The wind sang around the platform.
Lihuen remained silent, arms wrapped around the sleeping Kal'ra. The creature breathed softly, curled against his chest, its fur radiating a gentle, almost living warmth. All around them, the sky stretched vast and open, layered with drifting mist, floating islands connected by bridges of stone and light.
A strange silence — not oppressive. As if the world was holding its breath, giving space for his.
The man stood at the front, stable despite the movement. His silhouette cast a long shadow over the pale metal deck. He didn't move — or only when needed. Old, yet upright. Calm. Every detail in his bearing spoke of restrained power, an energy disciplined by age and experience.
He finally broke the silence, his voice steady, slightly veiled by the wind:
— We don't usually begin here.
Lihuen turned his eyes toward him.
— Nymeria is an ancient land. A place of trials, not of welcome. The Origin-born never start here. They come… later. When they're ready. You fell right into its heart.
He paused, watching the horizon.
— I was watching you from the ridges. The way you moved… awkward, but aligned. Not like a beast. Not like a native. I knew then — you weren't born here.
He turned, studying Lihuen without hostility.
— You don't look like the Origin-born.
A pause. Then, lower, as if revealing a half-whispered truth:
— You're a Baihuan.
Lihuen frowned. The word meant nothing. Just a strange sound. He repeated:
— Bai… what?
The man gave a quiet smile.
— In the old tongue, it means "White Illusion." It's not really a name. More… an observation. People like you appear with no memories. No roots. You just manifest somewhere in Qin, like pulled from a dream. Sometimes alone. Sometimes in groups. Always… empty.
Lihuen said nothing. What he had felt since waking in the clearing suddenly had a name.
— You have no past. No history here. Just a spark. A quiet look. As if the world recognizes you… and tolerates you.
He looked at the Kal'ra, still asleep.
— But sometimes… it gives you more than tolerance.
Another pause.
— What you're holding — that's rare. Very rare. A Kal'ra. An extinct species, in the eyes of most. It's said they're only born at the base of Tree-Ships, in clearings no one can map. And even then, only when the world allows it. It chose you.
Lihuen looked down at the creature. It seemed peaceful, connected to something invisible.
— Why me? he whispered.
— Because you were ready to receive it. Without needing to understand. That's often enough for Qin.
A comfortable silence settled. The platform neared a cluster of suspended structures. Chains of energy linked arches of stone, between which floated towers, plazas, and domes. An entire city in the sky, sculpted from wind and flow.
— That's Skar'Ael, the man said. My land. Or at least, the one I chose. A flying city, former colony of the Peaks, now home to travelers, scholars, wanderers.
Lihuen was frozen in awe. Nothing in his memories — even missing — felt comparable.
— The people here live between sky and cloud. They raise storm-sails. Cultivate breaths. Build with mist. No engines. No steel. Just wind, roots, and knowledge. This isn't a dream, boy. This is Qin.
They passed beneath a carved arch, entering a denser zone where the air current eased. Figures in long tunics and shifting hoods moved from platform to platform. Flags bearing abstract patterns floated high above.
The platform slowed near a suspended terrace — round, engraved with ancient symbols. From there, a network of walkways stretched in all directions like an aerial web. Each path led to another floating island, another suspended structure, another mystery.
Lihuen felt the air change. Softer, tinged with faint electricity. The energy of Skar'Ael wasn't visible — but it was there, present in every stone. A faint rustling moved through the structures — not mechanical, but living. As if the bridges themselves breathed.
They finally reached the city's heart: a convergence of massive bridges, suspended between several natural arches. At the center, a dome with translucent walls, resting on a base shaped like an inverted spiral. Around it, dozens of Baihuan were gathered: some alone, others in small groups, all dressed differently — as if each had landed in Qin their own way.
The platform touched down.
The man stepped off with measured ease, then turned one last time to Lihuen.
— I can't tell you more. What comes next… isn't mine to guide.
He handed him a small metallic stone, engraved with a spiral circle.
— Give this to the Instructor of the Vestibule. He'll know what to do.
Lihuen gripped the stone and nodded.
— Your name? he asked, almost awkwardly.
A discreet smile.
— Maelros. But around here, they mostly know me for what I build.
And he disappeared without a sound, swallowed by another bridge.
Lihuen stepped beneath the open arches of the Vestibule. He was not alone.
Dozens of figures filled the center of the place. All Baihuan. Different clothing. Different postures. But in their eyes, the same faint glow: the look of those who had fallen, without knowing why.
The dome above had no stained glass, no bells. Just open sky, crossed by slow spirals of energy. The air thrummed gently, like a voiceless song.
Lihuen scanned the others.
