Chapter 8 Across the Great Wall
The World Below
Far to the south of Azura Beyond the dragon rivers. Beyond the moonlit temples. Beyond the sacred lands protected by the Seven Moon Gods. Beyond even the colossal Great Wall of Ryujin lay another world. A world the Sky People never spoke about. A world they considered cursed. Baalania. Where Azura glowed beneath silver moons and drifting clouds, Baalania burned beneath an endless sun. No spirit forests grew here. No crystal rivers sang. No floating cities drifted through the heavens. Only deserts. Endless deserts. Waves of red and golden sand stretching beyond the horizon like a sea of fire. Ancient ruins half-swallowed by dunes. Black temples rising from wastelands. Nomadic fortress-cities crawling across the sands like iron beasts. And above all Faith. A harsh, burning faith. Long ago, Baalania had once been beautiful. Its rivers had flowed. Its gardens had bloomed. Its kingdoms had prospered. But then Something fell from the heavens. An object that should never have existed. The Black Box. No one knew where it came from. Some claimed it had fallen from the stars. Others whispered that it had risen from beneath the earth itself. The Baalanians believed it to be divine. A messenger of the One God. A source of enlightenment. A gift But gifts could become chains. And chains could become empires. Now the Black Box whispered to kings. To priests. To conquerors. Promising power. Promising immortality. Promising ascension through suffering. And the people listened. Entire civilizations changed. Bodies changed. Minds changed. Faith itself changed. Those who embraced its teachings became stronger. Harder. More dangerous. Many gained strange powers. Others became monsters. But to the people of Baalania All suffering was sacred. The people of Azura called them barbarians. The Sky People called them Fire-Born. But the Baalanians called themselves something far simpler. The Faithful. And among the countless tribes and kingdoms of Baalania One child walked beneath the unforgiving sun. His name was Varrik al-Baashir. He was thirteen years old. Already taller than many grown men. Broad-shouldered. Dark-haired. Sun-browned. His face still held traces of youth, but his eyes had already learned hardship. He wore simple black desert clothing. No jewels. No luxury. Only survival. Because today His father had abandoned him. Not out of hatred. Not out of cruelty. But because such was the ancient tradition of his people. The Walk of Thirst. Varrik stood alone in the middle of nowhere. The sun blazed overhead. Heat distorted the horizon. There were no trees. No shade. No mercy. Only endless dunes. His father, Warlord Harun al-Baashir, sat atop his massive warhorse. The older man's beard moved with the desert wind. His scarred face remained expressionless. He tossed something toward his son. A knife. A waterskin. Nothing more. Varrik caught them. He opened the waterskin. Inside Only a single mouthful of water. His eyes widened.
"Father?"
Harun looked down at him. There was no pity in his gaze. Only expectation.
"Three days."
Varrik swallowed.
"Find the Oasis of Qamar before sunset on the third day."
"And if I fail?"
His father's answer came immediately.
"Then the desert has judged you unworthy."
No more words were spoken. No farewell. No embrace. No blessing. The warlord turned his horse. And rode away. Leaving his son alone. Varrik watched until the figure disappeared beyond the dunes. For a long time He said nothing. Then slowly He sat down in the sand. Looked at the tiny waterskin. And sighed.
"Wonderful."
Then he stood. Placed the knife at his waist. And began walking. Behind him The desert wind erased his footprints. Far above Hidden beyond mortal sight The floating domes of the Tenkūjin drifted peacefully across the heavens. Unaware that somewhere below, another child had begun a journey that would one day intertwine with theirs.
The people of Baalania had a saying older than kings:
"Water teaches truth."
Steel could lie. Words could deceive. Priests could manipulate. But the desert? The desert never lied. The desert stripped away pride, titles, and dreams until only the truth of a person remained. And every son born to the warrior clans would eventually face that truth. Earlier that day The Thirteenth Year When Varrik al-Baashir reached thirteen years of age, the celebration lasted only one evening. No gifts were exchanged. No songs were sung. No feast was prepared. Instead, before dawn, his father entered his room. Warlord Harun Hamza al-Baashir stood silent beside the bed. Varrik immediately sat upright. Even half asleep, he knew. Today had come. His heart pounded. The Walk of Thirst. Every child of the Blood Riders feared it. Every warrior respected it.
