keeper's memory sphere: runebound towers and flying beasts, logic folded into worship.
And yet now, the language was mostly forgotten. The knowledge faded. Only echoes remained.
Until now.
He stood, dusted off his robe, and looked out at the sparkling lights below.
"Okay," he murmured, "so I've got part of a broken language, a glowing heart-thing in my chest, an increasingly powerful chicken familiar, and a crowd of people who think I'm some kind of sparkly prophet."
He squinted at the distant sky, where a silver streak pulsed faintly.
"Let's see what else the past buried in your scales, Valthuun."
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A week had passed since the Sky Remembering festival, and the village of Lenth had never looked livelier.
Houses once made of patched wood and faith now stood proud with reinforced stone bases and timber frames bound by etched runes—some for weather resistance, others for warding off curious goats. Roofs were shingled in overlapping bark tiles, sealed tight with sun-hardened resin mixed with just a sprinkle of heating glyphs baked directly into the structure.
Jin, of course, called these the "anti-drip shields." No one laughed. He suspected it was a translation issue. Or maybe his delivery was off.
The roads were no longer just well-trodden dirt paths. Villagers had begun embedding flat stones into them—each carved with faint guiding glyphs to light up at night using residual mana. Now, even after sunset, the paths glowed softly beneath one's feet like sleepy fireflies.
Then there was the market.
It started as a humble row of barrels and crates, but since Jin taught his students how to inscribe "float-but-don't-fly" glyphs, the villagers had fashioned entire carts suspended slightly off the ground. Portable produce stands, gliding chicken coops, even one "bouncing bakery" that made muffins mid-walk (the muffins were terrible, but the enthusiasm? Impeccable).
Jin leaned against the edge of the well, enjoying a pear with too many teeth marks in it (courtesy of Beakley), when the shouting started.
A bell clanged near the watchpost tower.
Children ran down the road shouting, "Rado comes! Rado comes!"
Jin turned to Nira. "Who's Rado?"
She tilted her head and said simply, "Merchant. Very loud."
That was underselling it.
Moments later, a cart appeared over the ridge, being pulled—not by a horse or ox—but by a squat, four-legged creature that looked like someone had mashed a bear and a truffle hog together and then added tusks for personality. Atop the cart sat a man with a wide-brimmed hat, a red vest covered in too many pockets, and a grin that could probably sell you your own shoes back.
"Villagers of Lenth!" he bellowed, standing atop the rolling cart with arms wide. "It is I, the legendary, the majestic, the frequently overstocked Rado the Roaming!"
Several villagers clapped. One elderly man dropped a spoon in excitement.
Jin raised an eyebrow. "He's a lot."
"He is trade," Nira said. "Brings things. Stories. Trouble."
Jin's grin widened. "I like him already."
Rado's cart unfolded itself—literally. A few strategic rope tugs and it expanded into a compact pop-up shop with three tiers. The bottom had tools and cookware, the middle displayed books, scrolls, and flasks, while the top was—of course—entirely hats.
One child tried on a feathered helm. It immediately clucked. Rado snatched it back.
"Careful, that one bites. Enchanted by a drunk sorcerer named Thilgo. Thought he was hilarious."
As villagers clustered around, Jin wandered up.
"Hello!" Rado greeted. "New face. Non-local, surely. You don't have 'I've lived beside a magic sky-wyrm all my life' posture."
Jin snorted. "Is that a quantifiable posture?"
"Oh, absolutely," Rado said. "It's the mix of awe, fear, and mild weatherproofing. You look like someone who causes small fires and then names them."
"That's… not entirely wrong."
Rado leaned forward, curious. "Hmm. Magic user, yes? Odd style. No wand, no core tattoos. What do you use—chants? Glyph stones? Emotional screaming?"
"Geometry," Jin said casually, taking another bite of his unfortunate pear.
Rado blinked. "Well. That's new."
Jin shrugged. "Lots of triangles. One or two circles. The occasional existential spiral."
"I must invite you to dinner so you can explain that slowly with hand gestures."
"Fair warning," Jin said. "It'll get philosophical by the third course."
As Rado bantered with Jin, his cart drew a crowd. He bartered ink for preserves, sold tiny rune-etched knives said to stay sharp through bone (hopefully untested), and handed out a folded map of the region—crudely drawn but precious.
Jin pocketed one. On it, past the hills and three rivers, a town was marked. Belrosk.
"Ever been?" he asked.
Rado nodded. "Twice. Awful wine, great cheese, very suspicious tax collector. They've got a school of magical theory there, or what's left of it. Not many real mages anymore."
Jin glanced up at the sky. "Yeah… I'm noticing."
For now, though, that was fine.
This village was building something—brick by brick, rune by rune. Livelihoods were improving. Roads glowed. Rooftops didn't leak. Kids laughed without fear of being swallowed by a sky deity. And the bakery muffins were only slightly flammable now.
It wasn't flashy.
But it was something real.