Milo van Gerven didn't begin with power. Or a name.
He started a tracksuit.
The moment the supermarket started to collapse, he knew he should've run. But the pull was too sudden, too strange—like the whisper of something ancient brushing against his neck. He hesitated for just a second too long, but he and the supermarket were already gone.
He found himself stranded in a world unlike anything he had ever seen. A vast stone corridor opened before him, and the sky above swirled with clouds that blinked like eyes.
He remembered the flashes—a massive gate, a woman's scream, the wind hardening into a wall that split the group. And that man—quiet, calm, detached in a way that made Milo's blood run cold. He remembered asking him something—maybe why he was so calm—but the man barely glanced over. "If you're gonna die anyway," he said, "at least make sure it's exciting."
Milo thought he was insane—a smug thrill-seeker puffed up on bravado. It didn't matter much, though; he and his bravado disappeared together after passing that wall. He never saw him again.
Others tried to follow, like that woman with the silver hair, but the air had already changed. It started screaming, wild and violent. Milo backed away, barely dodging a whip of wind that cracked the stone beside him. He remembered the sharp scent of blood. The others either fell or fled.
Milo ran.
He wandered the lower layers for hours, maybe days—through rooms that shifted when he wasn't looking. That place was infested with monsters. They tracked him relentlessly like thoughts he couldn't shake; something—a pale thing with too many limbs, forced him to crawl into rubble and hold his breath until even his chest burned. He even pissed himself once, too afraid to move or make a sound, but the shame barely registered—only the primal need to survive.
Eventually, he stopped counting the time. His phone didn't work, and the wind that howled nonstop made him doubt he'd survive long enough for this to have any meaning. At one point, he collapsed and lay flat on the stone floor, whispering apologies to gods he didn't believe in.
Then, it came for him. At first, it was merely a low sound in the distance; he barely noticed it while wandering. But that was until he heard that roar, a growl so deep and thunderous it crushed his body like a heavy mountain—a screech that echoed across the walls like steel being torn apart.
His mistake was not running right away. He froze.
A beast descended from the skies, its wings wide enough to cast darkness across the entire hall. Its eyes were like burning coals, and its breath left a trail of smoke in the air. With each beat of its wings, the stone beneath him stirred. The sheer pressure of its presence made Milo's knees buckle.
He couldn't move. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't even think. A pure, paralyzing terror engulfed his entire body that told him any resistance was futile. But something, at the far back of his head, screamed louder.
Run!
His legs moved before his mind caught up. He sprinted down corridors that twisted on themselves, his lungs burning with every breath. But no matter how fast he ran, the sound of wings chased him. Closer. Louder. The very air cracked behind him.
He turned after the first corner, and his heart plummeted. It was a dead end.
In desperation, he clawed at nothing—stone, cracks, salvation. But just when all seemed lost, he saw it. A tattered cloak hanging from a shattered statue, half-buried in dust. It shimmered faintly, as if resisting the darkness around it.
As he approached it, a stupid thought entered his head—childish and absurd. If he can't see the beast, maybe it won't see him either. He laughed; the panic was already catching up. He knew it was nonsense, but he wasn't in a position to think clearly. He grabbed the cloak desperately and threw it over himself with a dejected heart. Well, he comforted himself, at least he wouldn't need to look at his death when it came.
But the moment the fabric touched his skin, the world went still.
The beast landed. Its talons scraped the ground inches from his shoe. It sniffed, growled, waited, yet didn't approach any closer. Milo watched from below, but didn't dare move; even as a child, he never felt smaller. His heart pounded like it was trying to escape his chest, and in that moment, his only wish was that he was not worth being noticed.
The sweat across his back never felt louder, but finally, after what seemed like forever, the beast turned and lifted away.
He collapsed to the ground, his heart pounding in his ears. It took him minutes to realize he was still alive. At first, he called it luck. But as the cloak shimmered, soft as a whisper, the truth hit him slowly. He tested it once. Then again. The air bent around the fabric. The cloak, or whatever it was, didn't just hide him—It shielded him. And it obeyed.
And then—suddenly—he was back.
The supermarket returned.
Lights flickered. Sirens wailed. People screamed. Milo stood among the wreckage, his heart hammering so loud he was no longer sure what was reality. But the cloak, his only grasp in the world, hung limp at his side. He clutched it close, his hands still shaking, but his heart finally at peace. Even when the police questioned him, he didn't tell them anything about the treasure he came to possess.
He mumbled nonsense and half-truths. To be fair, even he was no longer sure if how much was real and how much was just madness that took over his imagination. Eventually, he was released. PTSD, they said—a lucky survivor. But Milo knew better. He had something. Something real. And he would never give it up.
The signs were minor at first: a draft always at his back, a mysterious balance he shouldn't have when he went up a slick staircase. But the second time he wore it, he tripped and vanished for five seconds. Not even he could see himself. He reappeared mid-fall, bruised and breathless.
The next day, he called in sick and moved to another city. He searched for a while, and when he found a cheap room in a half-abandoned building in Rotterdam, he immediately started testing.
He changed his name. He was no longer the old him after all. The cloak made him lighter and quicker than should ever be possible for a human. It turned stumbles into balance—and gave him two more tricks he named, because the names made them feel real:
Windstep—a flash of invisibility in motion.
Windstrike—compressed blast that detonated on touch.
They were clumsy. They weren't consistent. But they were his.