To his left, a boy with a clear smile moved constantly, light as a feather. He hopped from foot to foot, testing the floor's resonance, chatting with strangers as if they'd known each other forever. His movements were free, fluid, almost dancing. He seemed made for this place — the kind of person even gravity avoids upsetting.
Nothing stops him. Not even fear.
Farther on, a young woman stood like she'd been carved from glass. Silent. Her eyes scanned the space with sharp precision. She wasn't looking for danger — she was expecting it, like an old memory. Her face was beautiful, but not soft. A blade's beauty. A fire's beauty.
And near a pillar, a massive man drew attention. He hadn't shouted, hadn't moved more than the rest. But three or four Baihuan naturally gathered around him. His voice was deep. Steady. Like a column. He didn't dominate. He carried.
Lihuen, for a moment, felt small.
A crystalline sound rang out.
A figure stepped forward from the depths of the Vestibule — a man in a deep blue tunic, marked on the shoulder with a spiral circle. His face was calm. His stride, firm. He stopped at the center of the spiral carved in the ground.
— Baihuan.
His voice carried effortlessly.
— You did not choose Qin. Qin saw you. And it let you in.
A stillness settled.
— This place is the Vestibule of Atlis. Others exist — east, south, even in the heart of the seas. But they're all connected. One thought. One intent.
He placed his hand on one of the pillars. A ripple spread through the structure. Symbols appeared in the air: circles, glyphs, intertwining lines.
— Atlis is not a temple. Not a stronghold. It's an interface. A transition. The threshold through which Qin reads you.
He slowly turned, meeting each gaze.
— Each of you will face a Trial. It is personal. No one may go with you. It is born from who you are now — not from your memories. It will take a shape, a world, a task. And it will reveal you.
A light descended from floating crystals, touching the spiral on the floor.
— Upon your return — if you return — you will be marked. First, by your Path. A resonance. An affinity. Then, by a Class: warrior, arcanist, nomad, weaver, or another… depending on what you awaken.
He raised his hand. A second circle activated.
— Then will come your Title. It reflects your Trial. Some will be given forgotten names: Rising Flame, Voice of the Current, Silent Hand. They are more than names. They are doors. They shape your Abilities, your bonds, your place in Qin.
He paused. Silence reigned.
— Titles are ranked by rarity. From Common to Mythic. Then beyond… to the Legendary — the ones even the guilds fear.
A murmur rippled through the Baihuan.
— The combination of your Path, Class, and Title will forge your identity in this world. Some become solitary healers. Others, blades of war. Some awaken nothing… but that too has meaning. Qin never gives by accident.
He stepped toward the central spiral.
— When your stone activates, your portal will appear. You will enter it unarmed. Unshielded. Only with who you are. That… is where it begins.
He paused again.
Then, wordlessly, descended the steps into the circle's center. His gaze moved across faces. He passed between the Baihuan like a breath through leaves. Some looked down. Others held his gaze — curious, trembling.
He seemed to be gauging. Feeling. Measuring the intangible.
When he stopped before Lihuen, he stilled.
His eyes landed on the Kal'ra, curled beside the boy's leg.
And on the stone still in Lihuen's palm.
A silence.
— This stone… isn't from here, he said softly. It's not one of the ones we distribute.
His tone wasn't cold. Nor surprised. Just… attentive.
— It was given to you by one of the old builders, wasn't it? A man who spoke to you before you arrived here?
Lihuen nodded. He could feel the eyes on him — light, but numerous.
The Instructor held out his hand.
— Show me.
Lihuen obeyed. He placed the stone on his palm, offering it silently. The man took it, turned it between his fingers. A faint glow pulsed from it.
— Personal spiral marking. Old Caelrad forge… Maelros, then.
He looked up at Lihuen, more serious now.
— That means Atlis has already recognized you. Or rather… that one of its Watchers read you ahead of time.
He closed Lihuen's fingers around the stone.
— You won't face a standard Trial.
A tremor passed through the air. Not through the bodies — through the space of the Vestibule.
— That portal won't be born from a seed like the others. It will draw from what you still hide. What even you haven't touched.
He laid a hand briefly on Lihuen's shoulder. A simple touch — but deep.
— Don't fight what you don't yet understand. Qin doesn't test to break. It tests to reveal.
Then he stepped away, returning to the edge of the spiral.
His voice rose again:
— You will all receive a stone. A neutral version, activated through your bond with Atlis. It will open a portal crafted for you.
But his eyes — for a second — returned to Lihuen.
— Some, however… don't need to force the door. The door was waiting for them all along.
He moved from the spiral.
— Those who fail don't always die. But they change. Sometimes for the better. Sometimes not.
Then, lower:
— The guilds are watching you. They know Atlis. They can read Paths. Those marked with rare Titles… will receive invitations. Or hunts.
A soft click echoed. Circles of light appeared beneath several feet.
— Let the first step through. The time has come.