The current state of global warming has driven Earth to extreme weather conditions, making it hard to find habitable spaces or remnants of human civilization. Only near the Arctic or Antarctic can one still witness surviving civilizations, each developing their own unique traits over time. Due to unforeseen circumstances, I’ve found myself on two such islands near the Arctic. This marks my fifth year here. 

Current Temperature: The global temperature has risen between 10 to 20 degrees Celsius. 

As an anthropologist, I am documenting everything I observe. This region consists of two islands: Zone A and Zone B. Their interaction is extremely limited, and as a result, they have developed drastically different ecosystems, cultures, and beliefs. Both islands are highly isolated and resistant to outside influence, making my research here quite challenging. 

Zone A is a long, narrow island, with its middle portion partially separated by the sea, dividing it into two regions: Zone A1 and Zone A2. These two regions have distinct roles and centers of activity. Zone A1 is the island's industrial and economic hub, containing power generation, water purification, two large external ports along the coast, mineral mines, and a small forest. The living space here is limited, mostly used for temporary housing for workers. Located in the northern part of the island, Zone A1 experiences harsher climate changes and has lower vegetation cover. However, a large glacier at the northern tip, though partially melted, still remains, providing the island with fresh water.

Zone A2, on the other hand, is primarily the residential area for the island's inhabitants. The infrastructure is built around the needs of daily life. Due to limited land space, only the wealthy can afford to live on land, while ordinary citizens reside in floating homes on the water in the bay of Zone A1. Zone A thrives on a robust fishing industry that not only sustains itself but also exports goods to Zone B. Because large parts of Zone A are submerged, the island has a long coastline. Many residents rely heavily on the sea, engaging in fishing and freediving. Diving skills and knowledge of tides and marine life are passed down through generations, with the younger learning from the elders. Over time, the islanders of Zone A have developed extraordinary cold tolerance and lung capacity, with expanded chests and rib cages. These people can dive up to 150 meters into the sea. Living so closely with the sea, they hold a deep reverence for it.
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Residents of Zone A have a totemic belief centered around the Bearded Seal, symbolizing power and loyalty. A legend passed down through generations tells of how, on the day of the apocalypse, the ancestors of Zone A were saved by a massive Bearded Seal. During their wandering, they became friends, and upon reaching this place, the seal transformed into the island on which their descendants now live. The Bearded Seal is honored as a powerful symbol of loyalty and strength, woven into the community’s art, stories, and rituals, reinforcing their shared identity. The community holds annual festivals to celebrate their heritage, totem beliefs, and the legends of the Bearded Seal. These events foster cultural pride and strengthen social bonds.

Given the extreme polar conditions of the island, the residents have developed unique adaptations, such as bioluminescent tattoos that glow in the dark. These tattoos symbolize their connection to the ocean and serve as navigational aids during night fishing expeditions. Art plays a vital role in their communication, with visual storytelling—using symbols and icons—engraved onto shells. These shells not only function as a means of communication but also as decorative art.

The islanders' language is deeply influenced by their totemic culture, with phonetic sounds resembling those of the Bearded Seal. This creates unique expressions that reflect their reverence for nature. However, due to human-caused pollution centuries ago, harmful substances in the seawater have resulted in prolonged exposure to wastewater, causing visible skin distortions. Their skin lacks elasticity, with conditions such as pigmentation spots, blisters, peeling, and scaly patches. The appearance of these islanders differs significantly from that of regular humans. Their knowledge is not highly advanced technologically, but their expertise revolves around the sea.

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I stand at the heart of Zone A’s busiest harbor, watching as the first hints of dawn fight through the overcast sky. It’s barely light, and yet the port is already alive with energy. Ships from last night’s haul are rolling in, their crews eager to unload before the start of the long polar night. In Zone A, every citizen has a role, and this morning, the focus is on one thing: stockpiling as much seafood as possible before the extreme cold and endless nightfall make the seas treacherous.

