Portugal. Rural Outskirts. Three Days Later.
It's warm. That was Shin's first impression of the country.
The warmth wasn't just in the air, but in everything—the slow rhythm of the streets, the open chatter between strangers, the way sunlight clung to the hills like it refused to leave.
It was the polar opposite of a country like the Netherlands, with its cold weather and somewhat indifferent environment. But then again, he was no longer the same withdrawn student who used to avoid small talk and long walks outside.
By the third day, he'd already adjusted to the town's quiet rhythm. Morning fog drifted lazily through the hills. Merchants opened their stalls with the same practiced routine, and chickens wandered freely across the cobbled roads as if they owned them.
He liked the quiet.
He hadn't trained seriously in days. A few light exercises here and there, or small tests of perception. Most of his time was spent listening, watching, and trying to understand the faint hum that now lingered in his veins.
The divine power inside him hadn't faded, but it had settled—like lightning sleeping beneath the clouds, waiting for the next storm.
It didn't take long for Shin to realize that the abilities he'd gained from Lightning were more than just hearing machines. Yes, that sense had become part of him now, like a sixth sense he could no longer turn off. But there was something else too—another far more interesting ability.
Back when he cleared the Wind Tower, he obtained his first ability. One he called the Three Eyes of the Storm. It was an ability that felt more like an instinct than a technique—like some sort of detection mechanism.
The first 'eye' let him read the world through air itself. It turned the invisible currents into a map, allowing him to sense direction, distance, and every subtle shift in pressure. With it, he could orient himself anywhere, as if the atmosphere itself whispered where he stood.
The second eye reached deeper—it attuned to presence. The range was smaller, but he could feel anything from movement, life, or intention—within a radius, no matter how hidden. That ability had saved him more than once; it turned ambushes into conversations.
As for the third eye… well, he still wasn't entirely sure. When he used it, it was as though time slowed. The air became language—every vibration, every micro-movement, every breath around him translated into meaning. It was overwhelming, almost impossible to sustain, but in that moment, he could predict motion itself.
The Eyes of the Storm was the best ability someone like him could hope for. That was how he'd survived the Lightning Tower—by reading the clones not through his sight, but through the rhythm of air itself.
But just like any power, it had severe limitations. First, the Three Eyes could only be used one at a time. Luckily, switching between them was almost seamless, so it wasn't much of an issue even during a fight. The real problem was that using them for a prolonged time was horrendous. Not only did it make him tire quickly, but it also took a severe toll on his body.
The third one, especially, burned through his body like friction made flesh. By the end of the fight, his eyes felt like they were about to melt from his skull.
He'd learned the hard way that divine gifts came with divine limits.
Still, as he sat now—quiet, unhurried—he couldn't help but wonder if that same principle applied to Lightning. Because while Wind had taught him to perceive, Lightning seemed intent on teaching him to resonate.
And so, out of curiosity, he began with something small.
Language.
Shin had never studied Portuguese. But now, with Lightning's gift subtly humming inside his nervous system, he tried something new. He pushed—slightly—at the edge of his mind, like coaxing a new muscle to flex. The result was sharp focus, faster pattern recognition—and a dull pressure behind his eyes.
As expected, there was more to Lightning's gift.
Over the next three days, he read quietly in street cafés. Every day, he scanned online texts and listened to conversations—watching closely how the locals gestured when they spoke.
By the fourth day, he was starting to understand. And by the fifth, he could follow street talk well enough to get by—and that's when he overheard the story.
A pair of older women were gossiping beside a fish stall, their voices sharp enough to cut through the market's hum. "—and I swear, Maria, he lifted the whole side of the road like it was nothing! I nearly dropped my eggs." The other snorted. "Pfft. Must've been a sinkhole." "No sinkhole throws rocks back up, I'm telling you."
Shin lingered nearby, pretending to check the fruit piled neatly on the corner table. Their chatter slipped easily into the air, too careless to notice the stranger listening. They bickered about "the foreign boy" who'd saved a child, about the ledge that didn't crack after all, about how it must've been "the saints or something." Well, they probably talked about other things, but Shin either couldn't understand or at least didn't care about. He filed the story away without expression, deciding it was worth checking.
