Davo surveyed the towering barricades with a faint sense of pride and relief. The first rays of a newly risen sun bathed the hastily fortified barrier in gentle light, illuminating the faint shimmer of conjured material that laced the structure's edges. Even though the morning haze softened the world's colors, it couldn't mask how much sturdier the defenses appeared compared to the day before. Threads of energy still pulsed along the seams, proof of the collective effort that had gone into raising them overnight. But despite the achievement, a muted apprehension hung in the air.
Clusters of slum dwellers loitered around the central market, which still bore signs of the recent attack—overturned crates, dimmed lanterns askew from their hooks, and a lingering hush that suggested everyone was waiting for the next crisis. Broken shards of a once-lively stall glimmered under the weak sunlight, and the scent of dust and sweat clung to the early breeze. At the heart of it all, a crowd had formed in a loose circle, their voices low and urgent. In the middle stood Marta.
She was a tall woman with a bearing that commanded respect, her once-lined face now appearing inexplicably younger, as if the strange forces at play had granted her back a slice of lost time. Her steady gaze moved over the gathering, as though she might weigh every soul there on the scales of necessity. "We all know last night wasn't the end of this," she declared, breaking the uneasy silence with a voice that resonated across the battered square. "We may have fended them off once, but they're bound to test us again. So the question is: do we hide behind these new barricades, or do we take a real stand?"
A burly man near the front crossed his arms defensively. His thick beard and dark, glowering eyes made him look like a grizzled warrior from a storybook, though the faint glow of newly restored youth hinted at the deeper changes sweeping the world. "Walls keep trouble out for only so long," he rumbled. "We need to be rid of those bandits before they strike again."
Marta's expression remained composed as a young woman—slim and fierce-eyed—raised her voice in opposition. "Is chasing them off again and again a real solution? Maybe we should figure out why they're attacking. They see us thriving while they have nothing. If we share what we know, maybe they won't come as thieves."
Her words sparked an immediate stir: some nodded, relishing the idea of peace by outreach, while others shook their heads in distrust. Emma stood at the crowd's edge, arms crossed, listening intently before finally stepping forward. The glow from a battered lantern overhead caught the edges of her hair, accentuating the calm determination in her features. "Look, we stumbled onto a better way of living," she began, her voice carrying clearly. "We're not just surviving anymore. If there's one thing we've learned, it's that the creative power grows with practice. People outside the slum—maybe they haven't had the chance to figure it out. If we teach them, they won't feel the need to raid us."
Marta nodded thoughtfully, a hint of admiration in her eyes. "So you propose we stop waiting for them to attack and go... help them first?"
Emma shrugged lightly, though her expression remained serious. "It's not that risky!"
A ripple of conversation swept through the gathering, voices layered one over the other, some favoring aggression, others caution. The idea of teaching the outside world felt monumental, yet an undercurrent of hope flickered among them. If the entire city could harness these conjuring abilities, maybe chaos and strife would ease.
Marta's gaze settled on Emma, and then shifted to Davo, who was standing a half-step behind her, hands in his pockets, observing the debate with a subdued grin. "All right," Marta said, letting out a measured breath. "If we're going to teach people beyond the slum, we need volunteers willing to head out there and face whatever's lurking."
Davo lifted a hand in a quick wave, a crooked smile curving his mouth. "Emma and I planned on it anyway," he admitted. "Might as well make it official." He offered Emma a playful nudge. "Though certain people seem to think I'd get lost in an alley if left to my own devices."
Emma rolled her eyes. "I only suggest that because it's true." But her teasing smile undermined any real criticism.
Marta smiled at their light banter. "I don't doubt your willingness, but let's be smart about this. You'll go in teams. Safer in numbers."
Two women stepped out from the crowd. One, tall and dark-skinned, carried herself with a quiet grace that hinted at a teacher's patience. Short-cropped hair framed her face, and her posture exuded confidence. She offered a polite nod. "I'm Liora," she said simply. "I taught at a local school before all this. If we're helping people learn, count me in."
The other woman, slightly older than Liora, had auburn curls and a wiry frame. She wore sturdy boots, scuffed from travel. "Call me Calla," she said, crossing her arms. "I used to run deliveries across half the city. If we're navigating the ruins, I'm your guide."
Marta nodded approvingly. "Good. Liora, Calla—team up with Davo and Emma. You head out and find whoever's willing to learn."
