I found Menko.
"Let's go to your place. From now on, that will be the new chief's house," I ordered.
He nodded, still simmering in his fury.
"Since you know who conducted the rituals, give me every name. I'll deal with them myself. And find out who was meant to be sacrificed—every single one."
My voice left no room for hesitation.
With this, he would channel his anger with purpose. At least, that's what I intended.
Menko and I headed straight for a medium-sized hut—what he once called home. Now it stood empty, silent. Dust coated every surface, and five years of neglect clung to the walls, the wear and tear unmistakable.
He clenched his fist tightly.
"Why did it have to be this way?" he asked, looking up at me.
I couldn't answer. I had suffered the same fate—and we both knew it.
All I could do now was try to undo the wrongs that had been forced on him. I told him to sit down, and he obeyed—slowly, like the weight of the past five years had finally settled onto his shoulders.
While he sat in the corner of the old hut, I began cleaning.
The air was thick with dust. Every surface carried the faint outline of a life once lived—tiny handprints on the wall, a broken cup half-buried under dirt, a faded cloth still folded as if waiting for someone to return. I swept the floors, wiped the shelves, lifted each object with a care I didn't know I still had.
Menko watched silently, his breathing steadying as the room slowly reclaimed a sense of order.
In a short while, the hut was spotless. Not restored to what it once was—but no longer a tomb of neglect.
We stayed there the entire day, repairing what we could. We patched cracks in the walls, fixed the loose wooden frames, brushed off the old mats, and set them back into place. Menko worked quietly beside me, his movements precise, almost reverent, as if mending the house helped him mend something inside himself.
Little by little, the hut began to feel like a home again
The next day, Menko brought me the names he remembered—the ones who had conducted the rituals alongside the chief. Afterward, he ventured out into the village to gather the rest: those currently marked for the next sacrifice and the families who had suffered over the years.
By noon, he returned with a full list.
With the names in hand, I left without hesitation.
I went hunting.
One by one, I tracked down every willing participant in the chief's cruelty. I wasted no time removing the pests who had stood by him.
They dared to offer me loyalty…Those hypocrites—swearing allegiance only when the tide finally turned against them.
I shut their mouths before they could shape another excuse. I did not come for their words. I came to end their pretense.
Justice, long delayed, finally began to settle over the village.
Surprisingly, the people neither cheered nor cowered. They simply watched—quiet, steady, unreadable at first glance. But beneath that calm, I could feel it: a swell of relief… and a thread of anxiety woven through it.
No one would abandon this paradise. So of course they were worried—wondering what kind of ruler I would become.
I stepped onto a slightly raised stone, letting the village see me clearly. With every ounce of strength in my lungs, I declared:
"From today onward, I will show you how to grow your own bounty. No one will ever have to perform that wicked ritual again. You've been gifted this paradise—start using it to its full potential."
A murmur rippled through the crowd. Heads turned. Doubt, curiosity, fear—they all mixed like smoke.
Finally, someone stepped forward.
"Why must we listen to you? The rituals kept everything perfect. I gave my own wife for the good of this village!"
A shameless question.
Another voice followed immediately after, gentler:
"What do you mean by grow our bounty?"
A pleasant question—one worth answering.
Before answering a single question, I walked straight toward the man who dared speak so proudly of sacrificing his own wife. Each step I took made him shrink a little more, though he tried—pathetically—to keep his spine straight.
I stopped right in front of him. My hand shot out, gripping the front of his shirt and yanking him close so violently his feet nearly left the ground.
For a heartbeat, I let him see the look in my eyes—the promise of judgment, the certainty of consequences.
Then I struck.
My fist crashed into his jaw with a force that echoed off the huts like a crack of thunder. The impact folded him instantly.
His body whipped sideways, collapsed, and slammed into the dirt as though the ground had dragged him down itself.
Air blasted from his lungs in a choking gasp, his vision wobbling as he struggled even to understand what hit him.
The crowd flinched so hard it was as if all of them had taken the blow with him. No one uttered a sound.
The message was already carved into their silence.
