In the Eastern Sea, the tide was wrong.
Salt-slick winds whispered against a jagged reef where no birds landed, and no boats dared drift. But one man was there—a fisherman without a voice, who had once cast nets for spirit fish and now cast only stones.
When the star fell, he did not look up. He could not. But the sound—it was not light. It was memory, heavy and wet like blood-soaked rope.
And in his chest, something opened.
The fisherman whispered in a tongue no one had taught him:
"The man without thread walks again."
At that moment, his eyes turned silver.
Elsewhere in the ocean's deep, a fragment of Heaven's Will detached itself from the sea floor, shaped like a coral thorn, glowing faintly.
It remembered not who it had served. But it hated the one who cracked the sky.