Davo cast Emma a meaningful look, shoulders tensing with anticipation. This had been their plan, but now it felt more real with official blessing. "Sounds like an adventure waiting to happen," he quipped softly.
Emma didn't quite roll her eyes, but her lips twitched into a smirk. "Just remember, the 'adventure' part's fun until someone tries to mug us for conjured snacks."
A ripple of subdued laughter followed her words, the tension in the square easing just a fraction. In the distance, a few bright rays of morning light filtered through rifts in the decrepit skyline, illuminating the chaotic patchwork of shanty rooftops and the newly built barricades. The slum's central square looked both haggard and hopeful: overturned crates still bore marks from recent clashes, but new conjured items sparkled with promise. People stood in clusters, eyes shining with cautious optimism.
Davo glanced around, taking in the aftermath of an intense night spent shoring up defenses. The air still carried the tang of conjured material, like the scent of fresh ozone after a storm. Yet, for all the dust and debris, there was a hum of life here—people exchanging goods at market stalls, children who seemed blissfully untroubled, practicing conjuring tiny orbs of light for fun. A battered guitar strummed somewhere on the periphery, adding a faint melodic undercurrent to the bustle.
He looked back at Liora and Calla, taking a brief measure of them. Liora's poise hinted that she'd be patient in teaching, and Calla's sharp gaze spoke of someone who'd been through enough scraps to hold her own. "Well," Davo said, voice calm but tinged with anticipation, "guess we should pack our best walking boots and maybe a healthy sense of humor."
In about an hour, they had gathered what little they needed—flasks of conjured water, a few rudimentary maps scribbled onto scraps of cloth, and a pouch of freshly created food blocks that held more promise than flavor. The slum's morning bustle hummed around them, a lively current of murmured conversations and rhythmic footsteps over dusty ground. A few early vendors began setting up their stalls, the clack of wooden crates and the shuffle of packing material mingling with the faint but familiar glow of conjured lights.
Davo hefted the large brass hand bell given to him by one of the store owners. The dull gleam of the metal caught the first rays of sun slicing through the ragged skyline, illuminating a few deeper scratches along its surface. Out of curiosity, he raised it and gave it a tentative ring. The sound pealed out—a rich, resonant note that seemed almost too grand for the slum's patchwork streets. Immediately, a handful of nearby people turned to stare, curiosity gleaming in their eyes. A few others rolled their eyes or shook their heads with amused exasperation.
"Well," Davo said, casting a sideways glance at Emma. "At least nobody's throwing rotten vegetables at me yet."
Emma's lips quirked up in a half-smile. She adjusted the strap of her satchel, which was bulging with what looked like a mismatch of conjured odds and ends. "Give them time," she teased. "You might want to dodge if you keep that racket up too long."
Around them, the slum stirred like a hive awakening. Faint chatter swelled from pockets of people forming small groups, sorting supplies, and comparing notes. Others hefted bags or tested newly conjured items for durability. Ever since the idea had been put forth—to share the creative power with those struggling outside the slum—an undercurrent of purposeful energy had taken hold. Fear had faded into determination: the more who learned to sustain themselves, the fewer who would see the slum as a tempting target.
Just a few steps away, Liora and Calla stood by a makeshift signpost hammered into a crack in the pavement. Liora, tall and poised with close-cropped hair, calmly answered questions from a pair of younger slum dwellers who hovered nearby, wide-eyed. Calla, whose wiry frame and auburn curls suggested a restless spirit, occasionally glanced down the road as though impatient to begin.
Once Davo and Emma finished their last checks, they joined Liora and Calla. Together, they were moments from departure when a familiar voice broke through the morning buzz. "Wow, you're really skipping town without me?"
Jane strode toward them, slightly out of breath, her hair bouncing around her face. She wore newly conjured pants of a shimmering fabric that caught the slum's early sunlight, and a confident smirk that suggested she expected no argument. "I mean," she added, feigning hurt, "I can't let you hog all the heroic glory. Besides, who else is going to bail you out of trouble?"
Emma pursed her lips in mock disapproval. "We assumed you'd be busy testing the upper limits of your daredevil habits."
Jane rolled her eyes playfully. "Oh please, I can squeeze in some old-fashioned altruism before lunch."
Liora chuckled, inclining her head. "We can always use an extra pair of hands—and feet," she said. "The city's a big place."
