By the time the steam faded from the mirror, Shin was already scrolling through his phone. The forum thread he had bookmarked weeks ago—a quiet post buried beneath crackpot theories and blurry tower photos—had gained a new comment.
A user with no profile picture responded. It was just two lines:
Search Catatumbo. It's been screaming for decades but got even more intense recently.
He tapped it once, then twice. Then opened a separate tab and started typing.
"Catatumbo... lightning."
Dozens of results appeared: a lake in Venezuela, a storm system with no rain, and continuous lightning activity—sometimes even filling the entire sky. Locals call it the Breath of the Sleeping Gods.
He switched to satellite imagery and then clicked on the meteorological history. Two weeks ago, a spike in electromagnetic radiation was recorded above the region. The same week, a bird migration route shifted violently, with thousands of swallows refusing to cross the sky.
Interesting.
He got dressed and packed his clothes. His luggage was minimal—a single compact trolley bag he'd had for years. He packed light clothes, a soft hoodie, a reversible coat, his sunglasses, and a basic sun hat. No weapons or suspicious metals this time.
The flute—tucked neatly inside a collapsible toiletry pouch—was the most important thing.
He could accept his house being ransacked and every treasure he has stolen, but he would never risk losing the flute.
If anyone asked, he was a solo traveler going for a photography tour. And if they didn't ask? Well, even better.
He took one last look at the tattered cloak shard before sealing it in a compression bag. As for the sword, he wasn't concerned. He was again grateful for the convenient ability that allowed him to summon or unsummon it as needed.
By the late afternoon, the airport was humming with holiday tourists, business travelers, and a few confused students trying to find their gates. Shin moved through it with mechanical smoothness, his pace slow and natural. He had done nothing to hide himself.
Which is precisely what made him invisible.
After security, he bought a water bottle and sat near a charging station. News played overhead. "In this week's news report: France confirms a second successful subjugation—this time, by a military dropout who claims to have tamed a 'stone spirit.'"
The screen showed a man—lean, mid-30s—forming a simple stone barrier around his body before waving awkwardly at the camera. "They're calling them 'Dajin' now," the anchor explained. "Borrowed loosely from the Persian word for djinn, who are believed to be spiritual beings with magical abilities. The name's spreading fast in reports and broadcasts, even if no one has yet agreed on an official classification. More are appearing every week."
The feed shifted. "In South Korea, meteorologists say another magnetic field anomaly has disrupted local electronics. Citizens are advised not to approach any recently appeared towers—"
Click.
Shin muted the terminal screen and watched the people around him instead. The world had already changed. Shin had been too busy to feel it—but now, the difference was undeniable. He tilted his head slightly, listening to the electric hum beneath the announcements.
He didn't mind the world catching up. More chaos just meant more openings. And Shin had never been shy about profiting from other people's panic.
Boarding began just after sunset. He waited until the final call, then stepped into the aisle, dragging his trolley behind him like any other bored traveler—just another man with nowhere urgent to be.
Outside, the sky cracked faintly in the distance—not really thunder, just an old ripple far away. He closed his eyes as the plane lifted. For a moment, he let himself imagine what it would feel like to fall through the clouds and become the storm waiting underneath.
—
Portugal – rural outskirts, mid-morning
Thommo Gurra hadn't planned to be here.
But after the tower emerged near their town in Australia, everything just… changed. Government agents moved in. Families packed up. Not everyone left from fear, but from suffocation—too much oversight, too many questions, and a silence that said everything loud enough.
His grandfather didn't say much. He just made a few calls to some old friends, and a few weeks later, they were here—half a world away. Not permanently, maybe—but long enough to feel like they belonged nowhere else.
This morning, he'd wandered off after breakfast—too many tourists in the village square, too much noise bouncing off old stone. He stepped away and took the long trail toward the vineyard cliffs.
The trail curved along the outer edge of a vineyard, sloping gently toward the cliffs. It was the kind of land he liked—stubborn and sun-warmed, shaped by time and not in any rush to be anything else. He liked how it felt underfoot. It held history here, layered into the stone and slopes.
He walked slower than most would. Not because he was tired, but because he was listening.
The earth had spoken to him ever since that day. And now, it was louder.
He stopped near a bend where the soil cracked differently. There was nothing obvious—barely a line near the edge that didn't quite belong. There was a tension in the way the dust shifted, unnoticeable for most, but for him, it was clear. If he stepped wrong, the pressure would kick up through his heel—tight, like a pulled muscle waiting to snap.
He crouched, letting his palm rest lightly on the dirt. It didn't feel wrong exactly, but it didn't feel settled either. It was like something had moved through it or under it, and the ground hadn't yet made up its mind how to respond.
Footsteps scraped nearby.
"Dry season?" asked a man behind him — a tanned elderly farmer leaning on a shovel. His skin was lined like the fields he worked, his gray hair plastered to his forehead beneath an old hat stained with sweat
"Could be," Thommo said without looking up. "Soil pulls in when it dries. Makes the walls shift." The man nodded and moved on. Dust trailed after him.
Thommo stayed where he was for a moment longer. Then stood and brushed off his hands.
Better not to disturb it.
Not unless he had to.
As he continued his stroll later that afternoon, he followed a sloping path that traced the cliffs beyond the vineyard. The view was simple yet breathtaking: the quiet, warm sun shining from above, the beautiful olive trees standing tall below, and the vast sea watching from beyond. He smiled, letting the breeze pass through his sleeves and the sun warm his back.
That's when he heard the scream.
A boy had lost his footing trying to hop a stone wall, and the dirt gave way beneath him. He slipped, tumbling over the edge, his arms flailing for something to grab but finding nothing.
Thommo didn't hesitate.
He sprinted down the incline and reached the edge—one foot planted firm, his palm pressing into the cliffside. He took a deep breath. And pulled.
The dirt beneath the boy rose, and reshaped mid-motion into a sloped hold—a small slide made of dirt—just enough to slow the fall.
The boy landed hard, his small body shaken and bruised—but at least alive all the same. Thommo reached down, grabbed his wrist, and pulled him up. "You alright?"
The boy nodded mutely. "Don't tell anyone," Thommo added, with a serious voice. The boy blinked.
Then nodded again.
Back at the trail's midpoint, Thommo paused at a ledge near an old sundial. He crouched again, pressing his fingers into the packed earth. He wasn't checking for danger; he was listening. Just beneath the surface, the land was shifting—constantly shifting—even here.
What it told him made him pause… someone had seen what he did. Not the boy. A second one—farther up the hill, hiding behind a tree, watching. But at this point, Thommo could no longer do anything to stop him. He sighed, then stood up and headed home.
He arrived just as the evening fell, the sky turning into a blur of gold and red. His grandfather was napping inside, on the back porch of the guesthouse. His sister was on her tablet, sitting on the sofa with a serious face, dedicating herself to learning the language.
Thommo didn't mention the fall. Or the boy. Or the one who watched. But when he sat by the old tile stove, a cup of coffee cooling beside him, he felt it again. The weight. A sensation not of the ground. But of eyes. Distant—yet unmistakable.
Watching.