To the one who asked about growing our own bounty, I turned and answered with a steady, commanding voice:
"I will show you the way. It is called farming—a discipline of patience and determination. With it, this land will provide more than any ritual ever could. Enough for every family… enough for every child… enough to end desperation forever."
The crowd leaned in, the word farming hanging in the air like something foreign, almost mythical.
"But understand this," I continued, "it requires effort. Real effort. Not blind obedience. Not sacrifice. Work. Unity. And the will to build something better than fear."
Their murmurs shifted—uncertain, but hopeful in a way they hadn't allowed themselves to be in years.
A woman stepped forward, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands.
"How can we trust you?" she asked. "All we've seen is you entering our village and killing people. Even if they deserved it… how do we know you're not planning something worse?"
The crowd murmured in agreement—fear, doubt, and a fragile hope all tangled together.
I met her gaze without flinching. "You want the truth? Then listen carefully."
A hush fell over the villagers.
"There is something you deserve to know," I said, my voice echoing through the square. "I am not merely an outsider. I am a being from three hundred years ago—your ancestor. Your existence today… is nothing short of a miracle."
Shock rippled across the faces before me—some recoiled, others leaned closer, captivated.
"It brings me a strange kind of joy to find life still thriving after everything that happened—after the world collapsed, after humanity nearly vanished."
I glanced briefly at Menko.
"The past… in time, Menko will tell you everything."
I stepped forward, standing tall on the raised stone.
"But what I offer you now is not fear. Not rituals. Not domination."
My voice hardened.
"I offer you knowledge."
Silence. Total, breathless silence.
"Knowledge that will free you from depending blindly on what nature drops into your hands. Knowledge that lets you create your own abundance. To build. To grow. To live without bloodshed or superstition."
I lifted a hand toward the fields surrounding the village.
"With what I teach you… no ritual, no sacrifice, no cruelty will ever stain this land again."
For the first time, their eyes shifted—not with terror, but with something else:
When Menko finally returned—carrying the list of families who had suffered under the rituals—I read through every name in silence. Each one carried weight. Each one carried loss.
I looked back at the villagers and spoke clearly:
"The families who have suffered because of these rituals will be compensated. Properly. Generously. I may not yet know the exact form that compensation will take… but they deserve something for the pain they endured, for the lives they were forced to give up."
A murmur swept through the crowd—surprise, relief, and the first spark of genuine trust.
"This village has taken enough from them," I continued. "Now, it will give back."
"Starting today," I said, "you'll all learn farming. It's practical, and it will give you everything you need."
We walked together to the large stretch of untouched land at the village's edge. I knelt, dug my hand into the soil, and let my sensors read it. After a moment, I nodded. "Fertile… truly a paradise."
The villagers gathered around, waiting, but I stepped aside and motioned to Menko.
"He'll teach you. Exactly as I taught him."
Menko steadied himself, then spoke. "First, you'll need tools—hoes, digging forks, simple pickaxes. Make those before anything else."
I leaned closer to him. "Those creatures who look like lily, what were they called?"
"Mijawes," he replied.
He turned back to the crowd. "Use your mijawes for the heavy work. They can loosen soil faster than any tool."
The massive, wolf-like creatures stood quietly, ready.
Menko drew shallow rows in the soil. "Start by preparing the land. Break up the ground to about the depth of your forearm. Remove stones, roots—anything that might block growth."
He held up a potato. "Potatoes grow from pieces. Cut it so each piece has at least one 'eye'—the bump where a sprout forms." He sliced it carefully. "Let the pieces dry for a while so the cut hardens. This prevents rot."
He placed a piece in the soil."Plant them a short distance apart. Cover with loose soil. When the plant grows taller, add more soil around the stem to keep the tubers covered and increase the harvest."
Next, he took a carrot."Carrots grow best from seeds," he said, "but the tops can regrow greens if needed." He cut the top inch and pressed it in the soil. "Carrots need loose, deep earth. If the soil is hard, they'll split or twist."
The mijawes gently smoothed the rows.
"Water lightly," Menko finished. "Just enough to keep the soil moist. Then wait. Nature will handle the rest."
The villagers looked over the fields—orderly rows, soft soil, mijawes resting nearby.
For the first time, their paradise felt like something they could shape with their own hands.