Around five in the afternoon, cheers erupt from the front of the caravan.

  Henwell knows they’ve reached Life Lake.

  Sure enough, after following the suddenly quickened pace for a minute or two, a stunning sight unfolds before them.

  Amid the golden desert lies a vibrant green ke.

  The ke is oval-shaped, not very rge, only about two or three square kilometers.

  In the vast desert, this spsh of emerald looks like a dazzling jewel.

  Everyone bursts into joyful cheers and runs toward the ke.

  The commotion startles nearby animals drinking there, who scatter in all directions.

  Under the guidance of the guides and caravan stewards, dozens of water collection points are organized.

  No one’s allowed to bathe in the ke, the water’s for drinking!

  Buckets are used to fetch water, and people shower a short distance away.

  Mbatu attentively brings Henwell a bucket of water.

  Night Charger plunges his head in and drains it in seconds.

  Henwell borrows two buckets from Papaste’s caravan, fills them a few times to feed both horses, then washes himself.

  Next, Henwell sets up a simple stove, gathers some dry branches nearby, boils the water, lets it cool, and fills the water bags on his horses.

  Papaste watches curiously and asks, “Buddy, why are you boiling the water?”

  “To avoid getting sick.”

  Henwell doesn’t eborate.

  With his current constitution, even drinking some poison wouldn’t faze him.

  But boiling water remains a habit he’s formed.

  He understands the importance of leading by example. Since he promotes boiling water in Peace Haven, he must practice it himself.

  After more than an hour of bustling activity, the caravan reorganizes and prepares to continue the journey.

  Only after leaving Life Lake do the surrounding animals cautiously return to drink.

  Traveling in the desert is only somewhat comfortable around dusk and just before sunrise.

  Everyone pns to push on for another hour before the sun sets.

  With their water supplies replenished and the temperature dropping, their pace quickens considerably.

  After finding a suitable spot to camp, they start unloading gear, clearing away snakes and insects, and sprinkling some medicinal powder before setting up tents.

  Papaste wants to help Henwell but notices he quickly assembles a simple, portable tent.

  Looking at Henwell’s modest setup, Papaste voices concern. “Buddy, I’ve heard the desert gets windy and cold at night. Isn’t this a bit too basic?”

  Henwell shakes his head. “It’s fine. I don’t mind the cold, and I can enjoy the desert night view. Plus, it’s convenient.”

  As night falls, everyone begins preparing their meals.

  Cooking here means nothing more than heating some broth to go with bread and dried meat.

  The caravan steward who had entrusted Henwell’s protection during the day personally invites him over for dinner.

  Henwell doesn’t refuse.

  This caravan belongs to the Tru Lake Trade Guild, not part of the Lumir Duchy Trade Alliance.

  It’s a regionally influential merchant group with local clout.

  The steward, Duo Lied, is in his forties and a key member of the guild.

  From today’s events, he recognizes Henwell as an extraordinary figure.

  Though he knows befriending Henwell won’t be easy, making a good impression might pay off someday.

  Henwell comes over mainly to chat with the old guide.

  During the meal, when Henwell asks about the desert dwellers, the old guide hesitates for a moment.

  Finally, he speaks up. “Honestly, I don’t know much about them. Even though I’ve lived here for decades and crossed the Sand Sea over a hundred times, I’ve had very few encounters with them.”

  ”They rarely interact with outsiders and aren’t your typical desert bandits, that’s not how they survive. Sometimes, they trade precious items with caravans in exchange for supplies.”

  Duo Lied asks, “Food? Or steel weapons?”

  The guide shakes his head. “Neither. Mostly cloth. They rarely trade food, and I’ve never heard of weapons being traded. A few years ago, I saw a group of desert dwellers trading books with a caravan—books about the outside world and current events.”

  Henwell frowns. “How do they survive in the desert? Hunting seems unrealistic. The group we met seemed sizable, but prey is scarce in the desert, making a nomadic hunter lifestyle unsustainable. Do they farm on the desert’s edge or leave the desert to trade?”

  The guide shakes his head again. “No, those I’ve met never leave the desert. How they survive is a secret. No one knows how many there are, how many tribes, or what they rely on.”

  Henwell then asks about the ruins beneath the dunes. “Do you know what those ruins are? Was this area once not a desert?”

  The guide recalls, “I once saw those ruins after a sandstorm exposed them. The buildings were grand, with a style I’ve never seen before. No one in the caravan recognized these.”

  ”They seemed built by a sun-worshipping faction, there were many sun-like emblems. There’s a legend about a powerful dynasty that once ruled the Scorching Sand Sea but disappeared for unknown reasons. When or why it vanished, no one knows. It’s just a story, whether it’s true or not, no one can say for sure.”

  Henwell takes note and asks, “Could the desert dwellers be descendants of that dynasty?”

  The guide scratches his head. “It’s possible, but I don’t really know. I’m not a schor. Honestly, even schors wouldn’t risk coming here to study this stuff.”

  Soon, the group starts asking questions about the Scorching Sand Sea legends.

  The guide’s answers echo Mbatu’s: the desert’s greatest danger is extreme weather.

  And that’s true, against nature’s might, humans are fragile.

  After some more talk, the group disperses.

  The old guide turns to Henwell. “Sir, please look after Mbatu. He’s my nephew. If you want to know anything about the Scorching Sand Sea, come to me anytime. Some things I can’t say in front of everyone. You know, sometimes fear sparks panic, and that’s a disaster in itself.”