Chapter 17
Outside, sunlight spilled gently over the garden, brushing against the overgrown plants Nille had tended just minutes ago. It was past two in the afternoon, the heat settling quietly into every corner of the hospital room they now shared.
A maid moved softly along the hallway, careful not to disturb the stillness. In her hands was a small tray, simple food she had bought earlier. She paused at the door, then slipped inside just long enough to place it beside the bed of the young girl, Lin Meiying, the granddaughter of the recovering elderly man resting across from Granny Amparo's bed.
The curtains remained drawn, shielding the girl from the harsh daylight. Without a word, the maid adjusted the tray and stepped out again, closing the door with quiet care.
Nille remained still.
To anyone watching, he looked like a boy lost in thought, sitting in silence. But beneath that stillness, something far deeper was unfolding.
The scarf rested in his hands.
No movement.
No sound.
And yet,
"I am aware of your surroundings, the scarf's presence echoed faintly within his mind. External activity: minimal. No immediate threats detected."
Nille's gaze lowered slightly.
"…You can sense them?" he thought, careful, uncertain.
Yes, it replied. Not through sight as you understand it… but through patterns, movement, and intent. My function is to observe and assist.
He glanced briefly toward the ceiling, where faint footsteps had just faded.
"The girl… is she safe?"
A pause.
She is stable. However… her condition remains unresolved. Continued observation is recommended.
Nille exhaled quietly.
Everything felt different now, the place, the silence, even the air itself.
"…You said you were made," he continued inwardly. "Then who made you?"
For the first time, the scarf did not answer immediately. A subtle stillness lingered.
…Information incomplete, it finally said. Origin records are fragmented. Only core directives remain intact.
"So you don't remember?"
Not fully.
A brief pause followed.
But I was not created for destruction. I was created to support one who stands between worlds.
Nille's grip tightened slightly.
"Between worlds…"
The faint creak of shifting weight echoed somewhere in the room, but he barely noticed.
"And the weapons… do they think like you do?"
Negative, the scarf replied. Their awareness is instinctive, guided by the Abyan bound within them. They respond through impulse, resonance, and alignment with their wielder.
"So… they feel."
"Yes."
"And you…?"
A combination of both. I understand, learn, and adapt to what my bearer requires.
Silence followed, but it no longer felt empty.
Nille leaned back slightly, his gaze drifting toward the doorway before returning to the scarf in his hands. For a moment, everything felt almost normal, a quiet afternoon, a resting room, a boy sitting alone.
But he wasn't alone anymore.
The stories he once dismissed as mere tales no longer felt like fiction. They were real, and he was only beginning to understand them.
He had always thought the scarf was nothing more than an agimat, an enchanted artifact, rare but simple in purpose. But after everything Granny Amparo had revealed, more questions surfaced than answers.
Slowly, his gaze settled on the cloth.
If it wasn't just an object…
Then what was it?
Nille exhaled, his fingers tightening slightly around it.
"…Then tell me," he murmured, calm but firm.
For the first time, he wasn't just using it.
He was asking.
A faint warmth spread across his fingers as the fabric shifted—subtle, almost hesitant. Then something stirred within his mind, not a voice heard, but something understood.
"I was not born… I was made."
The presence was calm, measured.
"Created to serve, not as a weapon, but as a steward. A thinking tool. An assistant to the one deemed worthy to wear me."
The cloth tightened slightly, as if reinforcing its awareness.
Unlike the three Taeng-bituin weapons you carry, I was not bound to a spirit. I hold no Abyan within me. I do not borrow will… I was given one.
A gentle pause.
The bolo, the butterfly knife, and the twin knuckles were forged first, shaped from fallen star metal, then bound with Abyan… guardian spirits who once lived. They grant instinct, strength, and fragments of what they once were.
The presence dimmed briefly.
Some remember life. Some remember loss. That is why they choose… and why they hesitate.
Then,
"But I am different."
The words became clearer.
" I a Kaunakes, the celestial cloth. Created, not inhabited. My purpose is not to fight, but to think, to guide, and to support. I am designed to act as the bearer's steward, one who observes, calculates, adapts… and assists."
