Zhalgaztur Kokkoz woke in a cold sweat. It seemed even the well-tanned animal hides covering his cave floor had ceased to hold warmth. At first, he couldn't understand what had torn him from sleep. But, concentrating and delving into his inner world, he caught the call. The Aruaks demanded his attention.

  This time he needed neither bitter infusions nor suffocating incense: the connection opened of its own accord. Zhalgaztur sat up on the hides, crossed his legs, closed his eyes and prepared to listen.

  The ruhs' speech was nebulous, their images shifting and strange, but they poured into his consciousness in a long, viscous stream. For an hour he sat motionless, heeding them. And when he opened his eyes, he knew with absolute clarity what he must do.

  "Ua, Tanyrim... what awaits us now?" Only these words escaped his lips.

  Having said them, he set about his morning preparations. Washing with icy water from a stone vessel brought his body to its senses. A simple breakfast of dried meat and a handful of berries gave him strength.

  He pulled on rough trousers of thick fabric, donned a worn shirt, and over it an old kaftan still holding the warmth of his late mother's hands. Then he fastened his belt and took up his staff—more like an old man's walking stick than a weapon.

  Which was indeed the case. A man who had reached his heights of understanding existence required no material weapons. And woe to those who thought him helpless without them.

  Emerging from the mountain cave, the man inhaled the damp morning air. The cold tickled his skin, and the world seemed utterly clear. He felt its rhythm, its pulse. Along with the oxygen, his lungs filled with the very meaning of life. Thanking the new dawn, he opened his eyes and descended the stone path.

  Zhalgaztur understood that if he wanted to reach the deadline set by the ruhs, he must not delay. Summoning the power of the wolf ruh, the man himself transformed into a ghostly beast. His light, semi-transparent body shot forward, and the wind tore through the silence of dawn with a whistle as he raced towards his appointed destination.

  During the journey, thoughts of what lay ahead gave him no peace. How would the priest receive him? What would he say, seeing an outsider crossing the boundaries of his land? But the ruhs had made it clear: the priest's opinion was irrelevant.

  "Well then, I shouldn't worry about it either... And would the village mol-la even dare obstruct me?!" Despite the ruhs' advice, Zhalgaztur understood that the decision was his own path, and he alone would bear responsibility for it.

  Everything else receded into the background. Only the goal remained. One thing mattered: to meet the boy, whose arrival would change the world's very breath. The world order itself would tremble at his step. The man's task was to guide him in the right direction.

  When Zhalgaztur sensed his destination was near, he assumed human form once more and continued the rest of the way on foot.

  His arrival in the aul did not go unnoticed. Although those fortunate enough to see Zhalgaztur more than three times in their lives were considered truly blessed in the aul, memory of him never faded. His name was spoken with cautious reverence, as if they feared to disturb him. They believed he was always somewhere near. Therefore, as soon as someone noticed the familiar kaftan and recognizable gait, no one doubted that Zhalgaztur himself had descended from the mountains to appear before them once more.

  The moment he crossed the invisible boundary of the settlement, he was immediately surrounded by residents. Everyone, from elders to children, hastened to show him respect, each wanting at least a glimpse of meeting his gaze. No one even hoped to receive a bata, but the very fact of his presence was already considered a great event.

  Zhalgaztur, knowing time permitted, did not refuse them a courtesy in return. He slowly raised his hands, whispering words that were felt by the heart more than heard by the ears. He blessed the entire aul and its inhabitants for peaceful skies overhead, for eternal fire in their hearths, for the unbroken cycle of life.

  When the people, according to ancient custom, cupped their palms as if scooping up the sky and brought them to their faces in acceptance of his blessing, he pronounced: "Al-myn!" Everyone immediately repeated after him, though much more quietly.

  After the ritual's completion, when the aksakals should have, by tradition, competed to invite the guest into their homes, the air suddenly trembled. At the edge of the square appeared the priest. His voice cut through the silence like a whip's crack.

  "How dare you, filthy baksy?! How did you have the audacity to come here, to my aul? Who gave you the right to dispense blessings, pagan?" He swept the crowd with a heavy gaze.

  However, contrary to his expectations, no one looked away. In the flock, yesterday still so obedient to his will, discontent with the shepherd's actions flared. The priest felt with his skin how the residents were outraged by his intrusion into the welcoming ritual.

  "And you... all of you! How dare you accept this? This smacks of heresy... heresy! Make no mistake, I will not remain silent and will report to the iskop in the city!" His voice thundered across the entire aul, though there was more fear in it than indignation and accusation.

  "Calm yourself, priest," Zhalgaztur answered him evenly, even wearily. "I came not for argument and not for preaching. The ruhs brought me here, I am..."

  "The ruhs?!" The priest sneered maliciously, finding his footing and deciding to pour his momentary weakness onto the man. "Shut your foul mouth, heretic! I did not give you permission to speak! Especially not on their behalf!"

