It took Thuta a full day to recover from the shock and exhaustion. He didn't have time to think about the sigil much — hunger demanded attention before curiosity.
He scrounged for a plan while chewing stale dried fish in his tiny room. The sigil on his palm had dimmed, no longer glowing unless he focused. That was good. Less chance of being arrested for being "possessed."
But the professor had made one thing clear — if word got out, Thuta would be a walking target. And worse, he now carried something everyonewanted but no one understood.
"Of course," Thuta mumbled to himself, peering into his empty rice cooker. "I get magical powers, and I'm still broke."
---
Getting to Mandalay wasn't an option. It was a miracle.
With no cash, no ID, and only a ragged backpack, Thuta resorted to pure desperation. He walked out of Yangon under the pretense of heading to a monastery, then headed toward the express highway, hoping for luck.
He didn't have luck. He had weird timing.
First came the bicycle.
He found it abandoned under a bridge — rusty, bent tire, but it moved. He rode it for hours before it broke in half after hitting a pothole the size of a crater.
"Of course," he said, sprawled beside the wreckage. "Even the bike hates me."
Next came the oxcart.
He waved down a farmer, offered to clean out the back in exchange for a ride. The farmer agreed but insisted Thuta also watch over a sack of chickens.
So he rode north with squawking birds and hay in his pants.
"Living the dream," he muttered, trying to keep feathers out of his mouth.
When the ox cart stopped overnight near a river, Thuta wandered off to relieve himself — and returned to find the cart, farmer, and chickens gone.
"Seriously?"
From there, he walked. For twodays.
He stole boiled eggs from roadside stalls, bathed in irrigation ditches, and argued with an aggressive goat. The goat won.
By the fifth day, legs blistered and covered in dust, he flagged down a crowded pickup loaded with fruit vendors heading to Pyin Oo Lwin.
They laughed at his story, fed him banana fritters, and let him ride in the back with the jackfruits.
"You're either a liar," said one of the aunties, "or very unlucky."
Thuta grinned. "Why not both?"
---
He made it to Mandalay by accident. The pickup went further than he thought. He arrived at dawn, smelling like fried oil, goat hair, and desperation.
But Mandalay meant proximity to the next clue. According to U Sein Myint, the Zawgyi tomb's scroll hinted at a secondary site — an ash-covered sanctuary hidden in a region near Mount Popa. Old maps and coded lines spoke of a "return to ash" — a phrase connected to a forbidden alchemical forge.
And now Thuta was here. Dirt poor. Glowing palm. And absolutely no idea what came next.
He sat by a teashop at dawn, nursing the weakest tea imaginable, watching the sun rise.
"Hey," the teashop uncle said. "You gonna pay?"
Thuta raised his empty wallet. "Do you take… ancient relics?"
The uncle gave him a broom.
---
By nightfall, Thuta had cleaned the whole shop, gotten two meals, and a thin blanket in exchange. He slept in the storeroom, curled beside sacks of onions, thinking about fire.
When he closed his eyes, he saw that same dream — ash falling like snow, red-robed figures walking away, and one turning back.
This time, the dream shifted.
There was a woman. Standing alone. Her back to him. A yellow ribbon floated beside her — not tied to her, not part of her. More like a guardian.
She whispered something he couldn't hear.
Then the ribbon flared like flame, and she vanished.
Thuta woke up sweating.
"Great," he whispered. "More questions."
But he couldn't shake the feeling.
That someone was guiding him.
Or watching.
Or both.
He looked at his palm.
The sigil pulsed once. Then dimmed.
Outside, the wind blew softly.
Ash was calling.