The fabric loosened gently around his hand.
"The Taeng-bituin weapons are bound to remain near their owner. They will always return. They are your instruments in battle."
A pause.
"I am meant to ensure you survive it."
Stillness settled between them.
"Where they act… I decide. Where they strike… I prepare. Where you falter… I compensate."
The presence softened.
"I do not command you," Nille.
"I serve you."
And for the first time,
it no longer felt like he was holding an object.
It felt like something was standing beside him.
The presence within the scarf lingered for a moment, as if observing him more closely now than before, before it continued, its tone unchanged, yet carrying something deeper, almost certain.
But you are different, Nille.
A faint warmth pulsed through the fabric.
The moment you reached your first year of life… your third eye had already opened. Not by force. Not by ritual. But by inheritance, an ancestral blessing you accepted without awareness.
Nille's breath stilled.
Unlike your grandfather… and your father… who never awakened their spiritual sight, it continued. The path remained closed to them. Dormant. Unanswered.
A pause.
But you… you did not simply open it once.
The sensation tightened slightly, as if emphasizing the truth.
You learned to close it… and open it again, instinctively. Naturally. As one would breathe… or blink.
Nille's grip unconsciously tightened around the cloth.
You have been shifting between the seen and the unseen all your life… without realizing it, the scarf added. That is why the Abyan respond to you. That is why the weapons recognize you. That is why… I am able to speak with you now.
The presence softened, almost quietly acknowledging him.
You do not merely possess the gift, Nille.
You were born already aligned with it.
Nille sat cross-legged on the thin mat that had been set out for him on the floor. He used the nearby chair to rest his rucksack, a few worn items tucked inside, and leaned slightly forward, engrossed in the book he held. His back faced the curtain that separated him from the rest of the room, and his gaze was fixed toward Granny Amparo, who lay quietly on her bed.
The elderly man's bed was positioned so that he faced Amparo's medical bed. The soft hum of monitors and the occasional clink of medical tools filled the room, but Nille didn't seem to notice. He was absorbed, turning the pages carefully, every movement deliberate.
Through the thin curtain, Lin Meiying stepped out quietly, making her way toward the restroom. Her maid followed closely behind, adjusting the tray of belongings she carried. The girl's eyes fell on Nille, and she paused for a moment.
The boy was reading. Completely focused, completely unaware of being observed.
Lin Meiying tilted her head, curious. He looked slightly older than her, his clothes worn and plain, the kind that marked someone who had little. From the way he carried himself, she guessed they had been admitted out of charity, the doctors had shown interest in him, perhaps drawn by his quiet composure.
She glanced at the elderly patient nearby. Unlike her grandfather, who required constant monitoring and delicate care, the boy's patient didn't seem to be in immediate danger. The nurse made her usual rounds, checking vitals and casually changing the IV fluids, but Nille remained calm, unbothered by the routine activity around him.
The sight struck her. The boy didn't fidget. He didn't glance nervously at the monitors. He simply read, absorbed in his world. He looked… carefree. Unburdened by the responsibility he carried.
Lin Meiying couldn't help but watch a little longer. Quiet, composed, and focused, the boy seemed entirely at ease in a place where most would be tense, afraid, or impatient.
Lin Meiying stepped into the small restroom, the faint smell of disinfectant mingling with the lingering scent of soap. She set down the tray her maid carried and began washing her hands and face, splashing cool water against her skin. The tiles were plain, the mirror scratched at the edges, and the faucet squeaked when turned.
A sigh escaped her lips. She had grown up surrounded by marble floors, polished sinks, and the gentle hum of luxury at every turn. This restroom, with its bland walls and flickering lights, felt… mediocre, almost insulting.
Her maid, ever patient, handed her a set of branded clothing neatly folded in soft tissue paper. Lin Meiying's fingers brushed over the fabric, smooth and fragrant, and she quickly changed, slipping the garments over her small frame. The contrast between her attire and the room around her was striking, and she couldn't help the subtle frown that creased her brow.