  Something in Zhalgaztur's face changed. His gaze became sharp as a blade. The air around him vibrated, and soon transparent vortices rose from nowhere. Upward-pulling streams of pure ether, glowing with a faint blue radiance.

  "How dare you interrupt me, the last of the Ka-Myn, at the moment when I spoke of the Ruhs' will?" His voice sounded no longer quite human, echoing with the power of ancient elements.

  The air grew heavy, as if an invisible mountain pressed down upon the settlement. People lowered their heads, some collapsed to their knees. Even the priest, shielding himself with his staff, took a step back. Undoubtedly, in this moment, his own faith cracked.

  "Your petty affairs don't concern me," Zhalgaztur said coldly. "Turn a blind eye to today, and it will pass you by in the future. But dare to interfere and I will destroy you."

  He turned away; for Zhalgaztur, the conversation was over. He had said his piece, the priest had heard.

  In the crowd he spotted a familiar, beloved face. Zhalgaztur stepped towards him, whilst the priest, continuing to back away, only gripped his staff tighter, not daring to utter another word.

  Kaisar—for that was the name of the man the baksy approached—adjusted the torban on his head and stepped forward.

  "Armysyz ba, atababa?" Despite the fact that outwardly the interlocutors appeared the same age, Kaisar, pressing his right hand to his chest and bowing, showed deep respect to Zhalgaztur.

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  "Armysyn ba? Amansyn ba, balam?" the baksy replied traditionally.

  "Praise Heaven, all is well with us!"

  "Tanyryne shukyr!"

  "Al-myn!"

  The men did not continue their conversation in public. Instead, they headed together towards Kaisar's house. Zhalgaztur knew perfectly well where it was, but did not hurry, giving the baibyshe and other wives the opportunity to overtake them and arrive first. He understood perfectly that this would be more proper.

  He saw no sense in putting the hosts in an awkward position. And that would happen if they failed to properly receive their guest and express all the signs of attention required by custom.

  Kaisar was a thrifty and tidy man, and therefore it was not at all surprising that his homestead always looked clean and neat. Not a single neighbour could reproach him for negligence. His gate did not creak, his doors hung true, and his fence stood firm, as if erected only yesterday.

  He allowed neither himself nor his household to relax. For him, order was not simply a habit, it was his world order. Cleanliness, discipline, clear routine—this was his inner law. The lessons once learned in the Horde, Kaisar transferred to his father's house with special reverence, like a shrine. And, it must be said, the house answered him in kind, living peacefully, solidly and proudly, like its master.

  Just beyond the gate, Zhalgaztur was met by the baibyshe and Kaisar's other wives. By tradition, the empty cup was held by the youngest of the four wives, the tokal, whilst only the baibyshe poured the drink.

  An outside observer might wonder how the youngest wife looked older than the first wife. The answer is simple: she had become Kaisar's amanat. When his elder brother died in one of the khan's campaigns, he took her and her children into his house as his fourth wife. However, he made no distinctions amongst the children, for they were all of one blood.

  Accepting the cup from her hands, Zhalgaztur smiled. Broadly, sincerely, with a pure heart, and with pleasure gaved bata to this house. So bright and welcoming, and with it all its inhabitants received his blessing.

  Upon completing the ritual, he drained the cup to the bottom, unhurriedly, with dignity, then turned it upside down. This was an ancient sign of trust, meaning he did not fear being poisoned in this house. This gesture inspired respect in people: only those who came in peace and without a shadow of doubt did this.

  When all welcoming rites had been observed, the host invited his guest into the house and seated him in the place of honour, the tor, directly opposite the door. This place was chosen deliberately: the honoured guest sitting there could see who entered and left, and at the same time felt freer and safer.

  As already mentioned, Kaisar was famed for his orderliness and tidiness. Therefore it was not at all surprising that with such a host, food was served to the guest immediately upon taking his appointed place at the table. This day was no exception.

  Zhalgaztur, having comfortably crossed his legs beneath the low round table, watched with quiet pleasure as Kaisar confidently and deftly carved the meat of boiled mutton. His movements were precise, like those of a man for whom this was not simply a meal, but part of an established ritual. Indeed, so it was.

  However, the guest himself had plenty to occupy him. By tradition, an honoured guest in a good house was served the sheep's head as a sign of special respect. Zhalgaztur accepted it with gratitude and, taking a fresh knife from the tray, set to work. With practised movements he began cutting and distributing parts of the head according to established custom...

  Having done justice to the delicious and filling food, they spent time in quiet conversation, listening to the younger children's songs and the older ones playing the dombra. But all things must end, and as soon as the baibyshe rose from the table, the magic of the cosy, homely dinner was broken.

  The household quietly left the room, leaving host and guest alone. Everyone understood: the baksy never came without reason. Behind his visits there always stood a purpose, not an idle wish to spend an evening in conversation.