My injured leg prevents me from joining the fishing crews, so I linger by the harbor’s railroad station, waiting for my father and the rest of the night’s crew to return. Nearby, fishermen are already heaving crates of fish and seaweed onto the dock, their arms marked with faint tattoos that echo the patterns of our guardian totem, the Bearded Seal. In this dim light, the markings seem to glow faintly—a reminder of the endurance and strength our community holds dear.
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The biggest port on our island stretches before me, lined with metal ships painted with the Bearded Seal emblem—a nod to our respect for this noble creature. The prows of these boats, slightly curved like the seal’s face, lead the way, while fish-scale patterns run down the sides of the hulls. Both ends of each deck feature dynamic light systems that shift brightness and color depending on visibility needs. Algae farms line the edges of the decks, and fluorescent ropes extend from beneath the boats, glowing softly in the early light. These cords stretch down to the depths, guiding freedivers as they move through the water. Equipped with clips, the cords make it easy for divers to latch on and anchor themselves mid-swim.

It’s the busiest, noisiest time of day at the port, and I can hear the songs of the fishermen as they unload, their voices keeping rhythm and enhancing their teamwork. They wear waist pouches woven from vines and palm leaves to carry tools and smaller treasures found during dives. Their belts, made of seashells and woven fibers, are both practical and symbolic. Many also wear natural garments dyed with pigments from marine life, and the women decorate their hair with seashell headbands and bracelets made of fish bones. After each dive, we wear capes crafted from fish skins lined with cotton fiber, which provide warmth and repel water—perfect for rainy days or the chill of nightfall.

Suddenly, my neighbor sister comes running toward me, her eyes lit with excitement. "Look what I found in the ocean today, Bru!" she exclaims, showing me a small black rectangular object—a phone, its material unlike anything I’ve ever seen.

“What is it?” I ask, curious.

“I have no idea, but it has to be from the old civilization. If I hand it in, there’ll be a reward for sure. Hopefully, the researchers can uncover what it was used for,” she says, her enthusiasm infectious. I nod, but my gaze lingers on her arms, where faint patches of skin have started to peel.

“Your skin…” I start to say, worry creasing my brow.“Oh, this?” she replies, dismissively. “It’s nothing. Father says it’s a mark of honor, the sign of a true diver.” She shrugs, and I look around. Nearly every fisherman shows signs of skin damage in varying stages—scales, peeling, patches of transparency. We know that as the skin becomes more translucent and loses elasticity, it marks the end of a diver’s career in the water.
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To my left, a massive freight train lets out a low horn—signaling that inspections are complete and it’s ready for today’s cargo. The train will carry today’s harvest, its front bearing a carved seal’s whiskers like a guardian watching over the precious load. This locomotive, a relic from the world before, has been carefully preserved with patchwork metal plates scavenged and repaired over generations. It runs on a hybrid engine powered by both coal and solar energy. During the brief polar days, solar panels covering the roof of each car store energy, sparing the train’s coal reserves. In the still, gray dawn, I can see engineers inspecting the solar panels, their faces smeared with algae and mud paste—a local invention to shield their skin from the harsh sea wind.

While the engine powers up, government officials at the harbor station prepare to register today’s catch. Each fish and crate of seaweed is meticulously documented by clerks in wide-brimmed hats, whose brims curl up like the whiskers of a seal—a symbolic echo of Zone A’s resilience. These clerks occupy raised platforms along the harbor, allowing them to oversee the loading and ensure every crate makes it onto the train.

The cargo cars on the train, crafted from repurposed metal and insulated with seaweed fiber and fish skins, keep the catch cool. Nearby, a group of fishermen heaves a crate filled with shimmering fish onto the platform. Each fish, checked and documented, is moved onto the insulated train cars that preserve the catch for transport inland.

