After washing up and changing into clean but simple clothes, Adam joined the Father and a few other priests as they made their way to the city center. The early morning light cast a muted glow over the fog that clung to the slums, and a subdued kind of purpose marked each of their steps. In the large tent set up at the center, he was handed a warm bowl of stew. He ate in silence, watching the priests interact with a mix of ease and camaraderie. They teased the Father, especially about how he grew modest when people came up to thank him, often kissing his hand or even bowing their heads in reverence. The Father would turn slightly red and give a shy smile, waving them off. Adam observed it all quietly, feeling a sense of calm rather than belonging, as he reminded himself that he was here to learn, not to grow attached.

The line of people waiting for a meal stretched longer each day, the gratitude in their eyes worn down by survival and silent struggle. Some of them reached out to the Father, kissing his hands or forehead, as if they could take from him a little of his warmth. The Father accepted these gestures with humility, a gentle smile barely lifting his features. One of the younger priests chuckled and nudged Adam lightly, breaking him from his observations.

“There he goes again—the city’s saint,” he whispered with a grin, nodding toward the Father.

Adam gave a faint, almost reluctant smile in response, a quiet distance kept between himself and this sense of camaraderie. His purpose was not for friendship but for knowledge—he needed to understand how things worked here, to learn how he might use this world’s systems to his advantage if he was ever to find a way back.

Serving ladle in hand, he joined the others, distributing soup to the people lined up in front of the tent. He watched as each person stepped forward, their faces showing everything from despair to cautious hope. The Father quoted old proverbs and parables as they worked, creating an atmosphere of comfort among the people. Adam knew these teachings were meant to inspire generosity and compassion, age-old principles that, to Adam, felt like tools. He listened to each word, letting the sentiments fall over him, almost fascinated by the simplicity of faith and morality in action. He told himself this would make sense later, even if it seemed a little foreign now.

Days began to blend into a pattern. Each morning, Adam woke to the pale light filtering through his shack’s cracked walls, a sense of duty pulling him to the church. He maintained the routine, praying, helping in the city center, and, above all, listening. The Father’s lessons were, to the man known in this world as Badr, a foundation—a method for gaining trust, for establishing a shared sense of familiarity before he dared ask for the answers he truly wanted.

After a week, the Father had softened toward him, and Adam sensed it was time to finally ask the deeper question that had been weighing on his mind. He didn’t want to seem as though he sought forbidden knowledge, so he framed it carefully, like an innocent curiosity, a question born of genuine concern for the city he now called home. As they walked back from the city center, the sun dipping below the horizon, Adam glanced sideways at the Father.

“How did it get this way?” he asked, his voice quiet, almost hesitant. “The city... the country… why is everything so broken?”

The Father’s steps slowed. He cast a glance over his shoulder, as if to ensure they were alone, then placed a firm but gentle hand on Adam’s shoulder.

“Come inside, Badr,” he said, his tone low. “This isn’t a conversation to have in the open.”

Inside the study, the flickering candlelight softened the room, casting shadows across stacks of old books and worn furniture. The Father sat heavily in his chair, running a hand through his graying hair. For a moment, he was quiet, as though trying to decide where to begin.

"History can be complicated," he said finally, his voice tired but steady. "What we know of the Great War, what most people believe, it’s... not the full story."

Adam leaned forward, sensing the weight of what was coming. “What do you mean?”

The Father rested his elbows on the table, his hands clasped together. "You’ve heard how the elves ended slavery, right? How they came as liberators to free humans and elves alike?"

Adam nodded. "Yes. It’s taught as a moment of salvation, a new beginning for humanity."

The Father sighed. "That’s how they wanted us to see it. And I won’t deny that slavery was a blight on us—a system of cruelty that should never have existed. But the way the elves tell it, they stepped in because we were too weak and corrupt to stop ourselves. That’s not the whole truth."

Adam frowned. "What’s missing?"

The Father’s gaze grew distant, his voice tightening. "For centuries, humans enslaved each other. The wealthy and powerful—kings, nobles, merchants—kept the poor in chains. It was wrong, but it was our wrong. Then, as greed took hold, we began enslaving elves too. They were seen as stronger, more skilled, better workers. It wasn’t long before elven villages were raided, their people stolen and sold in human markets. Even elven nobles were captured—"

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"How?" Adam interrupted, disbelief in his voice. "After everything I’ve heard about their power... how could humans overpower them?"

The Father’s lips pressed into a thin line. "That’s the question, isn’t it? The elves we knew back then... they didn’t display the same strength they showed during the war. It makes you wonder—did they really allow themselves to be captured? Did they need a reason, a pretext, to act?"

