After the Temple, King Four Winds wanted to invite the mysterious expert known as Zane to court and make him his Champion. But Zane vanished as quickly as he'd come.
A few weeks later, a traveler with a straw hat and an odd stick wandered the remote fishing villages and beachside towns in the far south of the continent—so far south, there wasn’t even an Imperial Outpost. There was no need for one. There was nothing down south but sea and mist. Some merchant ships would spot vast spiked shadows shifting in the murk, but nothing ever came within a thousand li of solid ground.
The traveler stopped by the fishing town of Sunnyshore—a small huddle of thatched straw huts striking out into a pristine bay. The waves lapped softly on the docks, setting a sleepy rhythm.
The traveler munched on a steamed bun as he consulted a tattered map.
This was exactly what he was looking for.
A few fishing boats floated in the distance. And farther on, the odd merchant ships hauled into the little port, making pit stops on their journeys between the coasts. Seagulls cawed overhead.
Just standing there, you got the sense this was a place as rhythmic as the tides, and not much more exciting. Though there was no need for excitement in a place like Sunnyshore. A teal sea ran out to the far horizon. There, he could just make out the mists.
Everywhere at the edges of Astra, you’d find that mist. Mists ringed the edges of the known world. No one quite knew where they came from—only that they held an otherworldly power.
Noughtfire once told him a way, Astra was his most prized treasure. It was more world than treasure—mysterious even to the great Sage. It all started with those mists. Sail into them, and there was no guarantee you'd come back. You might make it out the other side, but on a new continent entirely, and more often than not an unrecognizable one.
Only expert navigators trained in the ways of Fate, with instruments that can measure the shifting stars, dared the journey through the mists.
That was how the foreign Prince and Princess had come to the Sealed Demon Continent, the traveler gathered.
The more time he spent around the mists, the more curious he found them. Most of Astra felt pretty flimsy. But there was a surprising amount of variation—those foreigners, for instance, sailed in from somewhere stronger. In a few patches—patches like Thousand Falls Valley—reality was strong enough to withstand his full powers.
It was the mists, he felt. The closer he got to them, the more 'strong zones' popped up.
It was what brought him down south, to a region known as the Lost Islands—a few thousand sandy dots that hugged the edge of the world.
He figured there were bound to be a few places he could settle down. Places he could get to work.
He stepped out onto the pier and donned some water shoes he’d bought at a local fisher’s shop, shoes charmed to walk on water.
All set up, he strode off into the waves.
The fishermen gave him funny looks as he went by. A few called out warnings—not to cross the reefs. Past that, hungry hydras and tiger-whales lurked, not to mention monsters of the deep.
He just thanked them and kept on his way.
They looked at each other and shrugged.
The reason the merchants used ships—other than their ability to carry freight—was that ships meant safety. Ships had cannons and harpoons and a crew. Water-shoes wouldn’t protect you from the creatures out there. Not even a man as sturdy as that one.
When the man didn’t come back, they figured he’d met a sorry end. Every so often, they’d see a treasure hunter set off like that, never to return. They gave him a clink of their glasses and forgot about it.
A few weeks later, the man came striding right back—without a scratch.
The fishermen looked at each other in consternation, then shrugged.
They figured he was an eccentric master, come to train, and left it at that. Only no one in Sunnyshore could quite figure out what he was doing all the way out there.
Every so often, a merchant ship drifting toward the high seas would hear a sound like a peal of thunder.
***
Three thousand miles away…
A great wall of churning mist loomed. Mountain-sized shadows drifted through the murk, and every so often, red eyes shone through—only to fade, as though only imagined.
The man paid it no mind.
Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
He sat on the beach, half-naked, cross-legged, a palm tree to his back, facing the distant mists.
Wind ruffled his hair.
He held a single strand of furious sunlight in one hand. His brow was furrowed—tight with concentration.
His whole soul was bent to the task at hand. Carefully, as though defusing a bomb, he worked to unlock that flare.