Yet, as she caught a glimpse of her reflection, she reminded herself why she was here. Her grandfather's condition left him no choice but to be admitted to this hospital. She could grumble, she could resist, but she had to adjust. This was his reality, not hers.
After a final glance in the mirror, she smoothed her hair and stepped out, ready to face the quiet hum of the room again. The luxury she had taken for granted in her own life felt distant here, replaced by a sense of responsibility, and a small, unfamiliar weight of humility.
The maid followed silently, carrying the discarded items. Lin Meiying held herself with quiet poise, but her eyes flickered briefly toward the boy on the floor. He hadn't looked up once, absorbed in his book, unbothered by the hospital's blandness or by the presence of visitors.
Something about his calm steadiness made her pause. She shook her head slightly and walked past him, but the image lingered in her mind, a boy, seemingly poor, yet free in a way she couldn't quite define.
As Lin Meiying stepped out of the restroom, her maid fell silently into step beside her, lowering her voice. "Miss… your uncle and aunts sent a message. They're… awaiting news about your grandfather's passing."
Lin stiffened. Her fingers tightened around the fabric of her blouse. The words hit her harder than she expected, not because of the impending news itself, but because of their reaction. The cold calculation, the impatience for an inheritance, the way they treated her grandfather's life as a matter of business, it made her stomach turn.
She hated it.
She didn't care about wealth, not yet, at least. She was too young to manage the family empire, too inexperienced to even begin understanding it. Yet she knew her relatives were watching her carefully. Even as a minor, they could sense potential. One day, she might grow strong enough to inherit power, to become a threat to their carefully constructed hierarchy.
But Lin had something they didn't know. Something her parents had protected for her. An ace up her sleeve.
Her parents were alive, but had gone into isolation, following ancestral law that bound them to secrecy. Their absence shielded her, at least for now, and kept her alive amidst the scheming of relatives who saw life and death only through the lens of gain.
She inhaled slowly, letting the rage and bitterness settle into a quiet determination. She would survive this. And one day, she would be more than they ever expected.
Meanwhile, Nille remained seated cross-legged on his thin mat. His rucksack rested on the nearby chair, but his focus was elsewhere. With deliberate care, he unfurled the scarf, testing its folds and observing the subtle glow that now pulsed faintly along its threads. He worked quickly, hiding the movements from anyone who might glance his way, knowing his time was limited.
Just a few hours left, he thought. I have to know… I have to be ready.
The scarf's presence stirred in response, calm but alert.
I am monitoring, Nille. The elderly man's vitals are weakening. Decline is imminent.
Nille nodded, though his back remained to the curtain. He traced a finger along the cloth, watching how it shifted, almost as if responding to his thoughts alone. Every stitch, every fold, seemed to hum with awareness.
He will not last until nightfall, the scarf continued softly. At sunset, the room will be vulnerable. Threats will arrive.
Nille's jaw tightened. His mind cataloged the possibilities, analyzing what he knew, and what he could not yet see.
How many? he thought silently.
"Multiple. Likely coordinated. They sense weakness… they sense opportunity. this time i can properly assist you now"
He exhaled softly, letting the scarf's assessment wash over him. He had little time, but the Kaunakes scarf, was more than an artifact, it was his partner in survival. And together, they would have to be ready for what was coming.
Even as the afternoon sun streamed through the window, warm and deceptive, Nille's attention was not on the light or the quiet room. It was on the inevitable darkness approaching.
The quiet calm of the hospital masked the tension building in every corner, and the boy on the floor knew that by sunset, nothing would remain ordinary.
Nille closed his eyes and let his breathing slow, guiding his thoughts inward the way he had learned. The world around him faded, the hospital, the faint hum of machines, the quiet footsteps—until he stood once more within the Enclave.
The air there felt different.
Still. Heavy. Watching.
He stood near the Melting Orb, its slow, pulsing glow reflecting faintly across the space. Instinctively, his hand reached for the scarf draped around his neck,
, but it did not respond.
No warmth.No awareness.Nothing.
Nille frowned.
He shifted slightly, focusing harder, trying to will a reaction from it. But the Kaunakes remained… silent. Like ordinary cloth.
A rare unease crept into his chest.