In the thickening morning light, the train glows faintly, thanks to bioluminescent markings salvaged from marine organisms. The glowing edges of the train illuminate the intricate fish-scale pattern carved into its hull—a tribute to our life-giving ocean. The design isn’t merely aesthetic; its carved texture gives the train’s exterior extra durability against the salt air and constant use.
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In Nozea, technology and faith are woven together, shaping both the daily lives and the collective consciousness of its people. The islanders venerate what they call the “Memory of the Sea,” a powerful force believed to hold fragments of an ancient, advanced civilization that met its downfall due to over-reliance on technology. These remnants, resting at the ocean’s depths, are seen as selective gifts from the Memory of the Sea itself—rewards bestowed upon those who demonstrate humility and respect for nature.

Central to their beliefs is the reverence for the bearded seals, creatures that the islanders consider to be the guardians and messengers of the Memory of the Sea. Legends tell of these seals guiding the island's ancestors to the first ancient relic, imparting them with the wisdom and skills necessary for survival. The islanders have since adopted the bearded seal as a sacred totem, its image carved into boats, tools, and buildings to invoke protection and fortune in both seafaring and technological restoration activities.
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Before each expedition to retrieve relics, villagers perform a ritual, offering small portions of food or handmade trinkets by the shore to honor the sea and request safe passage. Artifacts brought ashore are treated with reverence, and only skilled restorers—known as "keepers of memory"—are permitted to study and repair them. These keepers must pledge, before the totem stone, to carry out their work with humility. Breaking this vow, it is believed, would anger the sea and cause the Memory of the Sea to withhold its gifts.

At the heart of Zone A stands the “Memory Shrine,” where irreparable relics are enshrined. Islanders visit regularly, bringing offerings to express gratitude for past wisdom and hope for future discoveries. The shrine is adorned with motifs of bearded seals encircling relics, symbolizing the unity of human and natural realms. Art, song, and oral traditions in Zone A reflect these beliefs, depicting seals guarding relics or carrying symbols representing ancient wisdom. Through these, villagers pass down cautionary tales of the ancient civilization’s fall, reminders of the need for balance between technology and respect for nature.

Guided by a principle of “wisdom and restraint,” technology in Zone A is used sparingly and only for essential needs, emphasizing stewardship over unchecked advancement. This balance underpins their society, safeguarding their future by avoiding the mistakes of the past. For the people of Zone A, their culture is rooted in stewardship and reverence—a unique blend of scientific exploration and respect for the mysteries of their world.

Zone A also holds a deep commitment to peace and balance, understanding that the collapse of prior civilizations resulted not only from resource overuse but from conflicts that fractured humanity. They cherish the belief that every part of the world is interconnected, with each piece essential to stability. This worldview shapes their interactions with others, including Zone B, who may differ in appearance, beliefs, and customs. To Zone A, diversity strengthens resilience, rather than threatening it.

In their mythology, the ocean is not just a provider but a wise witness, silently bearing the memory of civilization’s rise and fall. The relics they salvage serve as symbols of possibility and caution, reminding them of life’s fragility. Peace, for Zone A, is an active choice, rooted in empathy and respect for all life. They believe the world’s balance is delicate, and even minor divisions could spark collapse, leading them to foster understanding and unity instead of dominance.

Despite this outlook, they remain cautious, heeding old stories that warn against close alliances with others. These tales recount how past civilizations fell through greed, resource exploitation, or cultural dilution due to overconnection. Such cautionary stories, passed down over generations, reinforce a guarded independence, as interdependence is seen as a potential path to conflict.
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In Bazone, remnants of pre-collapse religion play a central role in their culture and beliefs. While there is no unified religious system in this region, ancient faiths and rituals are deeply embedded in their way of life, closely tied to their geometric worship and stone reverence. The people of Zone B do not simply worship natural elements; they integrate the gods of the pre-collapse civilization with their stone circles, herbs, and healing practices, giving these rituals profound meaning. Specifically, the people of Zone B believe that the inhabitants of the pre-collapse civilization (possibly gods or important figures from ancient times) once lived on this land, and they view these figures or entities as deities. They revere and pass down their myths and beliefs.
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According to legend, the religious system of the pre-collapse civilization consisted of multiple gods, each representing different aspects of nature, such as the sun, moon, stars, wind, water, and life force. The people of Zone B have preserved the powers of these gods through the arrangement of stones. For example, when they arrange stones into a circle, it symbolizes the "God of Life," who grants vitality and the power of rebirth; when the stones are aligned in a straight line, it represents the "God of Time," guiding the people through the cycles of polar days and nights, as well as the changing of the seasons; and when arranged in a cross pattern, it signifies the "God of the Cosmos," imparting understanding and reverence for the order of nature and celestial phenomena. These divine powers represent the fundamental elements of the universe and nature, and the people of Zone B believe that by using the correct rituals and symbols, they can maintain a connection with these gods, receiving divine protection and guidance.

