Three weeks had passed.
The broken village that once smelled of ash and abandonment now carried the scent of turmeric, fresh grain, and mango smoke.
The streets were still crooked.
The walls still cracked.
But something had changed.
People had begun to sweep.
Children had begun to laugh.
And the Chappel of Goats had become local legends—equal parts warriors, clowns, and miracle workers.
The Shift
It started small.
A woman left a bowl of rice near their camp.
A child returned to the swing they built.
An old man nodded once—just once—when Dhira passed.
Then came the first broom.
A boy, no older than ten, picked up a stick and began sweeping beside Dhira.
He didn't speak.
He didn't smile.
But he swept.
And Dhira didn't say a word.
He just handed the boy a mango.
The next day, three more joined.
By the end of the week, the village was sweeping itself.
The Chappel Evolves
Dhira's five followers had changed too.
They still tripped over goats.
They still argued about mango physics.
But now they trained every morning—staff drills, spear throws, terrain reading.
They sparred with villagers.
They taught children how to dodge.
They built a watchtower from broken carts and coconut rope.
They were still ridiculous.
But they were ready.
The Warning
One evening, as the sun dipped behind the shrine, a traveler arrived.
He was limping.
His robes torn.
His eyes wild.
"Bandits," he gasped. "Coming from the east. They've taken three villages already."
Dhira listened.
The villagers froze.
"They burn what they can't steal," the man said. "They're not like the Black Fang. They're worse."
"Name?" Dhira asked.
"They call themselves the Ash Claw."
The Decision
Dhira stood before the villagers.
"We've rebuilt," he said. "Now we protect."
"We're not fighters," said one elder.
"You weren't cleaners either," Dhira replied. "But you learned."
"We're scared."
"So are we."
"Then what do we do?"
Dhira looked at his team.
They nodded.
"We stand," he said.
The Preparation
The Chappel of Goats led the defense.
They trained the villagers in shifts.
They built barricades from broken carts and grain sacks.
They taught slingshot tactics using mango pits.
They set traps using goat bait and banana oil.
They didn't sleep much.
They didn't complain.
They just worked.
The Night of Fire
The Ash Claw came at dusk.
Ten riders.
Torches.
Blades.
Laughing.
They expected fear.
They found mango pits.
The first rider was knocked off his horse by a slingshot.
The second tripped over a goat trap and fell into a ditch.
The third was blinded by turmeric smoke.
Dhira moved like a storm.
He disarmed two with a spinning staff.
He leapt from the watchtower and landed in the center of the chaos.
His followers followed—tripping, yelling, but fighting with heart.
One used a broom as a spear.
Another rode a goat into battle.
A third threw mangoes like grenades.
The Turning Point
The villagers joined.
They fought with sticks.
They shouted.
They defended their homes.
One old man tackled a bandit with a grain sack.
A child bit an attacker's leg.
A woman threw boiling water from a rooftop.
The Ash Claw panicked.
They hadn't expected resistance.
They hadn't expected unity.
They fled.
The Aftermath
By dawn, the village was bruised.
But standing.
The shrine was still cracked.
But someone had placed flowers on its steps.
Dhira sat beneath the banyan tree, bandaged, tired, smiling.
His five followers sat beside him, covered in soot, mango pulp, and goat fur.
"Boss," said one, "we did it."
"We did," Dhira replied.
"We're heroes," said another.
"We're sweaty," said the third.
"We're hungry," said the fourth.
"We're still the Chappel of Goats," said the fifth.
Dhira looked at the villagers.
They were sweeping.
Laughing.
Living.
"We're home," he said.
And for the first time, the village agreed.