Sukheer soared through the air like a bullet fired from one of Sainen's rifles. Below him stretched the vast green fields of Behar Suba, where farmers guided their ploughs with quiet pride, and children splashed near the riverbanks in unrestrained laughter. They were carefree, untouched by the looming chaos—a serenity that would soon shatter.
He pushed forward, leaving behind streaks of shifting cloud-illusions, mirages that dissolved as quickly as they appeared. In his path loomed an aeroplane, its metal frame cutting across the sky. Sukheer instinctively tried to veer aside, but then remembered: not long ago, he had awakened the powers of permeability. With a breath, he let go of resistance and passed effortlessly through the aircraft's fuselage.
The pilot, wide-eyed, nearly forgot his instruments. To him, the sight was more terrifying than impossible—a man flying without machine or wings, and passing cleanly through steel and flesh.
Moments later, Sukheer descended into Parina.
Parina—jewel of the Malwai Empire. The administrative capital, the beating heart of its people, and the fourth-largest metropolis in the world. Rich in memory and culture, the city stood as a testament to resilience. It had been founded eight centuries ago by the third Pannival, after the old imperial capital, Diwanapuram, sank beneath the sea in the war against the United Mondevieu Nations.
Parina was unlike any other city: its foundations stretched across layered terraces, rising toward the Malwai Fortress, home of the royal dynasty. Its architecture—stone, steel, and centuries of artistry—spoke of ambition and endurance. For seven hundred years, Parina had been the empire's crown.
But now, its crown lay tarnished.
An explosion had torn through the city, filling the skies with a black, choking haze—a hazard-smoke that blotted out the sun. Streets once alive with song and market cries now echoed only with panic. Survival itself had been stripped away.
Across the world, journalists raised their voices in despair:
"Is this the end of Malwai's jewel? Has the seven-hundred-year-old capital breathed its last? Is the empire itself gasping for survival?"
Inside the smoke-clad halls, the rulers sat in uneasy silence. The Pannival, sovereign of Malwai; the Saptavansh's leader; and Devon, their trusted sentinel, exchanged grim looks.
Devon's words cut through the tension."This explosion… it bears the mark of the recent serial killings. The pattern is too precise to ignore."
But Jayantaka countered, his tone sharp with suspicion:"Or perhaps it is the Union of Nations… or the Muvah Republic. Both have motives. Both have waited for this moment."
No answer came. Only the silent truth: Parina was burning, and with it, the certainty of an empire's future.
The Union of Nations Headquarters, Justania, Raven Islands
The marble halls of the Union's headquarters were silent, their vaulted ceilings echoing with a reverence that bordered on fear. At the end of the chamber sat Saint Torsano Santori—the man who considered himself not merely a ruler, but the sole leader destined to command the world.
Tall and broad-shouldered, Santori's very presence seemed to smother the air around him. Draped in regal black and crimson robes, his eyes burned with the cold certainty of one who no longer debated power but claimed it as divine right. Those who stood before him—his Grandmasters—bowed low, their voices subdued, their words carefully measured. None dared to breathe too loudly in his presence.
"There is no sign of the Gobiemo Sangrieto yet, Saint Santori," one of them reported, his tone trembling with restraint.
Santori leaned forward in his throne, his deep, commanding voice filling the chamber."That is fine. Then give me details of their members."
"Yes, Saint," answered Grand Santorini, lowering his head in submission.
He inhaled nervously before speaking."Dragona, an ex-Muvah Captain, has declared himself the Second-in-Command of the Gobiemo Sangrieto. It was he who announced war against us."
Santori's gaze sharpened like a blade."Don't stop. Continue."
"Dagon," Santorini went on, "an ex-Muvah soldier, claims the position of Fifth-in-Command, as well as Chief of Staff. He fought a duel with Anata Shikawa, the Malwai Captain."
Santori's lips curved ever so slightly."Shikawa… interesting. Go on."
"Vange, known as Vange the Revolutionary, also once of Muvah, declared himself Vice President of the organisation during his duel with Shailya Mahoraga."
Santori's fingers drummed against the arm of his throne."Mahoraga too… something is amiss. No matter. Continue."
"Ragin Jigoku, another former Muvah soldier, claimed to be Third-in-Command in his battle with Ren of the Malwai Military."
For a long moment, Santori was silent, his eyes narrowing. Finally, he muttered to himself:"The Gobiemo Sangrieto hiding in the Muvah Republic… after all this time. What is their true goal?"
Grand Santorini straightened nervously, sensing the Saint's growing impatience."Saint, besides them, we have confirmed the existence of a President and a Master. The Master is said to be the supreme leader—though he rarely reveals himself. The President and Vice President command openly, while the Master meets them in secret once every month."
"And yet we have no faces? No names?" Santori's voice rumbled like distant thunder.
"None, Saint."
At that moment, Grand Elephanto stepped forward, bowing so low his forehead nearly brushed the floor."Saint, a message has flown in from our agents in Muvah."
Santori's glare fell on him like a crushing weight."Spit it out!"
"First General of the Muvah Army, Iphan Monchiski, has joined their ranks. He is said to be the Fourth-in-Command, and head of the Information Department."
A deadly silence followed.
Then Santori rose. His voice rolled like a verdict across the chamber:"Muvah… so the rot festers there. Hunt them. Hunt every member of the Gobiemo Sangrieto. Grandmasters, prepare yourselves. We launch a campaign of fire and iron upon Muvah until nothing remains."