Each year, the tribes perform a sacred ritual in which they arrange the stones according to ancient traditions to communicate with these gods. During the ceremony, villagers gather around the stone arrangements to sing, dance, and offer gifts, hoping to express their respect and receive blessings from the gods. Each stone arrangement carries a different divine blessing, and the choice of the pattern is closely tied to astronomical events, seasonal changes, and the tribe's needs.
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"Captain Jagabu, we've detected a large school of fish, and there's also a possibility that there are artifacts from the pre-civilization here. Should we stay for a while to harvest another batch?" Yueduo, wearing a cloak made of fish skin, which featured a Cyperus elegans pattern sewn by his partner Natasha using seaweed, asked, holding it up on his head.
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"Your cloak looks great. Maybe I’ll ask Natasha to make one for me next time," I said playfully, taking off my captain’s hat. It was made from the leather of deep-sea fish I hunted with my master during our first expedition. I cherished it dearly, especially because it was lined with the pearl-colored down feathers from "pearl seagulls" (a special down extracted from their feathers, which are extremely light and warm, making them perfect for both decorative and functional clothing). This down was a symbol of honor—I'm the best and, so far, the youngest captain.

"Alright, let's go. I’m diving in today to keep my skills sharp. I don’t want to forget them," I added, as I stripped off my fish-skin coat and moved toward the sides of the boat. I greeted my crew, all of whom were excellent divers. Our bodies were adorned with glowing totem tattoos made from pigments derived from plants that had been cultivated in water contaminated by nuclear waste—this was part of our coming-of-age ceremony. These tattoos protect us and make it easier to spot each other underwater. We all coated our exposed skin with a layer of sunscreen made from a mixture of seaweed and mud to protect against sun exposure and sea winds. This layer could easily be wiped off with sea anemone mucus without damaging our skin. At our waists, we carried woven fishing-net-style bags made from seaweed ropes or vines—an essential tool for our journeys. While we awaited the lowering of the ropes, my crew chatted and discussed plans for the upcoming holiday and the rewards we would receive. Their voices were lively, like being at home, but my thoughts drifted, and the smell of the salty sea air made me feel at peace, as if I were naturally meant to be here.

"Ah-woo-ee-ah, ah-woo-ee-ah, ah-woo-ee-ah!" The three horn blasts, resembling the sound of sea lions, rang out, and the ship went silent. At the third blast, everyone jumped into the water. The fishing nets were thrown into the distance, and my thoughts snapped back to reality. Once underwater, I focused on my breathing. The world was quiet, and I looked ahead, scanning my surroundings...

Back on deck, our haul was impressive. We had found several artifacts from the pre-civilization, especially the silver-winged item I had attached to my waist. I had no idea what it was for, but I hoped it would help advance our technology."

Everyone, hurry up and rinse off with clean water and apply the ointment," I called out."

Captain, don’t worry. We're used to it. We work in this line of work and are constantly exposed to seawater. What skin can escape the fate of infection?" one crew member laughed, his voice tinged with self-deprecation. His eyes drooped slightly, as if saying the ocean had brought him not only freedom but also pain he could never recover from. His skin had visible flakes.