Nods of agreement sealed the matter. Now a party of five—Davo, Emma, Jane, Liora, and Calla—they headed past the glowing heart of the market and toward the newly reinforced barricades. The boards and conjured panels had been lashed together tightly after the last raid, forming a tall, jagged wall. Evidence of nighttime repairs was apparent in the faint shimmer at the seams, and a faint pungent odor of conjured resin lingered in the still air.
As they passed through a gap in the barricade, Davo felt an odd clenching in his chest. Beyond the safety of the slum lay a city half in ruins, half forgotten. He took a moment to scan the immediate surroundings—crumbling walls and battered signs that once would have guided people around the city. Now, they stood as hollow markers of a world that no longer existed. A swirl of dusty wind curled around them, carrying the faint stench of old decay and the promise of unknown territory.
He let out a slow breath and resumed walking. Emma and Jane were a few paces ahead, exchanging jokes about who had the better sense of direction. Liora and Calla discussed possible routes to find people in need—where the old hospitals had stood, the abandoned neighborhoods where rumors suggested survivors clung to the remnants of their pre-event lives.
Davo couldn't help but notice the subtle shift in the women around him. More than their physical appearances, there was a lightness in how they moved, a lack of that constant wariness he recalled from before. In the slum, women had once walked with an unspoken vigilance—eyes scanning corners, postures poised for quick retreat. Now, Jane's laugh rang out freely, Emma's stride was measured but unconstrained, and Liora and Calla hardly glanced over their shoulders. They had all blossomed under the new, if baffling, rules of this changed world.
A thought sparked in Davo's mind: it wasn't just that they were safer. With invulnerability, conjured sustenance, and the ability to shape their environment, the typical power dynamics had been turned upside down. Many women embraced brighter clothes, bolder hairstyles, or simply walked with a confidence that would have drawn unwanted attention in the old days. Instead, their freedom felt natural and unassailable.
He glanced over at Liora, whose calm presence exuded a teacher's reassuring warmth. Clearing his throat, he began hesitantly, "You know, I've been noticing something... different about the women. More comfortable in their own skin, I guess. Almost like they're finally allowed to just... be." He fumbled for the right words, hoping not to sound patronizing.
Liora's expression softened, as though she'd half expected this line of thought. "It's a paradigm shift," she said gently. "Fear's gone, or at least minimized. Without that constant threat, there's room to explore self-expression, to embrace confidence rather than hide it. Think of how many centuries fear has shaped how people act, especially women. Now that fear's been stripped away—or turned into something less pressing—it frees everyone."
Jane, ever quick on the uptake, tossed a grin back at them. "So basically, we're unstoppable fashion icons now," she quipped. "Watch out, world. I might conjure a runway next."
Calla snorted in amusement. "Just remember, if you conjure it in the middle of a highway, no one's going to be impressed but us."
Emma rolled her eyes, a faint smile curving her lips. "Seriously, though, it's not just about dresses and hairstyles. It's the psyche, too—when you're not thinking about how to survive each day, you can actually dream bigger."
Davo nodded thoughtfully, turning the conversation around in his head. "It's... kind of amazing," he admitted. "Like we're seeing a version of everyone they always wanted to be, but were too scared to show. We talk about the changes in the world—immortality, conjuring—but this might be the biggest shift of all."
They pressed onward, weaving around piles of rubble and stepping over crumbled pavement. The city around them lay half-asleep, buildings leaning as though exhausted by years of neglect. Occasionally, the breeze would carry a trace of something pungent—rotting garbage or a sewer line that no one maintained. Yet, as they passed a broken window, the reflection of the five travelers appeared momentarily in the fractured glass: a confident band of explorers, each carrying an unspoken sense of purpose.
Jane pointed to a side alley that once might have led to a vibrant commercial district. Now it was little more than a corridor of broken storefronts and shattered windows. "Should we check there?" she asked. "Might find some people who haven't ventured out yet."
Liora glanced at the tattered map, then at Calla, who gave a slight nod. "We can head that way first," Calla said. "Then double back to the main boulevard. No sense missing any pockets of people who might be holed up."
Emma agreed, her voice carrying a note of optimism. "And who knows, they might actually welcome the chance to learn. We'll just have to hope they're not too suspicious."
