That night, Shin sat at the edge of a quiet ridge overlooking the lake. The air was warm. It was barely six, yet the sun was already beginning to fall, spilling faint gold across the far horizon.
It was still—still in a way that reminded him of the day before he was summoned to the Wind Tower. The day before everything had changed forever.
It was the same. That heavy silence, that strange weight in the air that seemed to wait for something unseen. Back then, he hadn't understood what it meant. He'd mistaken it for peace.
But now he knew better. Stillness was never peace. Calmness should not be mistaken for inactivity. The absence of motion only meant one thing: The world itself was holding its breath, right before the wind returned.
He watched as the light dimmed across the lake, each ripple catching fire before fading into shadow. Somewhere far off, the trees shivered, and the faintest breeze began to stir.
Shin closed his eyes. The air shifted again, brushing against him—this time, not just wind, but recognition.
Huh, what's going on with me? Why on earth do I feel so nostalgic today? I don't even have anything to be nostalgic about. As he wondered about this question, the ugly doubts found their way into his thoughts.
And for the briefest of moments, his heart wavered; Was it really the right thing to do? Was it really the right thing to do? To come here, to the other side of the Atlantic, where the equatorial sun erased the shadows of home, all while not fully understanding his own abilities first?
He shook his head. How foolish. Lightning was not going to wait forever. Besides, fortune favored the bold. There was no reason to delay this trip, let alone when delaying it once could result in not doing it at all—and Shin was not one to accept that.
Let's leave it at that, he told himself. His mood lifted a little, and he began humming an old tune—some stupid song he'd heard so long ago that even its name had vanished from memory.
His eyes drifted toward the sky, where each cloud was thick and dark as the coming of the storm. Their color was one thing, but Shin could almost feel their weight pressing down, as if they might fall from the sky at any moment. Then, even before the thought could fully settle in his head, something within them pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat.
It was not thunder. Not really.
But something close.
What on earth was it?
The silence felt eerie. It was strangling, yet it was not empty. Like electric waves passing through a microphone, it carried everything from the faint chirp of insects hidden in the grass to the distant slap of water against the docks. Each sound seemed sharper against the pause, as if the world was holding back something larger. Even the mosquitoes felt cautious, circling in the air yet never landing, as though the air itself warned them away.
He put the thought away and went to sleep.
But the strange weather continued for the days to come. At first, it was subtle. The clouds lingered longer, and lightning cracked in the distance more often, but it never came with thunder. Animals began avoiding certain ridges, and even birds flew lower than they used to.
"Why is the weather bad even when I went to the other side of the world?" He grumbled to himself one morning.
By the fifth evening, the wind finally carried something new. The air tasted metallic, with a sharp and dry taste lingering at the back of the throat. Shin narrowed his eyes toward the mountain ridge, feeling the air pressure in his chest. This wasn't just the weather; it was something older, thicker, and unnervingly familiar.
He adjusted his jacket and made his way down a narrow side road into the nearest village. He quickly found what he searched for—a small pub nestled under a canopy of old trees and flickering neon. The kind of place tourists walked past but locals returned to out of habit.
God damn it, he sighed. Ok, here we go.
He didn't enjoy pubs. They were too smelly, too noisy, and way too crowded for his comfort. But they were perfect for one thing: stories. And a story was exactly what he needed.
Inside, the pub was dimly lit, filled with the static hum of an old speaker and the lazy rhythm of a local guitar loop. He took a stool at the end of the bar—not hidden, but quiet enough-and ordered a beer without looking up. A few glances landed on him, but none stuck for long. He was just another foreigner with tired eyes and no genuine interest in the world around him.
Good.
He listened around. Three older men sat in the corner, their voices lowered over half-finished beers. One pointed toward the hills. "Saw it cracked," the man said, shaking his head. "I swear. There was no sound, but it lit up like God himself was angry."
Shin's ears sharpened.
The man leaned forward, gesturing vaguely with his cup. "If you don't believe me, just ask Donny. His dog refused to move the whole morning after. Wouldn't even leave the kennel."
"Probably because they saw your face," the third man snorted, and the rest burst out laughing. Another one tried to tell another joke, but the first man brushed him off.
"Nah, man, it was not some normal thunder, I tell you. It was some weird white arc—something like... like a blade drawn across the sky. I'm serious. It wasn't just about the rain; it was the clouds frickin' opened. I swear on my great grandma's life."
Shin waited a moment before coming over. Then spoke softly: "Where?" The men looked at him—slightly surprised he'd been listening. "Alto Norte," the first said. "Cliff edge, past the second quarry. Don't bother, though. It's just scorched dirt now."
Shin nodded. "Thanks." That was all he needed.
The road out was narrow and broken, lined with cane fields that rustled without wind. The day was already over by the time he started this "hike". He climbed there just as the sun silently disappeared over the horizon, paving the way for the radiant moon above.
Even though the moon was mostly hidden behind the clouds, its serene light pierced through the sky, illuminating the mountain Shin traveled. For a moment, Shin imagined the moon was looking down with an eager interest, as though it was curious about the little man trying to catch the sky.
Every few steps, he paused. The rocks scraped underfoot with a sound that felt too loud against the charged silence. Each pause let him taste the air again—always the same: dry metal, waiting.
The further he went, the more the air pressed against him. Not with weight—but with presence. The wind wasn't random anymore. It bent in deliberate patterns, like threads pulled through a loom.
He stopped once, crouched at a ridge, and placed his palm on the stone. It was faint, but it was there—a massive amount of Divine Power, unlike anything he had sensed before. Not flowing—not wild like fire or explosive like lightning—but settled. Pressurized.
Something had left its mark here.
At least I didn't come all the way here for no reason. Hopefully, I am close. He said quietly, sounding more like he was trying to reassure himself rather than ascertain a fact.
By the time the stars began to scatter overhead, the resonance was unmistakable. Shin moved with care, his footfalls nearly silent. He passed a ridge of moss-covered stones which slipped between two vine-covered columns of fractured rock—
And the sky opened.
There was no thunder or rush of wind, yet the impact was just as grand. The light that was emitted was anything but natural. It was a tear in the cloud layer—thin, sharp, and perfectly silent. And from it, a structure began to descend.
Damn... Just damn. That was the first thought Shin had. Even though he had already been inside a tower once and even cleared it, this was the first time he had seen one from outside. However, something about this tower felt... wrong.
For a moment, the massive structure looked like a temple carved from light, then like a machine, then like neither—its form steadily shifting as though undecided what it should be yet. Its angles bent in a way that no geometry should hold, forming a semi-tangible castle that barely looked like it belonged in this world. Each edge caught the moonlight and broke it as it touched, scattering strange reflections across the ridge.
It didn't fall or hover. It could only be described as if unfolding from the sky, lowering as though reality itself had been forced to accept its presence. For a moment, the world beneath seemed to tilt as though gravity leaned to make space.
Shin stopped before its gate. In front, a brand new tower awaited. He stood unmoving on the hilltop—his breath caught, but his heart was racing once more. A familiar sense spread through his body.
Not fear.
Nor awe.
Something much worse.
Excitement.