Chapter 1: "The World is Blind, Not Me"

The scent of rain-soaked earth filled every corner of the village high school. It was exactly 9:40 AM. High above, the flag of the Arab Republic of Awam fluttered in the wind—a field of pure white bearing a black scorpion, topped by three blood-red dots.

Beneath the towering flagpole, the students stood in formation. Their attire bore a heavy military stamp, perfectly matching the school itself, which looked less like an educational institution and more like a dilapidated military barracks. They wore deep crimson suits over crisp white shirts, adorned with golden embroidery and chest pockets. On their heads sat black caps, reminiscent of a ship captain's headwear. Standing on the podium facing them was the female teacher in charge of discipline. She had a dark complexion and gentle features, and she was trying her absolute best to quiet the chaotic crowd—but it was no use.

A minute later, the Head Proctor stepped out. Also responsible for student discipline, he was a man in his early forties of average height, with thick, sturdy shoulders and a rigid, military posture. His wheat-colored skin and harsh facial features commanded attention. He wore the exact same military suit as the students, but a golden medal rested proudly on his chest. His appearance worked like pure magic; the chaos vanished the very instant he arrived. The teacher’s face flushed bright red, and she quickly tried to mask her nervousness by harshly and spitefully scolding the students.

The students’ demeanor shifted instantly. Not only did the chaos melt away, but they locked into a rigid, synchronized stance. Their bodies stiffened like wooden stakes, perfectly mirroring the Head Proctor’s harsh facial expressions. In that moment, they looked less like individuals and more like multiple clones of a single person.

A heavily-built teenager stepped out from the ranks and stood before his peers in a firm, masculine stance. He barked out in a hoarse voice, drawing out the vowels for emphasis:
"Line up!"

Every student extended their arm straight ahead, creating a uniform distance between one another.

A minute later, he shouted:
"At ease!"

The students dropped their hands to their sides. After another thirty seconds, he shouted again, raising his hand in a salute that starkly mirrored a Nazi soldier:
"May our goals triumph in the endurance of the Arab Republic of Awam!"

The students chanted back in unison: "May they triumph! May they triumph! May they triumph!"

The student leader bellowed: "Let us die in sacrifice for the Eternal Ruler!"

The moment the discipline leader uttered these words, the Head Proctor cast a sharp, piercing glare at the students. Their faces trembled with fear before they parroted back mechanically:
"Sacrifice! Sacrifice! Sacrifice!"

The collective roar scattered into the void, carried by a damp breeze across a vast distance. It traveled nearly eight hundred meters away from the school, finally reaching the pastures where an old shepherd sat near his sheep. He had a frail body and wore tattered clothes, a red woolen hat, and a cream-colored shirt.

The old man was soaking in the spring sun, letting it warm his wrinkled face. His sixty years of life had been more than enough to etch deep laughter lines around his mouth. If it weren't for his scruffy, patchy beard partially covering his face, his appearance might have seemed harsher. Meanwhile, three deep creases lined his sightless eyes, silent witnesses to the immense suffering those eyes had endured before losing their vision entirely.

Curled up asleep beside him was his dog, "Shammam"—named after his unique gift. Shammam had been trained since he was a tiny pup, possessing an extraordinary sense of smell that set him apart from every other dog in the village. He was copper-red, like a brass pot, and had a massive build that made him look like a wolf.

"How are you doing, my friend?" a young man’s voice called out from a short distance away.

The voice was deeply familiar to the shepherd. It belonged to Thabit, one of the village youths. Thabit had a well-groomed beard styled in the latest fashion, thick ginger hair, pale skin, and broad shoulders. He was the picture of vibrant health, though his features lacked perfect symmetry; his nose was hooked and his forehead was exceptionally wide, but his eyes were large and deeply expressive of a profound melancholy.

Thabit was notorious for his extreme silence; he rarely spoke in social gatherings or even with his own family. Yet, whenever he did speak, everyone listened intently—not just because his words were rare, but because he truly knew what to say and precisely when to voice his opinion. His frequent silence, which often resembled sheer indifference, stemmed from his deeply philosophical and contemplative nature. He loved turning ideas over in his mind far more than he cared to voice them, preferring to analyze problems mentally. Despite his deep reservoir of genuine feelings, he was remarkably skilled at concealing them from his face. It was never easy to tell what...

To be continued...