"When the sea speaks, it does not whsiper, it remembers." - Old Tilbaran Proverb
The meeting hall emptied one voice at a time, leaving only the faint echo of boots and whispers that refused to fade. The banners of the clans hung still, but the air around them trembled as if the walls themselves could hear the arguing that had filled the room only moments ago.
Ken stood before the great map table, tracing the black line that marked the northern sea. The parchment shimmered faintly under torchlight — almost alive, like the ink didn't want to stay still.
Kabe approached, pulling his gloves tighter. "The council won't stop fighting anytime soon."
Ken didn't answer at first. His eyes were still fixed on the edge of the map, where the waves were drawn like jagged teeth. "They'll argue until the tide swallows them. Maybe that's what they need to hear it."
"Hear what?"
"That the sea's been calling again."
Kabe's brow furrowed. "The reports from Shinganatsu?"
Ken nodded. "Said they heard music across the fog. Not wind, not machines—something older. Something that shouldn't exist anymore."
Before Kabe could respond, the door behind them opened with a groan. Reka-sensei entered, her cloak still wet from travel, the look on her face unreadable. Behind her, a young scout carried a small crystal recorder — one of Harama's sound relics.
Reka set it on the table and pressed its seal.
The hall filled with a hum.
It was faint at first — like a low note struck beneath the sea — then layered voices began to weave through it, rising and falling as if sung by hundreds of throats beneath the water. Not human. Not entirely alive either.
The melody carried words neither of them could fully understand, yet the rhythm made their hearts ache, as though remembering something they had never lived.
Kabe's expression hardened. "That's not wind."
"No," said Reka quietly. "It's something calling from the north."
The humming ceased. Silence followed, heavy and uneven, before she continued.
"Shinganatsu's northern outpost vanished two nights ago. No wreckage. Just this sound left behind."
Ken clenched his fists. "Then it's not just whispers anymore."
"His Majesty ordered we hold the line," Reka said, looking to both brothers. "But I want eyes on the northern cliffs. Kabe, you've led scouting missions before. Take a small team."
Kabe nodded immediately. "Understood."
Ken stepped forward. "Then I'm going with him."
"No." Reka's tone was firm. "You're still recovering. And the Rudhana bond—if that thing across the sea feels it, you could draw its attention before we're ready."
Ken opened his mouth to protest, but Reka's stare stopped him. For the first time in a long while, he saw fear behind her calm.
"Stay," she said. "For once, let someone else carry the edge."
Kabe placed a hand on Ken's shoulder. "I'll go. We'll find out what's happening out there. You keep the fire steady here."
Ken looked away, jaw tight, but nodded.
That night, the northern winds screamed.
Kabe and his unit — five shinobi cloaked in grey — rode along the stone ridges that marked the border between Shinganatsu's lakes and the northern sea. The air grew colder the closer they rode, until even the horses refused to move further.
They dismounted. Beyond the last ridge, the land fell away into sheer cliffs. Below, the sea churned like something alive. Moonlight bled across the waves in fractured streaks.
One of the shinobi whispered, "Do you hear that?"
Kabe lifted his head. The wind carried a low resonance — the same melody from the recording, but louder now, clearer, almost like… words.
He walked to the cliff's edge.
Far below, something moved beneath the surface — vast, glowing lines tracing through the black water like veins of molten metal. The light pulsed, steady, rhythmic, like a heartbeat.
A machine. Or a living thing made of machines.
Then it turned its eye upward.
The ocean flared white.
For an instant, Kabe saw a shape that no man should have — a city beneath the sea, its towers made of inked glass and steel, moving as if breathing. A single figure stood atop its highest spire, watching back.
The light vanished.
Silence swallowed the cliff.
Kabe exhaled sharply, his breath clouding. His team's torches flickered out one by one.
Only the sea remained, black and endless — but somewhere within that darkness, something had opened its eyes.
He touched his comm seal. "Evalia Command, this is Kabe Hiroki. You were right. The north is waking."
The wind answered first.
And then, faintly through the crystal link, came a voice he didn't recognize — not Ken, not Reka, not anyone from Tilbara.
"The Trail remembers its authors."
The line went dead.