Of course, that was Kaya’s guess. These people didn’t count years the way she did. They measured life by moons, and honestly? She had no idea if their numbers were accurate or wildly exaggerated. But judging by the wrinkles on some of the elders and the ancient wisdom in their eyes, she figured she wasn’t far off.

One thing Kaya had to admit: these women were sharp. Maybe the smartest group she’d encountered since arriving in this bizarre world.

The moment their eyes landed on the pouch she’d crafted—woven from scraps and sheer stubbornness—they lit up like she’d just unveiled a masterpiece.

"Clever work," one murmured, fingers tracing the rough stitching with genuine admiration.

But they didn’t stop there. No, they dove straight into improvements: how to add hidden pockets for herbs or tools, which shortcuts through the forest saved time without risking your neck, what plants to *never* touch ("That one? Swell up like a bloated fish and die screaming"), and which trails were cursed with sinkholes that swallowed warriors whole.

Practical. Brutal. Honest.

Exactly the kind of advice Kaya needed.

With even these small ideas the women had shared, Kaya knew one thing: whatever she’d been planning to figure out alone, she could now get from them far more easily. Their knowledge, their routes, their warnings—it was enough to redraw half the map in her head.

Slowly, the lively buzz of the camp thinned out. One by one, people drifted away toward their huts, the night settling over the village like a heavy blanket. The fire sank into embers. Voices faded into yawns and soft goodnights. Kaya, too, was about to lie down when a voice cut through the quiet from behind her.

"Wait."

Kaya stopped and turned.

The man who stood there wasn’t the chief, nor the tribe leader, nor one of the loudly respected elders she’d seen earlier. He wore nothing particularly grand, no extra ornaments to scream status. But the way the air shifted around him—the weight in his gaze, the steadiness in his spine—told Kaya everything she needed to know.

This one is dangerous.

Veer and Cutie saw him at the same time. Their bodies tensed on instinct. Veer took a step forward; Cutie moved as if to stand between Kaya and the old man.

"Kaya—" Veer began.

She only shook her head once.

"Go and rest," she said quietly. "I’ll come soon."

They hesitated. Veer’s brows drew together; Cutie’s ears twitched with clear unease. But the look Kaya gave them—calm, sharp, absolute—made it clear she wasn’t taking company. In the end, they backed off, though Veer glanced over his shoulder more than once as they left.

Kaya walked toward the old man with an easy smile, tucking her hands behind her back like a well-mannered guest.

"Arif, do you need something, uncle?" she asked, voice light, face bright and cheerful.

The old man studied her for a long, silent moment. His eyes were not kind, not cruel—just unbearably clear. Then he spoke, voice low and flat.

"Stop making that fake expression."

Kaya’s smile froze.

For a heartbeat, she didn’t move. Then her lips relaxed, the corners dropping just enough to show the truth: she’d been caught. So she was right. This old man really ’was’ something else.[1]

He jerked his chin toward a house at the edge of the clearing.

"Come."

The house was different from the others. Where most of the huts were built from wood, grass, and packed earth, this one was stone. Not just stacked rocks, either. The walls looked as if someone had carved them straight out of a mountain and dropped the chunk here on purpose. Solid. Old. Unyielding.

Arif pushed open a large bamboo door, its hinges creaking softly, and stepped inside without looking back. Kaya followed.

The interior was dark at first, cool and still. Then the old man struck a small flame and lit a stub of wax candle. The tiny flame flared, then steadied, casting a soft, gold halo around the room.

Kaya’s eyes narrowed slightly.

A candle. So they knew this kind of thing too.

As the light grew, the room’s details unfolded. Shelves carved directly into stone, a low table, a few simple items arranged with almost obsessive neatness. Arif pointed toward a small wooden chair near the table.

"Sit."

Kaya walked over and ran her fingers along the backrest. The surface was smooth, the edges rounded and polished. Whoever had made it had taken their time. No splinters. No rough corners. It was careful work—someone with patience and skill, not a rushed hand.

She sat down slowly.

Arif took the chair opposite her and lowered himself onto it without a sound. For a moment, he said nothing. He just watched her, eyes weighing every breath she took.

Then, finally:

"Why did you come here?" he asked. "What do you want from us?"

Kaya offered him another small smile, softer this time, almost apologetic.

"We’re just passing by," she said lightly. "We don’t—"

He lifted a hand, palm facing her, cutting her off mid-sentence.

"I don’t want to hear your nonsense," he said, the politeness dropping from his voice like a mask. "Why did you ’really’ come here?"

Kaya’s expression vanished entirely. The soft smile, the polite mask—gone. What remained was cold focus, the look of someone who’d spent years deciding whether to trust or to kill.

She looked at the old man seriously.

"I want to know about the folk tale," she said. "The one about the beast god’s daughter."

The old man paused. His fingers, resting on the arm of his chair, stopped mid-tap. He studied her for a long moment before he spoke.

"Everyone knows that story," he said slowly. "Why do you need to come here for it?"

Kaya’s tone didn’t waver.

"Everyone knows *a* story," she said. "But everyone’s version is different from the original. I want to know the truth. The real one."

Arif leaned back slightly, eyes narrowing.

"So what do you want from us?"

She met his gaze without flinching.

"I heard your tribe is one of the oldest here," she said. "Your people live far longer than most beastmen. If anyone still remembers the original tale, it’s you."

The old man tilted his head, unimpressed.

"The snake tribe also lives long years," he said flatly. "Go ask them."

Kaya’s jaw tightened, just barely.

"I don’t like them," she said. "Every time I go near them, they attack me."

Arif’s lips twitched—not quite a smile, but close.

"And you think *we* won’t attack you?"

"You *could*," Kaya admitted without hesitation. "Of course you could. But I don’t think you *will*."

"And why," he said slowly, leaning forward now, his voice dropping to something quieter and far more dangerous, "do you think we won’t kill you right here?"

Kaya didn’t blink.

"Because if you wanted to," she said calmly, "you wouldn’t have waited this long. The moment you knew I was lying, you would’ve already done it."

Silence.

The candlelight flickered between them, casting long shadows across the stone walls. The old man stared at her, his expression unreadable. Then, finally, he let out a long, weary sigh and shook his head.

"Huh," he muttered. "You really are a troublesome child."