The sea had completely devoured the sky, making it impossible to tell where one ended and the other began.
In the sailors’ terror-widened eyes, storm and sea had become indistinguishable—the wave nearest the ship had risen into a towering wall at the edge of the world, so high its top was lost from view.
“Hard to port—!”
The captain shouted until his voice broke. He was a seasoned sailor who’d drifted at sea his whole life, battling storm after storm—but when the Seeker’s mainmast snapped with a tortured wail, even he began murmuring the name of Dirga, god of wanderers and long voyages, hoping his soul could return home after death.
Below deck, Nova Brody was trying to keep his footing on the bucking floor. He failed, tumbling across the boards like a loose wine barrel left unsecured by a clumsy apprentice, bruises blooming all over.
Time seemed to slow, the towering wall frozen in the moment before collapse—
Then the pale, black-haired man was hurled into the air, crashed through the cabin door at a ridiculous angle, and slammed onto the deck.
Nova passed out decisively. Just before losing consciousness, he realized the Seeker seemed to be surrounded by towering mountains.
Then came a flurry of muffled, panicked screams.
……
Nova Brody hadn’t expected to wake up.
Everything hurt—inside and out.
Someone was babbling in an unfamiliar language beside his ear, then started dragging him upright—pressing hard on his back like they were wringing out a soaked pelt.
And so he started vomiting seawater—like a busted pipe under pressure.
Gray-black pebbles swam in and out of focus before his eyes, turning into static—prelude to another blackout.
The wind shrieked against his eardrums, the rain was biting cold, and from nearby came faint groans of fellow sailors. Someone was moving among them, crouching now and then to check.
It must be a gravel shore carved out by crashing waves, Nova thought vaguely, clinging to the last threads of reason—then the darkness took him again.
When Nova regained consciousness again, he stared at the smoke-stained, peeling earthen wall for at least three full minutes before he could truly believe he had survived that world-ending storm—then it struck him: what he’d seen before blacking out wasn’t a mountain range. It had been wave after mountainous wave.
The black-haired youth struggled to sit up. His clothes were crumpled like dried seaweed, his glasses had vanished, but somehow his deerskin gloves were still on his hands—soaked and clingy from water.
Someone else in the room noticed he was awake and hurried over, chattering excitedly in a tongue he didn’t recognize.
Nova still felt groggy—none of this felt real—but instinctively, he focused on the speaker, trying to match the language against the phonologies he knew. But under the steady gaze of those smoke-gray eyes—eyes that seemed particularly cold and proud—the stranger hesitated and fell silent.
The black-haired youth blinked slowly, then ground out a word like a rusty gear catching on the next tooth.
“Thanks.”
The other man understood, and smiled warmly.
He was short but sturdy, his eyes bright and sharp with a fighter’s edge. He wore a short tunic designed for ease of movement, woven with a coarse yet intricate technique, and strange leather bracers wrapped around both wrists.
Just as Nova was studying the bracers’ patterns, a noise came from the entrance—someone pushed aside the curtain and stepped in.
“Sea god be praised, Professor Brody, you’re finally awake!”
“…Captain Scarbough?”
It was indeed the captain of the Seeker. He looked exhausted, but had clearly regained his composure.
The foreign warrior quietly left the room, leaving the two alone without suspicion. Nova glanced behind the captain. “Where are the others?”
“Four survivors, counting you and me,” the captain said tiredly. “The first mate is dead. Those locals found his body this morning.”
Noticing the redness around Nova’s eyes, he finally muttered a dry “My condolences,” then fell silent again.
Luckily, the captain was used to this man’s lack of small talk. He gave a bitter smile and wiped his face. “The Seeker was torn to pieces—maybe some of the wreckage will drift back in on the next tide… Professor Brody, it looks like we’re stranded here.”
He looked uneasy. “Those locals don’t speak Common. I tried gestures and drawings—honestly, it’s not going great.”
“They’re probably speaking a dialectal variant from Atlanka Province.”
“…Huh?”
“Due to the unique composition of Atlanka’s native population, their dialect integrates features from multiple ethnic languages, with roots dating back to the First Century.” The black-haired youth adjusted his nose bridge—despite having no glasses—speaking rapidly and blank-faced under the captain’s stunned stare: “Unfortunately I haven’t studied this regional linguistic system in depth. Judging by the lexical features I can identify, I’d estimate it originated between the reign of Cassius I and Marquian III. If I could travel to Atlanka myself, I might be able to more precisely determine the time frame and—”
“Thank you for the lesson, Professor Brody,” the captain cut in before he could continue. “So what you’re saying is—we’ve run into a bunch of ghosts from centuries past?”
“Their language dates to somewhere between 437 and 325 years ago. And based on the one I interacted with, they seem human—not ghosts.” He corrected him at once, then paused as if remembering something. “Though I assume you were joking just now—thank you. You have a wonderful sense of humor.”
“…”
The captain raised an unreadable eyebrow at him, but the black-haired youth simply returned the look, completely unaware of how sarcastic he had just sounded.
“…Fine, fine.” Captain Scarbough rubbed his temples like he had a headache and changed the subject. “Those people gave us some fish earlier—do you want any?”