No one questioned him. No one even dared to nod too quickly. In the shadow of Saint Torsano Santori, there was no room for debate. Only submission.
For in his eyes, the world already belonged to him.
Diwankula
"Guys, Sukheer has made it to Parina!" Elva shouted, her eyes gleaming with relief.
"That is great news," Sainen exhaled, the tension in his voice melting for a moment.
"I shall head now too," Armeet Surya said, his tone steady, almost serene.
"I'm ready for another shot!" Sainen said eagerly, his competitive grin widening.
Armeet gave him a look and chuckled. "Oh, you've got it all wrong. I'm powered by wind." He raised a finger to the sky, as if commanding the currents themselves. "I can change its speed, bend its direction at will. If you're the King of Rifles, then I," he paused, a confident gleam in his eye, "am the King of Wind."
Sainen tilted his head, intrigued. "And when did this awakening happen?"
"About seven minutes ago," Armeet replied with disarming calmness.
Mazhiro arched a brow, smirking. "Strange… How are you already aware of your powers so quickly? Most of us had to struggle. I'll admit, I'm flattered."
"You better be," Armeet replied dryly, his confidence sharp but unboastful.
Then, without another word, Armeet stepped back. He lifted his arms and slowly brought his palms together. The air around him seemed to tremble in response. He bent his knees slightly, then leapt upward, his voice steady and resolute:
"Awaken—Spirit of Wind!"
A blue aura burst into existence behind him, swirling in soft waves of air, its heart pulsing with a single red dot at the center. His body grew weightless, as though untethered from the earth. He rose, hovering like a leaf caught in a gentle draft. Those watching felt a strange calmness wash over them, as if Armeet's very essence soothed their hearts.
With a graceful sweep of his arms, he tilted his body forward, and in an instant, he was no longer rising—he was flying.
"Flight of a Falcon!"
His form blurred, streaking across the sky like a shadow of a bird of prey. He soared upward, wings of wind carrying him higher and higher. Then he dove, cutting through the clouds with the speed of a thunderbolt. He banked left, then right, each movement precise, each shift of his body commanding the invisible streams of air around him. His speed climbed steadily, until he was moving at nearly four hundred kilometers an hour.
To those on the ground, he was no longer a man, but a streak of azure carving through the heavens. He tilted his body in sharp dives, then pulled upward with impossible grace, avoiding flocks of birds that scattered at his approach. In that moment, Armeet was not simply flying—he was alive in a way that few mortals could ever imagine.
From his vantage above the city, he saw it all: the rooftops, the winding alleys, the bustling streets below. People went about their day unaware of the storms gathering beyond the horizon, of the shadows creeping toward their peace. Farmers carried baskets of grain to market, merchants haggled, mothers scolded their children as they splashed water in the streets. None of them looked up. None knew that the winds had chosen their protector.
And yet, someone did.
Down in a slum alley, where cracked clay walls leaned against one another and smoke curled from makeshift fires, a small boy tugged at his mother's shawl. His eyes had caught the streak of blue in the sky.
"Ma… look!" he gasped, pointing upward. "A man is flying!"
His mother barely glanced, weary from her toil. But the boy's eyes shone with something more—wonder, hope. He pressed his hands together in prayer-like awe and whispered to himself:
"He's a hero. He'll protect us… he'll protect me and you."
The words were swallowed by the bustle of the street, but above, carried on the endless wind, Armeet soared on—unaware of the promise he had already become in the heart of a child.
Armeet soared higher, piercing the clouds until the whole of Behar Suba spread beneath him like a living map. The rooftops shimmered in the sunlight, rivers snaked like silver threads, and the fields of Behar stretched endlessly into green seas. The further he went, the more the wind whispered to him—an orchestra of voices only he could hear.
The wind carried scents and sounds from every corner: the spices from a distant bazaar, the laughter of children by a well, the groan of wooden carts on cobblestones. Each gust seemed alive, a messenger of the world below.
Then, amidst the serenity, Armeet felt something else. The air shifted—subtle, almost imperceptible, but undeniable. A faint turbulence rippled across his chest, like a heartbeat that was not his own. He closed his eyes, and in the silence of the sky, he realized: the wind was warning him.
It carried fragments of violence—clashes of steel, the acrid stench of smoke, the faint echoes of screams from miles away. Trouble was brewing on the horizon, though the citizens below remained blissfully unaware.
"...So this is what it means to be chosen," Armeet murmured, eyes narrowing as he banked sharply, feeling the air bend to his will.
He dove low over the city once more. The poor child in the slum still watched him, wide-eyed and unblinking, as if afraid that if he looked away, the flying man would vanish. Armeet caught sight of him, just for an instant. Their eyes met—one above, one below.
The boy's lips moved, though Armeet could not hear the words. The wind carried the faintest whisper instead:
"Hero…"
Armeet's chest tightened. He had never sought glory, never thought of himself as savior—but now, from the sky, seeing the lives of thousands unfolding beneath him, he understood the weight of what he had awakened into.
If he faltered—if he lost his calmness—the winds would betray him, casting him down. But if he endured, if he trusted the flow, then perhaps he could become what the boy saw in him.
The Falcon of Diwankula soared once more, streaking across the heavens, carrying not only speed but a silent promise: that the winds of destruction would not claim this world without facing him first.
[To be Continued in Chapter 43]