Chap­ter XVII opens with an immer­sion into the rhythm of Vril-ya life, where the pas­sage of time is nei­ther dic­tat­ed by the sun nor gov­erned by out­dat­ed cus­toms. Their day is pre­cise­ly struc­tured into twen­ty hours, dis­trib­uted thought­ful­ly between work, recre­ation, and rest. This sys­tem reflects more than efficiency—it reveals how har­mo­ny guides even the most fun­da­men­tal human activ­i­ties. The absence of dark­ness is inten­tion­al, with con­tin­u­ous ambi­ent light­ing out­doors and a dim­ming sys­tem indoors to encour­age sleep. Their mas­tery of illu­mi­na­tion speaks to a cul­ture that refus­es to sur­ren­der to nat­ur­al con­straints. Instead of adapt­ing to the world, they’ve reshaped it to suit their ideals. Their sur­round­ings, designed for men­tal clar­i­ty and phys­i­cal health, reflect a civ­i­liza­tion that sees com­fort as a respon­si­bil­i­ty, not a lux­u­ry.

Time­keep­ing in their world lacks mechan­i­cal clocks in com­mon view; instead, music serves as their chronome­ter. Melodies played at reg­u­lar inter­vals sub­tly mark the hours, infus­ing their envi­ron­ment with an artis­tic yet func­tion­al rhythm. This musi­cal pas­sage of time soft­ens the expe­ri­ence of dai­ly tran­si­tions and strength­ens com­mu­nal bonds. Even in struc­ture, their soci­ety places beau­ty at the cen­ter. These melodies are not arbitrary—they are craft­ed to evoke peace and focus, guid­ing the com­mu­ni­ty through each stage of the day. Such design reflects a belief that dis­ci­pline and cre­ativ­i­ty are not oppo­sites but allies. Life here flows rather than ticks.

Beyond struc­ture, the Vril-ya enjoy remark­able health and longevi­ty. Their cli­mate, engi­neered for con­stan­cy, allows unin­ter­rupt­ed agri­cul­ture, ensur­ing nutri­tion­al bal­ance year-round. Com­bined with a dis­ci­plined lifestyle and the use of vril in med­i­cine, their lives extend far beyond human aver­ages. Dis­ease is near­ly nonex­is­tent. Emo­tion­al strain, the root of many ill­ness­es above, has been reduced through cul­tur­al sta­bil­i­ty. With­out war, want, or polit­i­cal unrest, they face few of the pres­sures that short­en lives else­where. Their calm hearts beat slow­er but longer. Theirs is not a hur­ried life—it is a delib­er­ate one.

How­ev­er, this per­fec­tion comes at a cost. The arts, par­tic­u­lar­ly lit­er­a­ture and dra­ma, have dimin­ished over time. In a soci­ety where con­flict is absent and equal­i­ty reigns, the ten­sions that dri­ve poet­ry, sto­ry­telling, and artis­tic explo­ration no longer res­onate. Dra­ma, root­ed in suf­fer­ing or ambi­tion, finds no audi­ence here. Their libraries hold works from a more tur­bu­lent past, but few new pieces emerge. Cre­ativ­i­ty that once flour­ished through hard­ship now seems unnec­es­sary. What remains is tech­ni­cal writ­ing, his­tor­i­cal record, and philo­soph­i­cal commentary—valuable, but emo­tion­al­ly dry. Pas­sion has been paci­fied. The can­vas is smooth, but the brush sel­dom moves.

A dis­cus­sion with Aph-Lin fur­ther deep­ens this reflec­tion. He explains that as their civ­i­liza­tion advanced, the need for art as cathar­sis fad­ed. Inequal­i­ty and striv­ing gave birth to genius, but those engines have long since been shut down. The Vril-ya regard these ear­li­er works as relics—powerful, but belong­ing to an age they’ve sur­passed. For them, progress meant leav­ing behind the tur­moil that inspired much of human expres­sion. Yet, the nar­ra­tor won­ders if some­thing vital was lost. Can peace replace the fire that once drove cre­ation? Or does sta­bil­i­ty slow­ly silence the voice of the soul?

This ques­tion lingers. The Vril-ya have trad­ed the chaos of progress for a serene sta­sis. What they’ve gained in peace, they may have lost in depth. Their lives are longer, health­i­er, more secure—but do they feel less? Emo­tion has not van­ished, but it no longer gov­erns. Their joys are calm, their sor­rows mut­ed, their ambi­tion reshaped into ser­vice. The nar­ra­tor begins to sense that progress with­out fric­tion may lead to still­ness, not growth. In seek­ing per­fec­tion, the Vril-ya have cre­at­ed a world immune to inspi­ra­tion. And while their world daz­zles, it also leaves him won­der­ing if suf­fer­ing and aspi­ra­tion are not curs­es, but hid­den gifts.

As this chap­ter clos­es, the narrator’s admi­ra­tion is tem­pered by doubt. The Vril-ya live wise­ly, but per­haps too wise­ly. Their path has led them to peace, yet he can­not shake the feel­ing that some­thing essen­tial has been left behind. Not wealth or com­fort, but the wild, painful, beau­ti­ful chaos that gives art its heart­beat. He sees their light—but ques­tions what shad­ows were lost in its mak­ing.