Nova and the captain stepped out of the cramped mud hut—though along the way, the professor got distracted by the curtain, which appeared to be woven from the fur of some unknown creature. He paused to examine and touch it for quite some time, only responding with a mild “hmm” when the captain called back to him, then limped along behind.
The captain moved to steady him, but Nova subtly dodged. “Your leg?”
“It’s nothing serious. Probably twisted it in the storm. I don’t think there’s any fracture.”
Their thoughts inevitably drifted back to the nightmare of towering waves that had surrounded them—and silence settled between them once more.
The mud hut sat on a gentle slope, and lifting one’s eyes revealed the endless stretch of beach below. The sky was unexpectedly clear, the sea shimmering under sunlight. The shallows gleamed with a crystal-blue clarity, fading into deep navy at the horizon—there was no sign of the fury that had come before.
On the slope grew soft, long grasses topped with feather-like, frost-white plumes that rolled in the breeze like waves.
The surviving sailors and the locals sat in a circle. Behind them, a few large antlered deer grazed lazily; in front of them, a small pot boiled merrily over a fire while one of the natives shaved root vegetables into it. Seeing them approach, the warrior Nova had seen earlier stood up and motioned for them to sit down with a friendly gesture.
The other survivors were old Jason, the ship’s doctor nearing retirement, and the youngest apprentice, Balu, a boy of thirteen or fourteen. Add in a frail-looking professor, and they were quite the band of the weak and weary—no wonder the captain looked so troubled.
There were three of the natives present, all sharp-eyed and well-built, regardless of gender—and all visibly armed.
The most striking among them was a tall red-haired female warrior.
She wore leather armor and had the sternest expression of the group. Noticing Nova’s gaze, she turned sharply and looked right back.
The black-haired youth immediately looked away, appearing deeply fascinated by the grass beside him.
The soup was ready. Using a long-handled bronze ladle, the natives served everyone a portion. Nova, too, received a bowl—his first meal after surviving disaster. The bowl was brown, likely polished from the shell of some giant seed pod. The soup didn’t taste good—but Nova was starving. Ignoring his stomach’s protests, he stiffened his neck and forced down the thick mixture of fish and root vegetables. For the first time in a long while, he felt truly alive.
The captain kept trying to talk with the locals, hoping to find a way back out to sea.
After a series of bizarre exchanges filled with gestures and pantomime, understanding dawned: one of the natives pointed at the sky, then made a gesture for waiting.
Nova looked up with the others—the sky was heartbreakingly blue, the thin clouds nearly melting under the brilliant sun, blending seamlessly into the sea.
“Professor, what does that mean?” Balu asked anxiously. He was a freckled boy with an upturned nose. “Are they saying… we have to fly over the ocean?”
The future was a fog. The barely-surviving crew were exhausted and afraid—talking to each other at least offered some comfort. But Nova simply glanced at the boy, calmly said “I don’t know,” and returned to silence.
The boy, feeling snubbed, closed his mouth awkwardly. To the crew, Professor Brody had always been that young, eccentric stranger who stayed holed up in his cabin, only occasionally exchanging a few words with the captain. The professor’s smoke-gray eyes, cool and unreadable behind his glasses, did an excellent job of discouraging anyone curious enough to strike up a conversation because of his appearance or title.
“—Wait, what’s that?”
Nova turned toward the voice—and saw a tiny silhouette against the sun appear where the sea met the sky, flying toward them. It rapidly grew clearer.
The captain jumped to his feet, his expression grim. But the locals looked delighted.
A dragon—shaped like an enormous bird, sleek and spindle-thin—soared toward them. It was at least ten meters long, with vast, snow-white wings that blotted out the sun. In the blink of an eye, its shadow blanketed everyone below. The grass rippled like the ocean under the gusts of air, hissing and rustling—sparking a wave of startled cries.
It was a Windstrider—creatures known for their solitary and savage nature, dwelling in the storm-wracked mountains and clouds, said to be messengers of the storm god Utoska. Few had ever seen one with their own eyes.
And around this dragon’s neck fluttered a prayer flag, woven in elaborate and strange patterns of pale blue—who would’ve thought they’d witness a Windstrider… tamed by a human.
“There’s someone riding it!” Balu exclaimed.
Then the rider jumped down, sparking another round of shouts—the dragon was at least twenty meters off the ground!
But the figure landed as lightly as a feather—so gently the grass beneath didn’t even bend.
Nova instinctively furrowed his brows. Something gleamed, catching his eye—it was a tall young man, silhouetted against the sun. Nova couldn’t make out his face, but his golden hair flowed like liquid sunlight, so strange and dazzling it took his breath away.
All the locals stood at once, bowing low toward the newcomer, pressing their foreheads to their clasped fingertips in reverence.
The great Windstrider circled above them, its long tail carving graceful arcs in the air. The red-haired warrior stepped forward and spoke briefly with the rider, glancing toward the sailors as she did.
The captain subtly shifted his stance, placing himself between the group and the newcomers.
Nova noticed how tense the captain had become. He had no idea what had suddenly put him on edge.
He instinctively squinted—and locked eyes directly with those of a stranger’s.