Adam’s chest tightened as the implications settled in. "You think it was planned."

The Father nodded slowly. "I do. They sent emissaries, begged our rulers to stop the raids, to abolish slavery. They offered treaties, even warned us of the consequences. But when our leaders ignored them, when we went too far and captured their own nobles, it gave them the excuse they needed. they allowed all of this to happen, they wanted us to capture elven nobles, so they could act without looking like the aggressors,"

"And the war?" Adam asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

The Father leaned back, a bitter smile playing at his lips. "The war was over before it even began. When the elves finally unleashed their power, it was like nothing humanity had ever seen. They didn’t fight to defeat us; they fought to dismantle us. Our rulers fell first—palaces burned, armies crumbled. Entire cities disappeared in a single night. They made it clear that resistance was futile."

Adam’s stomach churned. "And the slaves? They freed everyone, didn’t they?"

"They did," the Father admitted, his tone softer. "They kept their word. Every chain was broken. But it wasn’t just slavery they ended—they destroyed the entire system that held our society together. The kings, the nobles, the merchants—all of them were gone. And in the chaos that followed, new leaders emerged among humans."

His voice grew heavier, tinged with regret. "They wore masks of benevolence, speaking eloquently about equality, justice, and rebuilding. But in truth, they cared only for themselves. They seized power amid the turmoil, amassing wealth and influence while neglecting the people they claimed to serve."

Adam frowned. "And the elves? They didn’t stop them?"

The Father shrugged, his expression weary. "They didn’t seem to care. Maybe they thought it wasn’t their problem, or maybe they wanted us divided. They supported everyone equally, which only made things worse. New countries sprang up, each more isolated than the last, each led by someone who thought they could carve out a piece of the world for themselves."

Adam’s brow furrowed. "But there was wealth, wasn’t there? Trade with the elves must’ve brought money into these new nations."

The Father’s eyes darkened. "It did. But instead of investing in their people, these so-called leaders hoarded it for themselves. Greed and corruption took root, and the people—the ones who needed help the most—were left to suffer."

He shook his head sadly, the weight of decades in his voice. "The elves claimed they came to save us, to make the world better. But in the end, all they did was break us apart. And now, fifty years later, we’re still living in the rubble."

He paused, his voice trembling with a quiet, aching sadness. "It was our greed, plain and simple. We walked right into their trap, chasing after everything we thought we wanted—wealth, power, status. And they knew we would. They didn’t need to force us; we did it to ourselves. But why? Because we lost our way. We stopped believing in something bigger than ourselves. We let go of God, of faith, of the values that held us together. Instead, we worshipped ambition, hoarded wealth, and called it progress. And in the end, we were blind—blind to what we were losing, blind to the ruin we were walking into."

Adam sat in silence, the Father’s words echoing in his mind.

He looked directly at Adam, his gaze intense and filled with a mix of sorrow and determination. "That's where we are now. Our lands are rich, but our people are poor. The elves benefit from our resources while we struggle to survive. And our leaders—the ones who should be fighting for us—are complicit in our exploitation."

"It's a tragic cycle," Adam said quietly. "But perhaps understanding it is the first step toward changing it."

A faint smile touched the Father's lips, though it didn't reach his eyes. "I believe so, Badr. Acknowledging the truth allows us to seek solutions."

"Do you think the elves realize the impact their actions have had on us?" Adam asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

"It's hard to say," the Father replied thoughtfully. "Maybe they do, maybe they don't. But we can't rely on them to fix our problems. It's up to us."

Adam nodded slowly, "Then we need to find a way to bring our people back together."

"Yes," the Father agreed, his expression softening. "But it's a monumental task. The divisions run deep, and mistrust is everywhere. We have to start small, by fostering understanding and cooperation in our own communities."

"Perhaps we can begin by educating others about our shared history, and the real reasons behind our situation," Adam suggested, his eyes lighting up with possibility.

"Education is powerful," the Father affirmed, a hint of hope creeping into his voice. "If people understand how we've been manipulated—by both external forces and our own leaders—they might be more willing to come together."

Adam met the Father's gaze, feeling a newfound sense of purpose. "Then let's start here. Let's do what we can to make a difference."

The Father reached across the table and placed a reassuring hand on Adam’s shoulder. "Education is powerful and people have started to get fed up with their situations, something needs to be done, I trust that we will make a change, Badr."

For a moment, they sat in comfortable silence, the weight of their conversation settling like a shared burden.