I immediately responded, "Well, hurry up then. I want you to keep working for a few more years," while my mind wandered back to memories of my master, my aunt, who was once a formidable ama (female diver). She could dive deeper than most men, but as the sea eroded her skin, it went from peeling to losing elasticity, eventually falling off in parts, and she could never recover. It was a sad moment when she could no longer board the ship.

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At dawn, I followed the fishing boat to the port, unloading the goods. As usual, the port was bustling with activity, almost like a city that never slept. Ships were constantly arriving at their scheduled times, coming and going in a tight, orderly fashion. Headquarters had informed us of our docking time via the messenger birds. As we neared the shore, I could already see my old acquaintance, Gabo, leading her team, waiting at the dock. We had such great coordination that as soon as I anchored, she was already securing the chains and setting up the unloading frame for me. The whole process flowed effortlessly—before I could even react, everything was arranged. The triangular frame, though odd in shape, was incredibly efficient. I once thought it was a piece of pre-civilization wisdom, but to my surprise, it had been invented by Gabo's mother. With the help of the waves turning the turbine rollers, the conveyor belts on top efficiently carried the goods down. The height and angle of the frame were adjustable, and each frame had five separate conveyor belts to allow multiple loading points at once.

Gabo had inherited her mother's ingenuity, and her efficient management policies had quickly helped her take over six teams.
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“What are you standing there for?” Gabo asked with a grin as she saw me. I smiled, embarrassed, and handed her the mutated seashells I had collected during my journey. She was particularly fond of rare items.
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“Wow! Did you find these on your trip? I’m actually short on seashells for my sculpture, it’s almost finished. Come with me, I’ll show you.” She bounced off excitedly and led me to the back yard of the port’s duty room. There, a large sculpture in the shape of wind caught my eye.
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“I was thinking the other day about how to capture something intangible, like the feeling of the sea breeze on my skin. You know, as time goes on, our skin’s sensitivity starts to fade,” she said, her voice becoming momentarily low before she perked up again. “So I created this sculpture, haha! And now your shells are perfect for it.”
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I approached the port officials, who were dressed in fish-skin jackets and seaweed-fiber woven skirts and pants. Their eyes were full of arrogance. I tried to keep my voice steady, as no one wanted to offend them. After reporting the quantity of the goods I had collected, there was a moment of silence. The tension in the air was palpable. The official holding the pen was a middle-aged man, with a thick, seal-like curled beard. In his hand, he held a piece of seaweed paper, which had been dried and processed to make sheets, similar to paper. The seaweed paper he held was a high-quality, smooth government-grade item—ordinary people couldn't afford such luxury. Alongside him, eight other officials, four men and four women, were counting the goods.

About 15 minutes later, the man stamped the counting sheet with a red seal. I sighed in relief. To be honest, I didn’t enjoy dealing with them. Sometimes, they seemed too serious. I gathered my team and, under the supervision of the officer, we walked to the massive railway near the port. The tracks were somewhat worn, a valuable relic from the pre-civilization era and the primary mode of transportation in our country. Of course, our Pre-Civilization Research Institute had cracked the technology, and we had added new paths to it based on city planning, connecting the entire island.

This railway was coal-powered, a hybrid model. Originally designed to burn coal, it had since been retrofitted to integrate solar energy. During the day, solar panels on top of each carriage collected energy. When there was ample sunlight, these panels could power the train, reducing coal consumption and conserving resources, especially during the rare periods of sunlight in the polar region. At night, or when sunlight was weak, the train would automatically switch to coal reserves. However, it only used enough coal to maintain a slow and steady speed in order to save energy. This feature was a modification made by engineers in Zone A.
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After waving goodbye to Gabo, I boarded another passenger train. I sat on a long bench woven from seaweed fibers, the cabin bustling with activity. These fibers were both elastic and waterproof, providing comfort during the journey. Above, retractable awnings made from old ship sails hung down, softening the dim morning light.