Later that afternoon, while wandering closer to the district the women had mentioned, Shin spotted a young boy at a bread stand. He had thin arms, curious eyes, and the right age to have been there. He bought a few sweets from a vendor and approached slowly. "You were near the cliff last week, weren't you?" The boy froze, then gave a cautious nod. Shin offered the sweet, his voice low but steady. "Can you tell me what you saw?"
It didn't take much coaxing. The boy couldn't recall the name precisely—"I think… someone said Thommo?"—but other details came more easily. He was a foreigner. Fairly tall. Sometimes he helped with work and the farms. His sister was louder. Nicer too.
The formed picture was hazy, but it was enough to give a rough location—and more importantly, a pattern. Still, it was insufficient to be sure, so he didn't act immediately.
Over the next few days, Shin allowed himself to drift through the rhythm of the town. He ate in small cafés, asked idle questions at food stalls, or circled back to the plaza where the older women had gossiped. Each return trip gathered more details. Thommo was a foreigner—Australian, most agreed. He had repaired a vineyard wall last week. He didn't talk much, but everyone who met him liked him.
One vendor claimed he had stopped a runaway goat cart with his bare hands; another swore her husband had nearly fallen into a ditch and Thommo had hauled him back up like it was nothing. The stories blurred, exaggerated perhaps, but Shin read the pattern clearly: a potential dajin wielder.
How on earth can someone be so reckless? Is he just a fool, or is he just a normie after all? The question just kept popping up. The rumors made him feel like it was another fellow climber, but would a vessel be such a fool to use his powers so visibly?
Still, without a face, there was no way to find him. However, that changed on the fourth morning, when he heard laughter carried across the fruit stalls. A young woman with dark hair and a not-quite-local accent was chatting with a vendor as she counted out coins. "Thommo's like that," she said with fond amusement.
"He pretends he doesn't care, but he can't help fixing things when no one's looking." The vendor, a tanned woman with a warm voice, chuckled. "Thommo is such a good boy. He helped my husband last month with the olive terrace. Didn't ask for anything."
Shin's ears sharpened. The woman—Anna, as the vendor called her—smiled as she adjusted the load in her arms: two heavy baskets, one hooked beneath her elbow, the other balanced awkwardly against her hip.
Hmm. Seems like she could use a hand.
Shin waited until she turned toward the slope path out of the market. Then, adjusted the wind around her.
Just a tiny nudge.
A gust of wind that swept past the vegetables and caught the corner of her overloaded basket, spilling several carrots and a bundle of green onions to scatter across the cobblestones.
"Oh, damn it," she muttered, dropping to her knees as one basket slid sideways.
Shin stepped forward calmly. "Need a hand?" She blinked up at him, surprised, then offered a quick smile. "Oh! Thanks, I—"
He didn't wait for her to finish. He'd already crouched beside her, collecting the fallen vegetables before handing them over. "It's a lot to carry," he said, handing them over. His gaze flicked to the other basket, still brimming at her side. "Want a hand with the other one?"
Anna hesitated, then gave a slight nod. "Thanks. I guess it's a bit much today. But I live a little far, so—"
"I've got time," Shin said simply. "Let me carry that." Her hesitation cracked into a smile. "Sure, I won't say no."Behind them, the vendor grinned and wiped her hands on her apron. "Ohh, Anna. Seems you got lucky today. A pretty boy offering to take you home."
Anna laughed lightly. "It's not like that."
Shin didn't respond, but his ease with holding the basket in one hand betrayed the truth. His features had always been clean, but weeks of divine resonance had reshaped him further. His frame had filled out, his shoulders grew broader, every movement grounded with strength that didn't need to announce itself. Strength that wasn't just visible—it emitted presence.
Anna glanced at him once as they walked.
"…You're not here for olives or tours, are you?"
"Not really," Shin said, his tone even. "I like quiet places. And I've become curious about this town."
She didn't press further. When they reached a small stone house near the slope's edge, Anna pushed open the door and called inside, "Thommo? We've got a visitor."
Shin stepped over the threshold. His eyes fell on the one he had come to find. Another vessel. A quiet force that had slipped beneath the radar.
Thommo Gurra.
Finally.