Slowly, he pulled himself out of the meditation.
His eyes opened.
The hospital returned.
The scarf immediately stirred.
You have returned, it said calmly.
Nille's gaze sharpened.
"…Why didn't you respond?" he asked quietly, keeping his voice low. "Inside… the Enclave. You were there, but you weren't."
A brief pause followed, as if the scarf was processing how to answer.
Correction, it replied. I was not present.
Nille blinked. "What do you mean? I was wearing you."
Physically, yes, the scarf said. But the Enclave you entered… is not a physical domain. It is a constructed inner realm, one that does not fully anchor external artifacts.
Nille leaned slightly forward.
"…So you can't exist there?"
Not in my current form, it answered. The Enclave you accessed is to a specific kind of Encanto , they were blessed with the power to enter dreams and manifest their ability fully to trap and bewilder humans ."
"If other Encanto can control animals, insects, or cast curses…" the scarf began, its presence steady but deliberate, "then some among them possess the ability to enter dreams."
A faint pause followed, as if choosing its words carefully.
"But there is a distinction you must understand, Nille."
The fabric shifted slightly against his hand.
"There are those who invade a dream… and those who are merely allowed inside it."
Nille's gaze sharpened.
"Encanto who specialize in influence, those who command beasts, whisper to swarms, or bend misfortune, often extend that control into the mind. They slip into dreams, reshape them, and slowly assert dominance. Over time, the dream ceases to belong to the host… and becomes theirs."
A subtle weight settled in its tone.
"That is how they bind, deceive, and weaken their targets."
Nille remained still.
"But in your case… the situation is reversed."
A soft pulse of warmth followed.
"She did not take your dream. She entered it."
Nille's fingers tightened slightly.
"And more importantly… she never gained control over it."
The implication hung in the air.
"That space, the Enclave, responds to you. Its structure, its stability, its boundaries… they align with your will. Even if you are unaware of it, you are the one maintaining it."
Nille's thoughts raced.
"…So she was pretending," he murmured inwardly.
"Correct."
The answer came without hesitation.
"She acted as though she held authority within that space because it was necessary—for her. To guide you, to test you, or to conceal her limitations."
A brief silence followed.
Then the scarf continued, its tone colder now.
"You must understand this clearly, Nille… not all Encanto are truthful."
The words carried weight.
"They are not bound by human morality. Many are ancient, patient, and skilled in manipulation. They observe… adapt… and present themselves in forms that will earn trust."
Nille's expression hardened slightly.
"Some will guide you," the scarf continued, "but others will lead you, slowly, subtly, toward outcomes that benefit them."
A faint tightening of the cloth followed.
"They do not always lie directly. Instead, they omit… redirect… and allow you to reach conclusions they prefer."
Nille exhaled quietly.
"…So even if she helps me…"
"You must still question her," the scarf finished.
Silence lingered.
"Trust, for beings like them, is not given freely," it added. "It is tested. Repeatedly."
A softer tone followed.
"This does not mean she is your enemy."
A pause.
"But it also does not mean she is fully your ally."
Nille leaned back slightly, absorbing everything.
The Enclave.
Luna.
Control.
Manipulation.
Nothing was as simple as it first appeared.
"Remember this," the scarf said quietly. "In your world, strength determines survival."
A brief pause.
"In theirs… perception determines truth."
And for the first time,
Nille realized that even in a place he controlled…
He could still be misled.
Nille's mind immediately caught onto that.
"So… it's her ability."
Affirmative.
The scarf's presence remained steady.
Only entities native to that realm, or directly bound to its creator, can fully manifest and function within it. You entered as a consciousness, not as a physical bearer of tools.
Nille's grip tightened slightly.
"…Then the weapons too?"
The Taeng-bituin weapons are similarly restricted, the scarf replied. They are bound to your physical existence. Their Abyan cannot fully project into a domain they are not anchored to.
Nille exhaled slowly.
"So inside… I'm alone."
A brief pause.
"Not entirely," the scarf corrected, its presence steady and precise. "You can create within that space… anything you focus on."
A faint pause followed.