His father spoke calmly.
"Three days."
Varrik swallowed.
"The Oasis of Khamsin?"
Hamza nodded.
"You know the stars."
"Yes."
"You know the land."
"Yes."
"You know what hunts at night."
"Yes."
Hamza looked at him for several seconds. Then he asked the most important question.
"Do you understand why we do this?"
Varrik answered without hesitation.
"So that weakness dies before the body does."
For the first time in weeks his father smiled. A small smile. But real.
"Good."
By sunrise, they had reached the edge of civilization. No soldiers accompanied them. No priests. No servants. Only father and son. Endless red dunes stretched before them. The heat had already begun rising. The warlord Harun Hamza stopped his horse al-Baashir.
Meanwhile Above the clouds Hive-Lumina no longer felt the same. The songs still echoed. The rituals continued. The moon gardens bloomed. Everything remained beautiful. Everything remained orderly. Everything remained perfect. And yet Something was missing. Yuki's place in the choir remained empty. His seat during evening meals remained untouched. His favorite moonflowers still grew beside the healing pools. But no one picked them anymore. Tsukikage often found himself turning around whenever he heard footsteps. Expecting to see his brother. Expecting to hear his gentle voice. Expecting him to smile and say "Questions are not sins." But the silence always answered him. As the months passed, Tsukikage changed. Not outwardly. He was still beautiful. Still graceful. Still obedient. Still the ideal son of the Sky People. But inside Questions had begun to grow. At night, he stood beneath the crystal ceiling of the dome. Looking through the clouds. Looking toward the earth below. Toward the world where Yuki now lived. What was it like? Were there rivers? Mountains? People? Did they sing beneath the moon too? Was his brother lonely? Was he afraid? Sometimes Tsukikage imagined Yuki looking upward at the same moon. And somehow That thought comforted him. Meanwhile, little Suiren had transformed completely. She no longer cried. Not where others could see. Instead She trained. Relentlessly. Morning. Afternoon. Evening. Night. Other girls rested. Suiren continued. Other girls laughed. Suiren practiced. Other girls complained. Suiren swung her sword again. And again. And again. The instructors were astonished. The once cheerful child who accidentally broke training equipment had become one of the most determined students in the hive. Bruises covered her arms. Blisters formed on her hands. But she never stopped. Because she remembered her promise.
"Become that Royal Guard."
"Protect our little Moonlight."
Those had been Yuki's final words to her. And Suiren intended to honor them.
One evening, Tsukikage discovered her practicing alone beneath the artificial moon. Her small body trembled from exhaustion. Sweat covered her face. Yet she raised her sword again. And missed. Falling onto the grass.
Tsukikage hurried toward her.
"Suiren!"
She sat up immediately.
"I'm fine!"
But her voice cracked.
And suddenly
The brave little warrior began crying.
"I miss him."
Tsukikage knelt beside her.
For a moment Neither spoke. Then slowly He wrapped his arms around his little sister.
Just as Yuki once had.
"I miss him too."
The two siblings sat beneath the moon together. Watching the stars. Watching the clouds. Watching the world below. And for the first time Tsukikage realized something. The dome above them was beautiful. Peaceful. Perfect. But somewhere beyond the clouds There was another world. A world his brother had entered. A world forbidden. A world unknown. And deep inside his heart Curiosity had begun to bloom.
Far below Across deserts and kingdoms Another child walked beneath the burning sun. And neither of them yet understood That fate had already begun guiding their paths toward one another.
Day One
The first hours weren't difficult. Varrik remembered his lessons. Never run. Never panic. Conserve strength. Travel during the morning and evening. Rest beneath shade at noon. He wrapped cloth around his head. Covered his mouth. Studied the sun. Watched the stars. Every lesson his father had beaten into him suddenly became precious. By midday the heat became unbearable. The air itself felt alive. The sand burned through his boots. His lips cracked. His throat dried. But he refused to drink. One mouthful. That was all he had. It had to last. Near evening, Varrik discovered old bones half-buried beneath a dune. The Bones in the Sand Human bones. Ancient. Scattered. Nearby rested a rusted sword. He recognized the lesson immediately. The desert kept trophies. It remembered failures. Varrik knelt. He bowed his head respectfully.
"May Baal judge you kindly."
