“Hyah—!”
The female warrior blew a short, sharp note on her bone whistle, its clear tone curling through the air. Beneath her, the antlered deer leapt gracefully over a narrow mountain ravine in response.
Nova instinctively clung to the mount’s neck. The creature’s powerful muscles shifted beneath his hands, its short, coarse brown fur groomed to a sleek shine by its handlers.
They were, for all intents and purposes, being half-forcibly taken away. Nova couldn’t stop thinking about that gaze from earlier—he hadn’t been able to see it clearly without his glasses, everything in the distance was a blur. But some deep instinct told him he had been watched. In that moment, he understood the captain’s reaction. A crushing pressure had swept over him, like mountains made of waves collapsing from above. It shook him to the core.
The female warrior sat behind him, loosely holding the reins. Nova adjusted his seat and glanced behind. The others weren’t so lucky—Captain Scarbough and the rest were trudging along on foot, struggling with the terrain. If Professor Brody hadn’t nearly twisted his injured leg again, he’d have been among them, panting and stumbling. But the mounted natives made sure no one lagged behind.
…This didn’t bode well.
Nova lowered his gaze, expression unreadable. That man clearly held a special status—his attitude would likely determine how these people treated them as outsiders.
The professor seemed utterly absorbed in thought, looking perfectly at ease—utterly unfazed by the fact that he was practically cradled in the arms of a woman. The captain, meanwhile, couldn’t help but recall the noble ladies he’d seen at port, perched side-saddle with gentlemen supporting them by the waist.
The resemblance was oddly comical—especially with that rumpled but expensive shirt, and his slightly curled black hair that made his pale complexion stand out even more. Even old Jason looked more full of life than this guy.
But any amusement quickly vanished. The natives guided them past the slope and into a forest. The path grew increasingly rugged. At some point, the trees had become towering giants, their canopies thick and green, casting dappled shadows below. Fallen logs lay in jumbled heaps across the way, blocking their progress.
The antlered deer leapt over the obstacles with ease, scattering a few colorful, lizard-like creatures that darted into the underbrush. But the humans had to scramble over with hands and feet—moss grew thick and slick, and a single misstep could send someone tumbling.
The air was thick with moisture and the salty tang of the sea. The trees sealed them into a humid basin, like a steaming bath. Everyone’s hair grew damp within minutes, as though even their pores were being smothered—Until, at last, a cool breeze stirred from afar, brushing their skin like silk. It was so gentle, so refreshing, it caused everyone to visibly relax.
The antlered deer called out in unison, then broke into a run at a long whistle. The forest fell away behind them. Ahead, mountains rose like divine monuments, soaring abruptly into view and swallowing the horizon with their overwhelming presence.
Nova heard Balu the apprentice cry out. The natives began hoisting the sailors onto the deer. The small apprentice had it worst—he was slung over the mount like a sack of grain, dangling by his waist—
While Nova’s mount, without hesitation, darted into a narrow and unremarkable opening ahead.
Darkness swallowed his vision. Jagged cliff walls and broken rocks loomed terrifyingly close to his face. The wind howled past his ears, and Nova instinctively hunched his shoulders—at this speed, even grazing the stone could tear off a chunk of flesh. From above, their party vanished into the mountains beneath the long, shrill cry of a whistle, consumed utterly, leaving no trace.
High above the clouds, a shining silhouette glinting in the sun let out an impatient cry. With a sudden dive, it dropped something midair, then beat its wings and glided off toward the mountaintops.
By the time Nova dismounted the antlered deer, his legs had turned to jelly. His head spun, the wind still roaring in his ears. But there was no time to rush off and vomit—before him stretched a sizable village. Crude stone-and-mud houses clustered together, and at every doorway stood tall poles with short horizontal bars at their tops, from which colorful streamers fluttered noisily in the wind. Behind them, clear blue skies and majestic snowcapped mountains loomed in breathtaking contrast.
Nova heard a quiet gasp—clearly, the captain and others were stunned too. That was, until a few of the seemingly friendly warriors briskly ushered Nova away, half-pushing, half-dragging him into a clay-brick hut. They left a jug of water and a chunk of rock-hard “bread,” then slammed the door shut.
Nova stood there in a daze for a while, then hobbled over and tried the door—unsurprisingly, it was locked. Pressing his ear to the wall, he could faintly hear the sailors shouting in panic, but the voices soon faded into silence.