"If you attempt to manifest a weapon, you may succeed. But it will not be the same."
Nille's brow furrowed slightly.
"You must understand," it continued, "creation within the Enclave is not imitation, it is reconstruction. You must think of every property of the item: its components, its structure, its balance, its weight… even the way it responds when used."
The cloth shifted faintly in his grasp.
"Your mind must supply the details. And your mind can only draw from what it has already experienced."
Nille remained still, listening.
"Everything you create there is limited by your knowledge in reality—your memory, your instincts, and your understanding of how things function," the scarf explained. "If your knowledge is incomplete, then what you create will also be incomplete."
A brief silence settled.
"That is why," it added, "even if you form a weapon within the Enclave, it will lack the true essence of the Taeng-bituin. It will not carry the Abyan. It will not possess memory… nor will it respond beyond your own will."
Nille exhaled quietly.
"So it's just… a visual copy."
"A reflection," the scarf corrected.
Another pause.
"You still retain your instincts," it continued, "and your connection to the Enclave itself. That is your advantage."
The tone sharpened slightly.
"But you are operating without external support systems."
No Abyan.No Kaunakes assistance.No borrowed power.
"Within that space," the scarf concluded, "you rely only on what you truly are… not on what you carry."
A brief silence followed, then its presence shifted, more focused now, almost instructive.
"Then try," it said.
Nille's gaze lowered slightly.
"Manifest the twin knuckles," the scarf continued. "You have already used them. Recall them—not just their shape, but their reality."
A faint pressure settled in his mind, guiding rather than forcing.
"Think of their weight… how heavy they felt in your hands. The hardness of the metal. The way your fingers tightened when you wore them."
Nille's hand twitched slightly.
"Remember what they can do," it added. "Not what you imagine, but what you have witnessed."
A pause.
"Ask yourself…"
Its tone sharpened, deliberate.
"What happens when you strike something solid?"
Nille's breath slowed.
"What happens," the scarf pressed, "if you punch a concrete pillar?"
The question lingered, not rhetorical, but demanding clarity.
"Do not guess," it continued. "Know the outcome. Feel the resistance. The recoil. The fracture—whether it is yours… or the object's."
Nille's fingers curled unconsciously, as if remembering.
Then, more softly,
"Or…"
A slight shift in tone.
"Do you wish to wear them now, here, in reality?"
Nille's eyes flickered.
"So you may gather the information properly," the scarf finished.
The offer was simple.
But the meaning behind it was not.
Because this time,
it wasn't just asking him to imagine.
It was asking him to learn.
Nille gave a faint nod, his decision settling quietly within him.
For a brief moment, nothing happened.
Then,
something shifted.
A subtle weight formed in his hands, as if space itself was folding into shape. The air around his fingers tightened, and in the next instant, the twin knuckles manifested, not summoned from elsewhere, but constructed from his own focus.
He gripped them instinctively.
They felt… real.
Cold. Solid. Heavy.
But not quite right.
Nille tightened his hold, following the scarf's guidance. He closed his eyes for a second, steadying his breath, letting memory take over.
Think.
The first time he used them.
The resistance.
The impact.
The strain that ran through his arm.
Slowly, he adjusted his grip.
The knuckles in his hands shifted, barely noticeable, but present. The weight redistributed, the edges refined, the balance becoming closer to what he remembered.
More, the scarf prompted.
Nille inhaled.
He imagined the force behind a strike. The way his muscles moved. The way the metal absorbed and delivered impact. He didn't rush it this time, he built the understanding piece by piece.
The knuckles grew denser.
He could feel it now.
Not just an object, but a function.
A purpose.
His fingers curled tighter.
Now ask yourself, the scarf echoed faintly, what happens when you strike something solid?
Nille's eyes opened slowly.
He turned his fist slightly, staring at the formed knuckles.
Concrete.
A pillar.
A full-force strike.
His mind ran through it, not guessing, but reconstructing.
The swing.The impact.The shock traveling up his arm.
But this time,
he didn't feel weakness.
He felt resistance… breaking.
A faint crack echoed, not in the room, but within the Enclave itself.
