Larin sat cross-legged on the woven mat in his room, the faint glow of the Chhawihfa orb casting gentle light across the walls. His breaths were measured, deep and steady, as he tried to clear his mind. But the cascade of thoughts refused to relent. The events of the past weeks played over in his head like a relentless tide—the Dryads and their immense power, the shadowy depths of Tlangthar's underbelly, the weight of his newly attached limbs, and the artifact still humming faintly in the archives.

Each memory felt like a puzzle piece of a larger picture he couldn't yet see. The Dryads, guardians of the land, had revealed a strength that dwarfed even the Cosmic Magi, and their warnings lingered heavily in his mind. The underbelly of the city had shown him a darker truth: Xiaxo wasn't as unified or untouchable as he had once believed. The artifact, its runes shifting like whispers, was a reminder of ancient knowledge and power lost to time, now resting in uncertain hands.

He flexed his reattached arm, the faint bioluminescence of the veins catching his eye. The Auquan technology was remarkable, but it didn't feel wholly his. It was an alien extension of himself, a constant reminder of his survival and the cost it carried. His leg, too, was strong and functional, but at times it felt disconnected from the rhythm of his body. He wondered if he would ever truly feel whole again.

His thoughts shifted to Xiaxo itself, the land he called home. The Kirat Empire had been defeated by the Auquans, but its remnants lingered like a shadow over the region. The elites of the Empire still wielded power, controlling trade routes and influencing governance. The gift economy of Xiaxo, the communal sharing of resources, stood in stark contrast to the hierarchical and exploitative systems the Empire had imposed. Larin felt the weight of uncertainty pressing on him. Would Xiaxo ever truly reclaim its sovereignty, or would it remain entangled in the web of external forces?

A soft knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts. "Larin, are you awake?" It was his mother, Moimui.

"Yes, Mother. Come in."

Moimui stepped inside, her presence as calming as the glow of the Chhawihfa. She carried a small basket of herbs, her hands deftly sorting through the leaves as she sat beside him.

"You've been quiet lately," she said gently. "I imagine your mind is heavy."

Larin nodded. "It is. There's so much happening, so much to think about. I'm trying to make sense of it all."

Moimui smiled faintly, her hands never pausing their work. "The world is a complicated place, Larin. But sometimes, the answers we seek are closer than we realize."

Larin raised an eyebrow. "Closer?"

Moimui nodded. "The land, Larin. It teaches us everything if we're willing to listen. You know how we live—how we've always lived. The Kirats tried to take that from us, but they never truly understood the soul of Xiaxo."

She set the basket aside and looked at him intently. "Do you remember why every Xiaxoan has the right to land?"

"Because it's communal," Larin replied. "The land belongs to the people, not individuals. No one can own it to themselves."

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"Exactly," Moimui said, her tone firm. "The land is our lifeblood, our connection to Khiuniu. The Kirats called our slash-and-burn agriculture wasteful, but they didn't understand. We don't destroy the land; we renew it. The ash enriches the soil, and we let the land rest before returning to it. It's a cycle, a balance."

Larin nodded, though he had heard this many times before. "I know, Mother. It's part of who we are."

"But knowing isn't enough," Moimui said, her gaze piercing. "You've been so caught up in the larger battles, the grand questions of power and identity, that you've forgotten to ground yourself. The land is where you find your strength, Larin. It's where you'll find clarity."

Moimui stood, brushing her hands on her skirt. "Come with me to our plot. It's time you reconnected."

Larin hesitated, the weight of his thoughts urging him to stay. But the look in his mother's eyes left no room for argument. With a sigh, he rose and followed her out of the house.

The walk to their plot of land was quiet, the path winding through the outskirts of Tlangthar. The city's hum of activity faded into the gentle rustle of leaves and the distant call of birds. The air grew fresher, carrying the scent of earth and greenery.

The plot started with a sloping bamboo forest that they traversed past, it was so dense that sunlight penetrated only faint parts of openings. Then they reached another sloping forest, its health clear from the signs of life there, trees as big as Larin's two whole arm's length, their leaves differing in shade and effect, some even seemed to vibrate. Then the slop came to a stop and they reached the end, the slop stops and a bridge arises to connect it across a small stream that ran through. The other side was plain, but its dirt was better from all the river deposits when it overflows.

Moimui knelt by one of the plants, her hands brushing the leaves of a plant. "This is your father's work," she said, her voice filled with pride. "Even as a chief, he never stopped being a farmer. It's in his blood, as it's in yours."

Larin crouched beside her, his hands tracing the edge of a leaf. "And what will you have me do here, Mother? Plant seeds? Pull weeds?"

Moimui laughed softly. "If only it were that simple. No, Larin, I want you to listen. Feel the land beneath your hands. Smell the air. Hear the rustle of the leaves. This is where we come from. This is what we fight for."

Larin closed his eyes, his fingers sinking into the soil. The cool earth was firm yet yielding, the faint scent of minerals and life rising from it. He listened to the rustle of the crops in the breeze, the distant hum of insects. For a moment, the weight of his thoughts lifted, replaced by a sense of connection. Then casted the spell [Sinlung], he was the land again, but this time, he felt every being in the land, even the inanimate objects like the rocks, they were not alive per se, but they had energy, and maybe intent, the animal and beast activity made the place even more vibrant, one could see activity of life every inch of the land.

"It's peaceful," he said softly.

"It's balance," Moimui corrected. "The kind of balance you need if you're going to face what lies ahead."

They spent the rest of the morning working the plot, tending to the crops and repairing a section of the bamboo fencing. Moimui spoke of the old ways, the practices that had sustained Xiaxo through centuries of change and hardship. She told stories of their ancestors, who had fought to keep their traditions alive in the face of conquest and assimilation.

Larin listened, his mind quieter than it had been in weeks. By the time they returned to the house, his body ached pleasantly from the labor, and his thoughts felt clearer.

As he sat on the porch that evening, watching the sun dip below the horizon, Larin reflected on his mother's words. The land was more than soil and crops; it was a foundation, a source of strength and clarity. It was a reminder of who he was and what he was fighting for.

The world beyond Xiaxo was vast and complex, filled with power struggles and ancient forces. But here, in the heart of his homeland, Larin found a truth that anchored him. The land would endure, as it always had. And so would he.