The journey would take just three hours to reach my friend Yeynn's home. As we had agreed in a letter a month ago, he had been waiting for me eagerly. Yeynn and I had been childhood neighbors, both of us raised in the largest floating city, aptly named Floating City. All the houses in this city drifted over the shallow waters, occasionally touching the land when the tide went out, particularly during the full moon. The city was constructed from reinforced floating platforms, capable of supporting several housing units. While each house could float independently, they were connected by strong chains or steel cables to form a stable community, preventing them from drifting apart due to water currents or strong winds.
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My childhood memories were filled with joy—dancing on the platforms, learning to surf. The people in our community were friendly, and because the work cycles were long, rotating every three months, neighbors would always help one another. As kids, we played together constantly. Yeynn's parents, both researchers, were often busy and would send him to our house for meals, especially enjoying the food my grandfather prepared. After an aptitude exam at age eight, Yeynn was sent to a specialized planting school due to his talent in agriculture. From then on, we spent less time together, but perhaps because of our childhood bond, we stayed in touch through bird-delivered messages.

He greeted me at the entrance to the plantation, where access was controlled, though not as strictly as at the research bases. A special guide was required to enter. The plantation was vast, divided into several sections to simulate different environments: greenhouses, sandy areas, and even underwater-like spaces. Everyone worked efficiently, each person holding a notebook and immersed in their tasks. The air was filled with a mix of smells as he excitedly shared his latest progress and the challenges he faced with seaweed flowers.

Looking at him, his enthusiasm was infectious. He led me into one of the tents, where the sound of clear water flowed in the background, the air inside was cool. He pointed to a modest blue flower in the corner and said, "This is the wind-sensing flower. It may look small, but it can spread into a whole field. The color and the number of petals change depending on the strength of the wind. By the way, I remember your sister isn’t studying planting, why would she need this flower?"

I replied, "She’s working on a project that requires the compounds in this flower, so I had to come to you.""

Research!" Yeynn exclaimed, "She got selected for the research institute? That's incredible! She’s stepping into a different life, receiving elite education and studying ancient texts from the pre-civilization era…”

"Research institutes are restrictive though. No freedom, everything’s scanned by X-rays, and there's no contact with the outside world," I replied.

"But she can do so much more for the island! She’ll have access to the most advanced equipment."

"Your work in planting is just as important," I quickly interjected.

Yeynn smiled sheepishly, scratching his head, and then carefully dug up the wind-sensing flower’s roots and placed them into a special container.
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I pulled out several dark red bills, crafted from seaweed fibers, with an antique hue and a soft, flexible texture that gleamed slightly in the light. This was our island's currency, known for its durability and water resistance, making it perfect for the humid environment. I handed Yeynn a few bills, and he smiled, saying, "These bills are unique. Personally, I prefer trading with shells. It feels more connected to the spirit of our sea."

We both smiled at each other. After a long conversation about the research on seaweed flowers, his close connection with plants, and how he had found his place in a challenging environment, I said my goodbyes and began my journey home. I boarded the train again, continuing my ride along the tracks. After bidding farewell, I began my journey home. On the way, I received a promotion notice from the government, which meant my family would receive more herbs and food, and my responsibilities would become more significant. Without hesitation, I accepted the appointment.
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My first task was to escort goods and engage in trade with Bazone. Accompanying me was a seasoned diplomat—a negotiator whose composure and confidence inspired admiration. With a mix of anticipation and apprehension, I boarded the ship bound for the unknown.

As our ship approached Bazone’s port, the mist gradually dispersed, revealing a scene completely different from my homeland. The port appeared desolate and solemn, lacking the bustling activity of fishing boats that characterized our home’s harbor. Only a few wooden ships were moored at the docks, their faded flags hanging limply from masts, swaying gently in the breeze. The people on the dock wore an eclectic array of attire: some adorned with antlers on their heads, their bodies decorated with vines and feathers, resembling incarnations of nature; others carried bows and arrows with small stone axes hanging at their waists, moving with light and cautious steps; while some had thick beards and held intricately carved wooden staffs topped with metal rings that glinted faintly under the sunlight.
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The air was filled with the salty sea breeze mixed with a faint aroma of decayed wood, as though time had stood still in this place. The planks of the dock creaked softly under the gentle sway of the waves, each step sounding like a knock on one’s heart. I noticed the wooden boards beneath my feet were riddled with fine cracks and covered with a thin layer of moss, making them slightly slippery, as if they were whispering tales of the long years they had endured.