The group pressed farther into the crumbling city, each step carrying them past the slum's now-distant barricades and into uncertain territory. The morning sun climbed steadily, gilding broken rooftops with a wash of warm light. At ground level, shadows stretched across cracked pavement, while drifting dust motes sparkled faintly in the glow. Faint echoes of their footsteps resonated off graffiti-stained walls, creating a ghostly chorus in the otherwise still streets.
Eventually, they reached an area fortified by makeshift barricades cobbled together from rusted car shells, warped planks, and jagged scraps of metal. Huddled behind them, people stood watch, clutching rough-hewn weapons—anything from sharpened rods to old pipes. The tension was palpable; every face they passed wore a blend of suspicion and determination. Broken windows above stared down with shattered emptiness, silhouetting cautious figures peering at the newcomers.
Davo paused, lifting the brass hand bell he carried and gave it a measured ring. Its sonorous peal carried surprisingly far, cutting through the low hum of the city's restless silence. The sound seemed to stir something in the barricaded settlement: behind wooden barriers and battered doors, figures shifted, uncertain but drawn by curiosity.
At the heart of this enclave sprawled a large plaza, clearly once a bustling marketplace in better times. Now, the storefronts encircling it were grim monuments to upheaval: some had shattered display windows, others wore hasty boarding like battle scars. A single café lay in especially dire straits, its chairs knocked over and stacked haphazardly, as if its patrons had fled in the midst of chaos.
Liora took the lead, stepping forward with a calm sense of authority. She raised her voice, letting it carry across the plaza in clear, resonant tones. "We're not here to take anything. We're here to teach."
The onlookers, some hunched behind makeshift barricades, exchanged wary glances. A taut silence followed before Liora continued, each word chosen to defuse fear. "We were where you are not long ago—hungry, struggling, surviving day to day. But we discovered something that changed everything. We want to show you how to create what you need... food, water, tools."
Soft murmurs drifted through the cluster of people. Some perched on the remains of doorsteps, while a few, braver or more desperate, edged closer. Davo's keen eyes noted the lines of exhaustion etched into their faces—though overshadowed by the odd vitality that seemed to imbue everyone since the event. Some older men and women stood straighter and looked unexpectedly spry, as if age had begun to unspool itself from their limbs. Yet in their cautious eyes, Davo could see the weight of numerous hardships, the wariness of those who had endured too many broken promises.
Sensing an opportunity, Davo spotted several overturned tables near the ravaged café. They seemed serviceable enough, so he righted one, brushing off layers of grime. Jane and Calla did the same, pushing aside old chairs to form a makeshift teaching area beneath a small cluster of surviving trees. Their trunks were thick and gnarled, leaves whispering softly in the gentle breeze, providing welcome shade in the rising heat. The momentary coolness under the branches carried a subtle, earthy fragrance—a respite from the dusty tang of the streets.
Stepping forward with purposeful composure, Liora raised her hands and let a faint glow gather at her fingertips. It sparkled like simmering embers before solidifying into a compact food block. The onlookers gaped; a few audibly gasped. Some of the younger observers even took a step back, their expressions torn between awe and disbelief.
"This isn't magic," Liora said, her voice gentle but firm. "It's an ability you can learn, just like we did."
For a moment, no one moved. Then a middle-aged woman, her posture laden with fatigue, mustered the courage to approach. The ragged hem of her skirt brushed the broken asphalt as she stepped closer, lines of apprehension carved across her brow. "How?" she asked, voice thick with weariness. "How do we learn?"
Calla motioned her forward. "Gather around these tables," she invited, her tone coaxing. "We'll show you step by step."
The crowd, still uncertain, trickled in around them. At first, only a handful ventured close enough to see the demonstration in detail. Others lingered near the back, gripping improvised clubs or clinging to the corners of buildings, ready to bolt at the first sign of danger. But the promise of conjuring their own sustenance was too tempting to ignore for long. Gradually, more people, drawn by hushed excitement, emerged from boarded-up doorways and behind battered fences.
Davo surveyed the scene, noticing how the people here—though dressed in ragged clothes—didn't appear malnourished or infirm. The event had given them renewed vitality, reversing some visible signs of aging. Yet the old caution in their eyes reminded him they'd lived hard lives. Accepting a new reality didn't come easily after years of hardship.
Liora began the teaching slowly, offering a structured explanation, her voice carrying the calm reassurance of a seasoned instructor. She spoke of focusing one's mind on hunger, on imagining the shape of the desired object, and letting that intention guide the conjuring. Emma stepped in to demonstrate as well, forging a small, translucent cup of water that shimmered like morning dew before it settled into form.
