Chapter 394 - 279: The Wandering Bedouin

The girl’s name was Laila. When called an Arab, she would insist she was a Bedouin—a Bedouin of the Hawazin Tribe.

The girl’s father was from the Haybar Desert on the Arabian Peninsula. He was a Bedouin of the Hawazin Tribe.

But the Bedouin of the Hawazin Tribe rarely traveled to Medina, because the elders said the people there were always haughty.

Even though it was close to Holy Medina, few would visit the sacred city. In fact, many in the tribe had a poor impression of both the city and its people.

This wasn’t because they had ever been there, but because the tribe’s elders would always shake their heads and say, "The people there are arrogant, their minds filled with nothing but copper coins and urban splendor. They’ve long since lost the glory of their ancestors."

The elders also said that those who left the desert forgot the tribe’s ancient traditions, no longer understanding the resilience forged in sandstorms or the Courage found under the sun and moon.

They become harsh and worldly. Their former bravery and simplicity turn to cunning and deceit. Men who could run for three days in the desert without losing their breath now just haggle with vendors in the streets over a few Ferrus Copper Coins.

In the city, even the camels have learned to haggle. A camel that would once move with a simple flick of the reins now refuses to take a step until it hears the jingle of a Silver Coin.

Faces once weathered by sand and wind have become softer than sweet morning tea, ready to be knocked over by a gentle breeze.

Even the sands of Medina can’t be bothered to lash their faces anymore, as if deeming them no longer warriors worthy of being tested, but rather merchants draped in expensive fabrics.

And the dates steeped in tea, once a symbol of finding joy in hardship, now taste spineless. They no longer carry a trace of resilience, only the cloying sweetness of sugar water. The elders would often lament, "Ah, this world... its splendor so easily softens a person. Even the toughest desert soul cannot withstand this city’s gentle corrosion. Stay far away from those self-degraded people of Medina."

"Ah, the desert! This land, though barren, grants us true wealth. Some say the desert is unforgiving, but only those who have never lived here would think so. The desert is our mother. She tempers our will with scorching sun and sandstorms, and nourishes our souls with the stars and silent nights.

"Here, every sip of water, every piece of flatbread is cherished, for they are hard-won. Yet it is this very hardship that teaches us the meaning of simple happiness.

"In the desert, you are never deluded by luxury. Here, there is only true wealth—Courage, unity, and reverence for nature." The elders would often recite this.

But Laila’s father scoffed at this. He felt that life in the desert wasn’t as wonderful as the elders claimed.

In fact, life in the desert was quite terrible.

The sandstorms were merciless, food was scarce, and the camels were more ill-tempered than the people. And the people here—he often lamented—were irritable and utterly irrational.

Every day felt like it was spent in a never-ending argument—if not over whose sheep drank from whose well, then a quarrel would break out because someone’s tent cast a shadow an inch longer under the moon.

People were always preoccupied with meaningless and absurd matters. One day they would debate whose camel was faster; the next, they’d argue over who hadn’t secured their tent properly in the last storm—as if these trivialities determined who was a "real man" of the desert.

Even more ridiculous, tribes would often come to blows over a sack of dates or a few bolts of low-quality cloth.

The desert wind was fierce, but he sometimes felt that what was even more irrational than the sandstorms was the pride of the people. They would argue until they were red in the face, or even draw swords, over some fleeting, intangible honor.

He would often say with a mocking laugh, "They say desert life teaches courage and wisdom? As I see it, all it teaches people is how to waste a whole day arguing over a pointless camel race and how to let hatred replace reason in the most foolish way."

By the time he was twenty, he was already a renowned warrior in the tribe, invincible as he rode across the desert. His blade was always the sharpest, his gaze the keenest, and under his command, his Warhorse and camels never faltered.

He always managed to seize the most spoils—Golden Artifacts, cloth, and grain. He even captured a rare and famous steed on one occasion. The elders and his peers in the tribe were filled with admiration for him. Every time he returned to the camp, everyone would gather around to hear him recount his thrilling battle stories.

But he had long since grown weary of such a life.

Honor? Spoils? They might have brought him glory and satisfaction at first, but over time, all that glory became as hollow and tedious as the desert wind.

He gradually realized he was just repeating the same things, year after year, all for the sake of vain applause and meaningless praise from the tribe. The clash of swords once made his heart race, but now it just left his ears ringing.

One day, during a raid, he happened to come across some goods from the city. One item in particular caught his eye—an exquisite musical instrument that looked like it was made in some distant city.

The instrument’s wood grain was fine and smooth, and the strings still seemed to hold the faint trace of vibrations from being played.

He carefully put the instrument away and brought it back to his tent. That night, while everyone else was loudly discussing the day’s spoils, he sat alone in his tent, trying to coax a few sounds from it.