Dusk crept slowly across the stained glass windows of the White Monastery.
Orange light glinted off the old stone walls and shelves lined with silent scriptures.
In a small room where the monks held their private talks, the Head Monk—an elderly man in a pale gray robe—sat across a low wooden table.
Jainal stood before him, his travel mask hanging from his belt.
He no longer hid his face—at least, not in this place.
In front of him, he placed a leather pouch filled with several neatly stacked gold coins, their weight noticeable even on the wooden table.
> "For their living expenses," Jainal said softly.
"And... as compensation. For bringing shadows into a place meant for silence."
The Head Monk didn't touch the pouch immediately.
He simply looked at Jainal—his gaze sharp, but not accusing.
> "You know, young man... this place wasn't built to reject burdens.
But we are not blind to the kind of burden you carry."
---
He picked up one coin and rolled it between his fingers.
> "This isn't about gold, or food, or even safety.
It's about intent.
You're not running from responsibility.
You're just... planting it where it might grow in peace."
Jainal lowered his gaze slightly.
> "I can't bring them with me to where I'm headed.
But I also can't let them vanish into silence.
If I fail—at least let them have the chance to choose their own path one day."
The Head Monk gave a thin smile.
> "You are still young.
But your eyes… your eyes speak like someone who's lost too much for his age."
---
A few moments of quiet passed before the sound of the monastery bell rang faintly in the distance.
> "Did you know," the Head Monk said, now looking toward the window,
"this monastery once burned in a war fifty years ago?
We saved the scriptures, not the walls.
And from that, we learned: walls can be rebuilt.
But a soul that has gone dim… can only be rekindled with love."
He turned his eyes back to Jainal.
> "You brought us two wounded souls.
But they still have a spark.
And that means… they're not finished."
---
Jainal nodded slowly.
He pulled out a small scroll from an inner pocket of his cloak—his hand-written summary of the Research Post 03 reports.
> "If I don't return within two seasons... burn this.
Don't let anyone use what's inside."
The Head Monk took the scroll without a single question.
> "We do not go to war.
But we know when to guard something… from those who call darkness a sacrifice."
---
As Jainal rose to leave, the Head Monk called out once more.
> "Your name?"
"Jainal."
"Jainal," he repeated. "From the mountains?"
"From the mountains... and from all the places that burned."
The Head Monk nodded solemnly.
> "If your path makes the world burn hotter... make sure you know who you're burning."
---
Jainal gave a small smile.
He bowed deeply, then stepped out.
Behind him, the monastery doors closed softly.
The last light of dusk greeted him outside.
His steps felt lighter now.
But his eyes—sharper than ever.
Because this time, he didn't walk only to seek truth.
He walked to ensure that wounds would no longer be inherited as curses.