Not everyone succeeded right away. Some, overtaken by doubt, found only emptiness in their outstretched hands. Others managed flickers of light or half-formed shapes. The atmosphere brimmed with tension and the electric hum of possibility, broken occasionally by murmured expletives or astonished gasps.
Finally, an older man, face newly youthful but still lined with worry, let out a startled exhale. Between his palms hovered a misshapen block of food, wobbling precariously before plopping into his waiting grasp. His eyes went wide, then bright with something resembling hope. A low chorus of gasps and awed whispers erupted from the crowd, as if the entire barricaded settlement had caught its breath.
Encouraged, more attempts followed. A lean woman with sunken cheeks tried to conjure water, producing a few droplets that trembled in the air before splattering onto the table. A teenage boy, his hair matted with dust, concentrated so intensely that a faint glow appeared at his fingertips—though it vanished when he lost focus and cursed under his breath. Each partial success fueled the crowd's curiosity, prompting them to persist.
Seeing the mounting excitement, Davo exchanged a quick glance with Emma. They nodded in unspoken agreement and gently guided smaller groups away from the main cluster to receive more personalized instruction. Emma patiently showed an older woman the nuances of picturing a block of food in one's mind, while Calla used witty banter to coax a few standoffish men to try. Jane approached the children, encouraging them with playful taunts that sparked their competitive streaks.
Davo himself addressed a skeptical group of middle-aged men, their arms folded across their chests. "Close your eyes," he said quietly, "and imagine your hunger like a well of energy. Don't think of it as pain—think of it as fuel. You draw from it to shape what you need." He demonstrated again, forging a fresh block between his palms. "It's right there, waiting for you."
One man, sporting a deep scar over his brow, sneered. "Easy for you to say," he muttered. "You lot seem to have it figured out."
Davo offered a small shrug, a flicker of understanding in his gaze. "Trust me, we had no idea what we were doing at first either." He paused, letting the man see his sincerity. "We're just passing on what we learned. It's not about power or mysticism—it's about believing you can do it."
The man grunted, then raised his hands, brow knitting in concentration. After several agonizing attempts, a dim light flickered, half-forming before vanishing. The frustration in the man's eyes softened, replaced by a determination to try again.
And so the lessons continued. Bright laughter from a successful conjuring echoed near the café, and the distinct clang of a newly materialized light stone rang out from another corner. Little by little, the tension dissipated, replaced by an air of cautious hope. The jumbled barricades still towered at the edges of the plaza, a reminder of the world's harshness, yet the promise of a different future now felt tangible.
--
By midday, with the sun blazing at its zenith and stabbing bright beams between half-collapsed buildings, the plaza took on a distinctly transformed air. Suspicion, once etched on every face, gave way to a fizzing sense of possibility and eventual euphoria—like a veil lifted from the eyes of those huddled behind their ramshackle defenses. Where there had been tense silence, now there was animated chatter, roars of excitement, and the occasional burst of delighted laughter whenever one of the newly instructed conjurers succeeded in shaping food or water from thin air.
Makeshift tables salvaged from the battered café had been converted into impromptu workstations, their surfaces still dirty from days of neglect. A few battered chairs, legs splintered but still functional, served as viewing seats for those who were still too timid to try conjuring themselves. Sparse, wiry trees, their trunks etched with the scars of time, stretched out their gnarled branches overhead, providing slivers of merciful shade from the scorching sun. A faint breeze occasionally stirred, carrying the mixed aromas of sweat, dust, and the enticing hint of something freshly baked—a sign that at least one enthusiastic learner had managed to conjure bread more flavorful than the standard bland food block.
Davo took a moment to wipe the perspiration from his brow, eyes sweeping over the scene. Only hours earlier, the same plaza had been locked in fear, its people hunched behind barricades. Now they were cautiously stepping into the open, curiosity overwhelming the anxiety that had once chained them. Men, women, and even a handful of children practiced with unwavering focus, working to shape lumps of energy into tangible items. Nervous glances still lingered, but the raw hope on most faces was impossible to miss.