Then he continued walking. until The First Night When darkness fell, the temperature changed instantly. The heat vanished. Cold winds swept across the dunes. The stars appeared overhead. Countless stars. More than he had ever seen from Ashkar. The boy stared upward. Beautiful. Lonely. Infinite. For a moment he forgot his thirst. He wondered: Did other children beneath these stars see the same sky? Did boys in distant kingdoms also fear becoming men? The thought made him smile. Then exhaustion overcame him. He slept beneath a rocky outcrop with his knife clutched against his chest.
Something woke him. Growling. Yellow eyes. Three desert hyenas. Thin. Hungry. The beasts circled slowly. Varrik's heart raced. No soldiers. No father. No rescue. Only him. He stood. Raised his knife. The largest beast lunged. Varrik threw himself sideways. The jaws missed his throat. Sand exploded around them. He stabbed wildly. The blade sank into the animal's shoulder. The hyena screamed. The others attacked. One tore his arm. Another knocked him to the ground. Pain exploded through his body. Yet he remembered his father's words. Keep moving. He grabbed a rock. Smashed it into a skull. Again. Again. Again. Finally the pack fled. The largest beast limped after them. Varrik collapsed. Blood covered his arm. His entire body shook. But he was alive. He laughed weakly. Not because it was funny. Because he had survived.
Day Two
The wound hurt. Every movement sent pain through his body. Flies gathered. His throat felt like fire. Hallucinations began. He imagined rivers. Fresh bread. His mother's voice. He saw Ashkar on the horizon. Only for it to disappear. Mirages. The desert played cruel games. By afternoon he could barely walk. His vision blurred. His legs trembled. He fell repeatedly. Each time he stood again. He remembered the training yard. The wooden sword. His father extending his hand. A warrior who refuses to rise is already dead. So he rose. Again. And again. And again. Near sunset, disaster struck. The sky darkened. Winds screamed. A sandstorm. Varrik threw himself against a rock. Wrapped cloth over his face. Then endured. For hours the storm battered him. Sand tore at his skin. The wind howled like monsters. He could do nothing. No fighting. No bravery. Only endure. And so he endured.
Day Three
By the third morning, the water remained untouched. His lips bled. His eyes burned. His body moved only through stubbornness. Every instinct begged him to drink. But he refused.Because he knew the truth. The water was not meant for survival. It was meant for temptation. The Walk of Thirst tested discipline. Not endurance. He had finally understood. Weak men surrendered to fear. Strong men mastered themselves. Near noon, his legs finally failed. He collapsed face-first into the sand. Too tired to stand. Too thirsty to continue. He closed his eyes. Perhaps this was the end. Then he smelled something. Moisture. He forced his head upward. Palm trees. Water. Green life. An oasis. Khamsin. He had arrived.
As he crawled toward the water, he finally opened the waterskin. One mouthful remained. Untouched. Varrik stared at it. Then smiled. He poured it into the sand. Not a single drop touched his lips. Because he no longer needed it. As he reached the oasis, he found a familiar figure waiting beneath the shade. Harun Hamza al-Baashir. The warlord sat calmly beside the water. As though he had always been there. Varrik collapsed before him. His father examined the wounds. The torn arm. The bruises. The cracked lips. Then he noticed the empty waterskin.
His eyes narrowed.
"Did you drink?"
Varrik shook his head weakly.
"No."
Silence.
Then for the first time in his life Hamza embraced him. Only briefly. But enough.
"You have returned."
Varrik nearly cried. Not from pain. Not from exhaustion. But because his father sounded proud.
Years later, enemies would wonder why Baalanian warriors kept fighting after wounds that should kill ordinary men. Why Baalanians Are Difficult to Kill The answer wasn't magic. It wasn't religion. It wasn't madness. It began here. Children raised beneath merciless suns. Children taught to endure pain. Children who learned hunger before luxury. Children who understood suffering long before comfort. The desert had forged them. And the desert never created anything soft. That evening, father and son sat beside the oasis beneath a sky full of stars. Harun Hamza handed Varrik fresh water. The boy drank slowly.
Then asked quietly:
"Father… why does the desert hate us so much?"
The Warlord Hamza looked toward the endless dunes.
"The desert does not hate."
His voice was calm.
"It simply does not care."
He stared at his son.
"And one day, Varrik… neither will your enemies."