The knuckles in his hand changed again.
Sharper. Heavier. More stable.
Closer.
"…So this is it," Nille murmured under his breath.
Not yet, the scarf corrected. But you are approaching accuracy.
Nille exhaled, staring at his hands.
For the first time, he understood,
This wasn't about imagining weapons.
It was about understanding them so deeply…
that his mind could recreate their truth.
Without warning, Nille slipped back into the Enclave.
The world shifted, quiet, weightless, and bound only by thought.
He stood once more before the Melting Orb.
But this time,
his hands were different.
The twin knuckles were there.
Not faint. Not incomplete.
Present.
Nille slowly raised his fists, his eyes narrowing in focus. He didn't rush. Instead, he observed, carefully, precisely.
"…Half a kilo each," he murmured.
The moment the thought settled,
the weight followed.
It pressed into his hands, subtle at first, then firm. His fingers adjusted instinctively, his stance shifting as his body recognized the balance. The density, the pull, the slight drag on his wrists,
All of it aligned.
Nille's lips curved into a small smile.
He tightened his grip.
This time, it felt right.
Not perfect… but real enough.
He flexed his fingers, feeling the knuckles respond, not with life, not like the true Taeng-bituin, but with structure. With logic. With understanding.
He took a step forward.
The ground beneath him did not resist.
Because it was his.
"…I can control this place," he said quietly.
Not as a guess.
Not as hope.
But as a realization.
The Enclave did not reject him.
It responded to him.
The air, the weight, the form of what he created, it all bent, adjusted, and stabilized according to his awareness.
For the first time, Nille wasn't just inside the Enclave.
He was working with it.
And somewhere, beyond what he could see,
Nille let out a quiet laugh, the sound echoing faintly across the endless stillness of the Enclave.
"So I already did it…" he muttered, shaking his head slightly.
There was no pride in his voice, only realization.
He had been doing it all along… without understanding.
"…I really am lacking," he admitted to himself, but there was no frustration behind it this time. Only acceptance. "Then I'll just learn."
His grip tightened around the manifested twin knuckles.
He exhaled once.
Then focused.
The space in front of him trembled slightly, like a reflection disturbed by a single drop of water. The air condensed, lines forming, structure taking shape. Piece by piece, the sparring partner emerged once more.
A humanoid figure.
Faceless.
Still.
Waiting.
Nille raised his guard.
This time… it was different.
He stepped forward first.
A sharp movement, his right fist drove forward, faster than before. The knuckles connected with a dull, solid thud. The impact traveled through his arm, but he didn't lose balance.
The figure staggered half a step back.
Nille's eyes sharpened.
It reacted.
He didn't hesitate.
A second strike, left hand this time, angled toward the torso. The weight of the knuckles added force, but also demanded control. His shoulders followed through, his stance grounding itself more naturally than before.
The hit landed cleaner.
The figure responded.
Its arm shot forward.
Nille barely had time to react, he raised his forearm, blocking. The impact wasn't painful, but it carried force. Enough to push him back a step.
"…Good," he whispered.
Not fear.
Understanding.
He adjusted his footing.
Again.
The figure moved first this time, faster than before. A straight strike aimed at his center.
Nille twisted his body, letting it pass just enough,
Then countered.
A short, compact punch.
Direct.
Efficient.
The knuckles struck with a heavier sound now, less hollow, more defined. The figure's upper body jerked back from the force.
Nille didn't chase wildly.
He paused.
Observed.
Too wide, he noted internally. My opening is slow after the second strike.
The figure reset.
So did he.
This time, he moved with intention.
Step in.
Feint.
Then strike.
The first motion drew a reaction, the figure shifted to guard
Nille's real attack came a split second later.
A downward angled punch.
The impact landed square.
A crack echoed faintly through the Enclave.
The figure flickered.
Unstable.
Nille stepped back, lowering his fists slightly, his breathing steady.
"…Again," he said.
No excitement.
No rush.
Just resolve.
Because now he understood something simple,
Strength wasn't in the weapon.
It wasn't even in the Enclave.
It was in learning what he didn't know…
and correcting it, one strike at a time.