The next days changed the rhythm of the village. Instead of scattered experiments, groups formed under the school’s roof.

Dev and a handful of helpers worked only on paper. They tore cotton, pounded pulp, pressed sheets under stones, and argued endlessly over thickness. Nearby, soap-makers refined their mixtures, testing oils and ash in careful proportions. The match group kept records—how long each stick burned, how often it failed.

Riaan moved between groups like a bridge, answering questions, but never handing out solutions. “Test again,” he said often. “Write down what you did. If it worked once, it must work twice.”

Slowly, progress appeared. Paper sheets came out nearly the same thickness. Soap bars hardened properly without crumbling. Matches lit more reliably. The villagers began to see the value of patience, of method, of repeating until perfect.

One evening, Dev presented a bundle of papers to Riaan. “All twenty sheets came out the same,” he said, pride soft in his voice.

Riaan felt the corners of his mouth lift. “Then we are ready.”

The next market day, the merchant returned. His sharp eyes scanned the crowd, perhaps expecting another rush of uneven goods. Instead, Riaan stepped forward with a small wooden crate. Inside lay neatly cut soap bars, carefully wrapped papers, and boxes of matches.

“Test these,” Riaan said simply.

The merchant struck a match. It flared strong and steady, lighting the bundle of straw beneath. He rubbed the soap between his hands—it foamed evenly, no grease left behind. He bent a sheet of paper; it flexed without tearing.

For the first time, his lips twitched upward. “Better. Much better.”

He looked at Riaan, then at the villagers gathered behind him, their eyes wide with nervous hope. “You have the beginnings of trade. If you can keep this quality, I will take these to the next town. There are buyers for such things.”

A cheer erupted. Some villagers clapped, others hugged. Even Dev, usually quiet, grinned openly.

Riaan, however, only nodded. He felt pride, yes—but also caution. One success did not guarantee the future. But it was proof that they could meet the world outside their borders, not as beggars, but as makers.

That night, the village square glowed with more than firelight. It glowed with belief. Belief that their small world was no longer isolated. Their work, their knowledge, their future—it could reach beyond the horizon.