  Zhalgaztur, unhurriedly sipping hot tea from the samovar, remained silent for some time, as if gathering his thoughts. The silence between them caused no awkwardness. Rather, it was filled with expectation. Finally he raised his gaze and, looking directly at Kaisar, quietly said:

  "I recall that Yernazar once wished to follow in my footsteps..." He paused briefly, as if weighing his words. "What does he think of this now? Is his soul as open as before?"

  "The boy dreams day and night of following your path and dedicating his life to serving the Great Heaven," Kaisar answered, trying to conceal his agitation.

  Zhalgaztur nodded slightly, his gaze becoming thoughtful.

  "Well, that is commendable. He has passed the test of time... I think this time I will not refuse his request."

  These words illuminated Kaisar's face with quiet joy, but somewhere deep inside remained the feeling that Zhalgaztur's visit had another, more important reason.

  "Accept my gratitude, Ka-Myn," he said respectfully. "I hope my son will justify the hopes you place in him."

  "Of that you need not doubt," the shaman answered confidently. "I feel that Heaven itself guides him. So say the Aruaks."

  He fell silent for a moment, his gaze becoming serious, even somewhat heavy.

  "Now tell me, how fares Orgatai? How has he endured recent events?"

  Kaisar frowned. This question was clearly not random.

  "Kudaiga ?hukyr," Kaisar said quietly, "he has Ainur. Caring for her gives him strength and purpose. Without her he would have faded long ago."

  Zhalgaztur smiled slightly, a shadow of approval flickering in his eyes.

  "Well, that is commendable. Few are capable of living life without becoming selfish."

  Kaisar was not surprised that the baksy knew everything that happened in the aul, though he had not been seen here for fifteen years. Rumours about him varied, but all agreed on one thing: he always learned what he needed to know, regardless of distance and time. And how could it be otherwise, when you speak with the ruhs directly? And they, as everyone knows, know everything that happens in the world.

  Zhalgaztur rose, his gaze becoming deep and focused.

  "I am heading to the cave of spirits," he said calmly. "Today a wandering soul will come into our world. It is my duty to meet her and show her the way. Such is the will of the Aruaks."

  He fell silent, as if listening to something beyond human hearing.

  "They have also informed me that this soul will be the last. With her arrival, the new gods will close the breach, and no more new souls will be able to penetrate our world."

  Kaisar remained silent, not daring to interrupt.

  "Upon my return," Zhalgaztur continued, "you must prepare Orgatai, Ainur and Yernazar for relocation to the cave. I will need them. We will set out at dawn..."

  He spoke neither as a command nor as a request. Simply, as a man whose words themselves become action. In his voice there was not a drop of doubt that those he named would obey without hesitation. For everyone understood: even if their path seemed different, Zhalgaztur saw further than any of them. And he spoke not in his own name, but by the will of the ruhs. And to disobey them would mean committing a crime against Heaven itself.

  Not lingering another moment, he left the hospitable house. Putting on his boots and taking the staff he had left outside, Zhalgaztur confidently set off to fulfil the Aruak's command. His steps gradually faded into the evening silence of the aul, until the baksy's figure dissolved into the distance, on the path to the cave of spirits, where he must meet the last wandering soul.

  He knew: his Tagdyr was bound to this soul, a fate inscribed by Heaven itself. Not only his own, however. The fate of the entire world, it seemed, was intertwined with this soul, which was about to enter this world.

  Entering the cave, Zhalgaztur lowered himself to the floor, crossing his legs. The stone was cold, but he did not notice. His breathing evened, his mind entered calm. No more than ten minutes remained until the soul's arrival.

  And suddenly the silence was torn by the dull, confident tap of a staff. Once, twice, thrice. Zhalgaztur was in no hurry to open his eyes. He already knew who approached. He knew by the weight of the steps, by the vibration of the air, by that cold certainty that preceded an enemy coming with faith, but without understanding.

  He slowly raised his eyelids. Light from the cave's depths trembled, and with each step of the newcomer the stone walls seemed to respond with echoing resonance.

  The priest. Of course it was him. Who else would dare interfere in the ruhs' affairs?

  The air suddenly trembled, lines of force beginning to form into the most complex magical construct. An interweaving of light and fire, sounds and the smell of burnt grass. Zhalgaztur understood: he could wait no longer.

  In one instant he rose. Space flashed, and the baksy vanished from where he had just stood, only to appear in the same moment directly before the priest. The tattoos on his body began to glow.

  A sharp blow with an open palm, precisely to the solar plexus. The air around shuddered. The priest, as if weightless, flew backwards and out of the cave, crashed to the ground, sliding through the dust.

  Dust rose into the air, and the echo of the blow ricocheted along the cave walls for a long time, as if the earth itself had shuddered from the collision of two forces.

  "Don't bother! Your Solar Nexus is damaged... Thus you will only die foolishly, in dust and dirt. Better use this moment to pray to your gods."

  After Zhalgaztur's words, the priest ceased his futile attempts to rise. He had no wish to die. Nor, for that matter, to pray to the gods, and so he remained lying there, devising plans for revenge in his head.

  The baksy turned and went to meet his own fate, his Tagdyr...