The morning sunlight in Lamping Village always carried a distinctive, soul-soothing aroma—a delicate blend of dew evaporating from the Manaferum wheat leaves and the warm, comforting scent of damp earth awakening. Atop a weathered wooden platform at the edge of the village granary, Dayat sat in silence, meticulously wiping the blade of the Silver Thorn, which remained largely concealed under a thick, protective cloth. His eyes were narrowed, fixed on the distant horizon where the colossal pine forests acted as a natural barricade, shielding this tiny sanctuary from the predatory world outside.
Outwardly, he appeared relaxed, perhaps even at peace. However, deep within the recesses of his mind, Dayat was counting the seconds, his internal clock ticking with a rhythmic, mechanical precision.
"Dola, detection status," Dayat whispered, his lips barely moving as he kept his gaze forward.
