Rado left the village with a pocket full of plum preserves, a basket of enchanted eggs that may or may not hatch lanterns, and a handful of new gossip about "the triangle prophet in robes." Jin half-suspected he'd show up in some tavern story soon as "the Great Rune Weaver Who Rode a Chicken into Battle."
He wasn't entirely against the idea.
Meanwhile, life in Lenth had settled into a rhythm. Most days now started with sunrise glyphs glowing across the village paths, and ended with laughter around bonfires where children sketched rune shapes into the dirt with glowing sticks. But for all the delight, the world beyond was still a mystery.
So when Rado returned—this time with a second cart and a grumpy assistant named Po—he brought something more than trinkets.
He brought conversation.
Jin sat at the edge of the merchant's makeshift stall-turned-tavern-table, sipping something that tried to be cider but mostly tasted like optimism and pine needles.
"So what's the verdict?" Jin asked. "People out there still suspicious of shiny things, or are we warming up to magical sparkles?"
Rado chuckled. "Depends. In Belrosk? Still no tolerance for unsanctioned casting. Magic's reserved for two things: official Scrollbinders and those branded under skin with old glyph marks."
"Tattoo magic," Jin said, snapping his fingers. "I've heard."
"Mm. Painful. Permanent. Effective." Rado tapped a worn leather pouch. "Had a mage once trade me a weather scroll. Said it was temporary magic, old-school rune script—none of this 'shape magic' like you've got brewing in that squiggly genius skull of yours."
Jin leaned back. "So basically, people know two flavors of magic—glyph tattoos burned into their body or cryptic ancient sentences carved into sticks?"
"More or less. Yours is a third thing entirely."
"Well," Jin said, swirling his cup, "three's a good number. It's where stability begins in geometry."
"You keep saying things like that and someone's going to put you on a coin."
Jin grinned. "Make it a triangle-shaped one."
That afternoon, inspired by the idea that nobody else really understood his kind of magic, Jin decided to host a public class—but with a twist. No complex runes. No glowing circles.
Just rocks. Dozens of small, smooth stones and a lot of enthusiastic yelling.
Nira helped organize the event. "We make lines. People pick. You teach."
So they built a "Path of Pebbles" through the academy clearing. At each station, villagers were given stones and challenged to draw one simple shape:
Triangle for directionCircle for flowSquare for groundingSpiral for energy build-up
Jin had paired each with a basic effect—like making a leaf float, warming a cup of soup, or even just creating a soft humming tone.
The point wasn't power. It was pattern.
And the people loved it.
Lenth's weavers started designing rugs based on functional shape sets. A stonemason asked if he could build glyphs directly into steps to lighten heavy loads. Jin high-fived him so hard he nearly fell over.
Still, he kept his core knowledge quiet.
No talk of mana cores. No dodecahedrons. He hadn't forgotten Valthuun's warning—and he definitely hadn't cracked the true secrets of those ancient ruins.
This was play.
Foundation.
Just enough to let people feel possible.
Late one evening, as he walked the path home beneath a glowing moon—one the villagers now called Len'taarn or "the Listening Eye"—Jin looked around at the village he was helping shape.
Better roofs. Better roads. Better stories.
No tattoos. No cryptic staff spells. Just shapes, lines, and the idea that anyone could find meaning in patterns if they looked long enough.
Lenth had found its rhythm.
And somewhere, in the mountains above, a serpent waited in silence—watching the world shift, one pebble at a time.