After that, things spiraled.
He started small: a lifted wallet, a purse, a fence taken at full tilt and left rattling behind him. With each escape, his confidence grew. The cloak changed him, perhaps not in words, but in certainty.
You're chosen.
You deserve more.
The title wasn't his idea. Someone posted about him online after a small robbery in the Hague. "Like a Wind God," they wrote.
And he believed it. Because it made sense.
Why else would the wind answer him?
—
The screen glowed faintly in the dark.
Shin sat at his desk, elbows propped lazily beside his laptop, scanning the latest news headlines. Over a dozen tabs were opened, from open forums to encrypted networks in the black web. All led back to the same name:
WIND GOD.
He clicked through another video, frame by frame this time. The thief's movement was erratic but unmistakable, consisting of anything from bursts of compressed air to a sudden invisibility. His cloak shimmered just long enough for Shin to recognize the aura.
Definitely an artifact, he concluded. The evidence was promising enough.
He leaned back in his chair, folding his hands behind his head. It wasn't just some stolen tech or glitchy cloaking device. Even through the screen, Shin could feel the wind around the figure—bending, responding.
This cloak came from the tower. His tower.
The realization settled in. Back inside the Wind Tower, he'd followed a route—one route. But the structure was massive. He knew there were other survivors, so it made sense someone would've found an artifact before Shin cleared the tower.
He remembered Wind's parting words:
"You are not the only one."
He bit his lips lightly. The tower was not really his, yet after everything he'd done, Shin couldn't help but feel someone had stolen what should belong to him.
He bookmarked the article and started organizing footage and notes. The style was crude at first, but it was constantly evolving. The thief wasn't just testing anymore; he was building confidence. This confidence, however, had also made him predictable.
The cool breeze passing through the open made Shin stand, stretching lazily. He stepped onto the rooftop, where the sharp wind greeted him. It didn't talk, but it understood.
He focused, and without drawing his sword, he gathered the air around his feet into semi-pressurized currents that coiled and shaped around him. His presence began to fade—not quite invisibility, but close enough. The air dulled his shape, and the wind blurred his sound—it was as if he had merged with the environment in a way that would make even a chameleon envious.
He became imperceptible.
He drew the blade, and with a flick, he summoned a focused arc of compressed wind. It cut through the rooftop railing like butter.
"Sloppy," he muttered, adjusting his posture. "Too wide. Too wasteful."
Again.
Each motion refined the edge, resulting in shorter, more powerful arcs. He also refined his normal motion. He practiced evasion and quick angles by using the currents to redirect his momentum. Fake a step, or vanish between gusts, it was merely a matter of application. He tried and repeated, a daily practice that sometimes lasted for hours.
Then came the stealth drills. He launched himself from rooftop to rooftop, cushioning each step with a gentle waft. He wrapped a thin stream of wind around his body to scatter the surrounding sound waves. He was not sure whether it was counted as invisibility or just camouflage, but he could now push through crowded zones without drawing a single stare.
As days passed, he began testing new maneuvers. One was a technique he dubbed the recall—he propelled the sword forward with a small burst, then summoned it back instantly. If the timing was right and his position ready, he could absorb the velocity of the sword itself to thrust himself mid-motion. The first few times were clumsy. The blade sometimes appeared too early, and one time, he nearly impaled himself as the sword appeared behind him. Still, slowly but surely, the results became visible.
Back inside, Shin spent the rest of the day writing. His notebook was filled with diagrams: flow patterns, disruption simulations, thoughts on where to use wind to strike, and when to use it to avoid.
He left gaps—not from oversight, but for testing. Tomorrow, he'd try catching a high-velocity object mid-flight with a vacuum twist. If it worked, he could nullify bullets.
His attention drifted to the corner of the room. A small board was pinned with a string connecting notes and questions—among them, a bold header: Lightning.
He sighed, picking up his phone. One of the encrypted forums had pinged him. A new reply was posted at his post: "Anyone know of places with storms around them? Or sightings of electric-type phenomena?"
He clicked to check the responses.
Just go to Greece bro, maybe Mount Olympus would have what you need.
You trying to shoot a movie or something? Trust me, add some vfx, and you're good to go. DM me if you need help, I'm a freelancer.
Another comment was even less helpful: Storms = weather. Get help.
He exhaled and closed the thread. There were still no leads. He tapped a note beneath the Lightning header: Follow up in 3 days.
He stood and moved toward the window, letting a light breeze stir his hair. He let his breath resonate with the rhythm of the wind—inhaling during the lulls, then exhaling along the gusts. He could sense the pressure shift in the atmosphere—the currents and path of small atoms passing through space. He opened his eyes and returned to his chair.
Back at the laptop, a new headline had surfaced.
BREAKING: A public prosecutor has been hospitalized after a petty theft. Police named 'Wind God' as the primary suspect.
"How careless," Shin murmured. He was already stealing from guarded stores; why stoop to petty theft? Did he have another reason?
He clicked to the next tab.
Hot News: Suspect remains unidentified, but in a voice-modulated message left on the scene, the man allegedly declared, "Soon you'll all see. This time, the world will remember my name."
The words hung in the air like smoke.
A faint smirk appeared on Shin's face. How fun.
He closed the laptop. "Then I suppose I'll be your witness." He picked up his phone and booked a train ticket to Rotterdam.
There was no rush. This wasn't a chase after all.
It was a hunt.