Off to one side, Emma knelt beside an elderly woman, guiding her through yet another attempt at conjuring water. A meager trickle emerged from nothingness, splashing into a tarnished tin cup. The woman gasped in disbelief, and Emma's soft, contagious laugh joined the murmur of the crowd around them. Liora, maintaining her characteristic calm, demonstrated methodical steps to a small group of young men as they tried shaping basic blocks of food. Calla, meanwhile, wrangled a handful of hyperactive teenagers with sharp banter, spurring them to harness their jittery energy into something productive. Across the way, Jane teased a boy who appeared no older than twelve, coaxing him to press past his timidity and produce his first tangible creation.
Davo watched it all unfold with a sense of accomplishment warming his chest—this was good, but they had to move on eventually. They couldn't stay in one plaza teaching forever.
"All right," he called, lifting his voice just enough to be heard over the excited chatter. "We've got more places to be, people."
A few learners eyed him regretfully, but before anyone could protest, a self-assured young woman stepped forward. She was about Davo's age, sporting a scruffy outfit patched in several places yet worn with surprising style. Her eyes gleamed, and her expression hinted at an adventurous streak. "I know somewhere bigger," she announced, a mischievous tilt to her smile. "Another enclave, further out. They'll want to see this, too."
Davo exchanged a glance with Emma, who shrugged lightly, as if to say, No reason not to. Calla smirked, always ready for the next challenge, and Liora nodded her agreement. Jane simply folded her arms, a playful grin dancing on her lips.
"Sounds like a plan. Lead on," Davo said.
Her smile widened. "Guess I'm your guide now."
They left the plaza's chaotic but hopeful bustle behind, winding through labyrinthine streets that had seen better days. Crumbling brick walls and shattered windows told stories of a violent past. More than once, they had to step over the remains of a rusted car husk or dodge a sagging awning threatening to collapse at any moment. Through it all, Davo couldn't shake the feeling that his new companion was flirting with him, leaning in closer than necessary, peppering him with light jabs that always ended in laughter.
"So," she teased, tossing her hair back as they sidestepped a jagged hole in the pavement, "you get a kick out of being the city's personal savior, or what?"
Unused to the attention, Davo forced a polite grin, uncertain how to respond. Before the event, he'd been just another face among the crowd, often dismissed or overlooked. Now, people noticed him—and that was an adjustment he wasn't fully prepared for. "I'm just doing my part," he managed with a shrug. "It's not exactly a hobby."
She merely gave him a half-lidded look. "Maybe you ought to take up a more relaxing pastime. Y'know, crocheting or conjuring gourmet ice cream."
From a few steps behind, Jane's quiet snort of amusement was plainly audible, and Emma rolled her eyes at Davo's awkward attempt at a witty comeback. Liora and Calla exchanged mild smirks, clearly entertained by the scene.
After a half hour of navigating winding backstreets and stepping around piles of debris, they arrived at another settlement. This one boasted sturdier reinforcements and somewhat more organized barricades—someone here seemed to have a knack for structural engineering. The residents eyed the approaching group with curiosity rather than outright hostility, peering from behind corners or standing in doorways, makeshift weapons at the ready.
"All right, showtime," the girl proclaimed, turning back to Davo. "Think you can impress them?"
Davo let out a faint sigh, ringing his brass hand bell again. Its deep resonance traveled through the streets, calling out like a promise. People edged closer, exchanging questioning glances, drawn by the mysterious noise and the group's presence.
It was the same dance as before—start with a demonstration, show them how to conjure food, and watch skepticism melt into awe. Bit by bit, the crowd gathered, some borderline disbelieving, others fueled by an eagerness to learn. By the end of a frantic hour or so, fresh laughter and triumphant shouts echoed along the battered walls. Another group of once-helpless dwellers had discovered their own dormant capacity to create.
This pattern repeated itself over the next few days. The five travelers cut a path through the ruined city, following rumors of enclaves where anxious survivors remained. Each time, they were greeted with wary eyes and bristling defenses; each time, they left behind a community of newly awakened conjurers who could now feed themselves and hope for better days. Some enclaves were so fractured that it felt as though the smallest push would collapse them, while others showed surprising resilience and a dash of optimism. But everywhere, people thirsted for change.
With every successful lesson, a little more of the city's fear dissolved. Barricades once held by trembling hands turned into watchpoints manned by curious learners, their hearts lightened by the knowledge that they could sustain themselves. In these enclaves, Davo saw glimmers of the same hope and transformation he'd witnessed in the slum. More than a shift in physical circumstances, it felt like the entire city was inching toward a different way of living—one fueled by shared knowledge and cooperation rather than desperation.