Meanwhile, deep within Wind Island.
A young man holding a harp sits on a throne made of clouds, occasionally plucking the strings to create pleasant sounds.
At first glance, the scene appears leisurely, but upon closer inspection, the man's expression on the cloud throne isn't that relaxed; his brows are tightly knitted, as though weighed down by countless worries.
Suddenly, the young man's elf-like pointed ears twitch, and he halts the plucking of his forefinger, raising his head to gaze beyond the misty Door.
A gentle breeze rolls in, ruffling the clouds, finally forming a faint shadow beneath the throne, its specific shape indistinct.
"Teacher Kamil, are you here to ask me what decision I should make?" The young man's voice is crisp, as melodious as the notes from the harp.
Without waiting for Kamil to reply, he continued speaking to himself, "It's hard for me to make a decision; after all, they were born in the wind just like us..."