After unloading the cargo, we switched to a smaller boat and navigated winding waterways inland. Along the banks, we passed rows of dilapidated city ruins, where remnants of buildings loomed faintly, as though they could be swallowed by the water at any moment. Some walls leaned precariously, nearly parallel to the water’s surface, their heavy stones smoothed and dulled by the current, covered in vines and moss that claimed every exposed inch. A few buildings had broken window frames, the gaps resembling hollow eyes gazing silently at our journey. The sunlight reflected off the water’s surface, casting mirrored images of these ruins, creating the illusion of a parallel world shimmering in the ripples.
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“Look over there,” he said, pointing to a small stone circle in the distance. The envoy directed my attention to a linear arrangement of stones, explaining that it was an altar dedicated to the "God of Time." The God of Time governed Bazone’s cycles of polar day and night, as well as the changing of seasons. They believed that as long as these stones remained precisely aligned, time would flow in a predictable pattern, allowing their lives to stay in harmony with nature.

As we entered the community, the presence of stone became more prominent. Every building was embedded with stones engraved with runes, arranged in a specific order tied closely to Bazone’s belief system. Some symbols represented wind, others symbolized water, while some intricate patterns were said to record the paths of the stars. Each carving was painted with natural dyes, and though the colors had faded from exposure to the elements, the stones retained a solemn and mysterious aura.
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Following the winding paths, we arrived at Bazone’s marketplace. Unlike the bustling, noisy markets of my homeland, this place exuded a quiet sense of order. People seemed to communicate through glances and gestures rather than loud voices. At the center of the market stood a stone formation arranged in a circle, symbolizing the blessing of the "God of Life." Traders gathered around the stone formation, standing in an orderly line, holding various items in their hands, apparently waiting to participate in some kind of ceremonial transaction.

The trading system in Bazone is remarkably unique. They do not use currency; instead, they rely on bartering, supplemented by a sacred "Covenant Stone" as proof of the transaction. These Covenant Stones are small, rune-inscribed stone tablets typically safeguarded by the elders of each household, symbolizing trust and commitment. The process of trading is steeped in ritual.

I observed a hunter standing at the edge of the stone formation, placing several animals on a sun-symbol-engraved stone slab. Across from him stood a weaver, who took out a shawl woven from natural fibers and laid it on the ground. The two locked eyes briefly before each drew a Covenant Stone from their belongings and placed it gently on the stone slab. The hunter's stone bore symbols representing "Life and Nourishment," while the weaver’s symbolized "Wind and Flow."

An elder, who appeared to be the witness of this exchange, lightly tapped the two Covenant Stones together while murmuring an ancient prayer. At that moment, the runes on the stone formation seemed to glow faintly, as if affirming the transaction's fairness and the sincerity of both parties. Finally, the elder returned the stones to their respective owners. The hunter took the shawl, while the weaver gathered the meat. The entire process was solemn and peaceful, with no disputes, as if conducted under the watchful eyes of the divine. The transaction itself felt like a sacred act.

Each type of good seemed to correspond to a particular deity. At another stall, I saw a farmer trade a basket of fresh berries for a stone slab engraved with intricate star patterns. The locals explained that this was a "Star Chart Stone," symbolizing the "God of the Cosmos," whose wisdom is invoked to find the correct path during the polar night. This type of trade was seen as an exchange of knowledge and sustenance, embodying a mutual relationship between humanity and nature.

Throughout the market, neatly arranged piles of small stones were visible, each representing the rules of trading and the blessings of the gods. Some stone piles were adorned with simple flower wreaths or small carvings, seemingly reminding people that these exchanges were not merely material transactions but also acts of reverence for nature and the divine.
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