“…”
What was this supposed to be? Nova frowned. They’d left him food and water—clearly, they didn’t intend to kill him right away. Images of blood-soaked sacrificial rites from the late-century holy wars rose unbidden in his mind. In any world, the life of a foreigner might be more desirable to fanatics than the heart and flesh of livestock.The professor slowly shuffled to the bed—a stone slab that looked painful just to glance at.
Carved into the headboard were faint, time-worn markings. Upon closer inspection, they matched the spiral storm patterns he’d seen on the bracers and door curtain. It was the mark of the storm god, Utoska. In the Silver Iris Empire, many bards liked to secretly carve such patterns into their bedframes, hoping for the blessing of the elusive storm god—praying for fickle inspiration.
Nova didn’t recall any records of human sacrifices to Utoska. Granted, documentation on the storm god was scarce, but from the scattered lines that did survive, this was not a deity that fed on fear or despair.
If he were still in his office at White Spire University, with time and tools, he could probably date the carvings based on their lines and structure. But now, the silence pressed in. A wave of dizziness overtook him. The black-haired young man pinched his nose through his gloves—his burning sinuses confirmed it: he was feverish, and losing mobility fast.
A cup of coffee would be best, he told himself. But sadly, what he needed now was rest. His arms ached, his ankle throbbed and tingled, his breathing was ragged and trembling, and his mind spiraled toward a terrifying, bottomless fog—
But if you touch your chest, your heart is still beating. You can still move. So breathe. Keep breathing… Your brain concludes: you need sleep. Deep, unbroken sleep.
In the dim, bare room, a salt-soaked, wrinkled shirt and pants lay discarded on the floor. The foreigner collapsed mechanically onto the cold, hard bed, curling into himself, a faint whimper escaping unbidden from his throat.
He wanted to claw at his skin, but the gloves clinging to his hands left only faint red marks on his collarbone and back.
The sun outside tilted westward as time crept on. Shadows climbed from his ankles upward, slowly consuming him, until he sank into an almost comatose sleep.
…
“Divine Chosen.”
The tall female warrior, with fiery red hair and sharp, wild beauty, stood at the village entrance. Upon seeing the newcomer, she immediately stepped forward to greet him.“Apologies, I’m a bit late,” the man said gently, a hint of apology in his voice. “Aizela threw a little tantrum on the way.”
The temperamental dragonling had grown irritable under the blazing sun and impatient with constantly tailing the group. As soon as they entered the Rebirth Gorge, it simply tossed its bothersome rider off its back—after all, the rider could make his own way home.
Dusk had begun to fall, and the wind picked up, making the Divine Chosen’s cloak billow dramatically, emphasizing his tall and upright frame.
The warrior shook her head. “As you ordered, the outsiders have been confined separately. Their leader’s decent with his hands, but no match for me. As for the black-haired one, he doesn’t seem like the kind who does manual labor. Aside from that, nothing unusual.”
“Thank you, Ramina,” the Divine Chosen said, inclining his head slightly.
“Handling them was easy—hardly a task,” Ramina scoffed. If the sailors heard themselves described as “easy to deal with,” their faces would surely twitch.
She paused, then asked curiously, “That black-haired guy… is he the kind of noble old Nana Naka used to talk about? The type that doesn’t have to work for food—or even dress himself?”
She recalled those striking smoke-gray eyes—sharp, cool, always looking at people with a subtle air of superiority. Fortunately, there had been no greed or scorn in them. Otherwise, she would’ve taught him a lesson.
“Yes, a noble,” the Divine Chosen replied, heading toward the village. He seemed lost in thought, but noticing her expression grow grave, he added, “Don’t worry. I’ll handle it.”
Ramina didn’t follow. She stayed where she was, biting her lip. After a pause, she asked quietly, “…Divine Chosen, is something wrong with the Wall of Sighs?”
Her face was unusually serious, barely hiding the fear and unease beneath. “No one has crossed that wall in three hundred years. No one.”
The Divine Chosen paused. Facing away from his people, the edges of his golden hair were stained crimson by the setting sun. His voice was frighteningly calm.
“Ramina, the storm that began three centuries ago has raged long enough. Signs say it may soon pass,” he said, his tone soothing, though layered with meaning. “And wind… is always unpredictable.”
“There is no need to fear. Nothing can taint the Windstriders’ nest.” His voice grew colder, and from this seemingly gentle man arose the same terrifying aura that once cowed outsiders. His people instinctively held their breath in awe. “I promise you: the gale will rise again—and it will tear apart anything that dares harm the Natalin people, no matter what it is.”