Then, a moment later—“Shit.”
BOOM!
The island was gone. The ocean, and the ocean floor too. Everything within three hundred miles was vaporized instantaneously.
Rifts studded the air, but they healed pretty fast.
He spat soot out of his mouth.
Then he brought out his map. He wasn’t discouraged—if anything, it was pretty good progress. He was only blowing up an island every other day now. Pretty good progress.
There was another island another few hundred miles east. He made his way toward it.
***
The first thing Zane did upon settling in was to rewatch that Fan-vision a few times. He rewatched it until he was sure he had it all in his head—less the scene itself, and more the feeling of it.
To make Solar Wind his, he’d have to unlock his flare chunk by chunk.
It was time to get his hands dirty.
The more he tried, the more control he seized. As far as he could tell, he was the only soul in a thousand miles. He could experiment as he pleased.
Within about three weeks, he manifested that reality-warbling effect—the scouring sear of the Wind.
Another month or so, and searing white lights started to run alongside his field. They began to take on the character of Destruction.
***
The fishermen got used to seeing that mysterious master wade in every few weeks. He’d always visit the same place—Old Weng’s Thousand-Flavored Buns, where he’d munch a slightly shocking amount of steamed buns before setting back out again.
***
Months passed like this.
His Solar Flare gained a distinct edge. Manifesting these winds was a lot like giving his fire an aura—boosting its heat and scope drastically.
He still had a thousand islands to go or so, but he was pretty sure he didn't need to blow them all up. Reina had a saying about leaving a place a little better than you found it.
It was a nice thought, he felt. He was working his way toward it.
At the moment, if it wasn’t totally wrecked by the time he was through, he counted it as a win.
***
Months later…
One day, some spice merchants rolled into Old Weng’s at the end of a busy day. They pulled up a table; the regulars simmered down, ready to eavesdrop. You didn’t get much news from the heartlands out here.
“Ai,” sighed one, patting down his pockets. “I’m out. Loan me a stone, will you? Damn that Li Zhang?”
“General Li?” said a regular, alarmed. “Something’s happened to him?”
“No, no, nothing like that. It’s just he made the finals of the Young Lions tourney,” he said. “He got matched up against this upstart kid Jin Wei. But who would’ve thought—the kid held him to a draw!”
At the other side of the store, a certain man in a straw hat perked up, halfway through a bun chew.
The merchant shook his head and sighed. “I put a hundred stones on that pretty boy… damn!”
“It was a good bet, too,” said another merchant. “That Jin’s just a little monster. A year ago he was only an uppity little Chosen. Now look at him!”
The man in the straw hat nodded, swallowed, and kept chewing.
“Master Zane?” It was Weng Shi, daughter of Old Weng. She was the town beauty; she made her way over with a pitcher, blushing slightly. “Would you like some tea? It’s free of charge.”
It was town gossip by now—and the lament of many a young fisherman—that she was quite smitten with this stranger.
“Thanks,” he said, took a sip, and kept munching. Sadly for her, he seemed more interested in the buns.
Just then, the merchants froze.
“…Zane?” said one of them.
They snuck side-eyed glances at him, trying to be subtle.
“No way…”
“…He does look about right…”
Before they could get any further, the door burst open.
A dozen Foundation auras filled the restaurant.
A man in a feathered hat swaggered on through and planted a knife in the center of the main table.
That man wore robes lined with a green skull sigil. His aura was Core Formation.
Everyone there flinched—except for one man, who continued munching on his bun.
“Which one of you,” said the pirate, “is the Red Hand?”
Silence.
Then—from the back rooms—a long, slow sigh.
Old Weng himself came out. A thin man, humble, but he had always had strangely strong hands and a certain haunted look in his eyes.
“No, father!” cried Weng Shi.
“Quiet, girl.” He shook his head. “I always knew this was coming. Just… thought I'd have more time.”
The pirate made a tsk sound.
“Twenty years as Redbeard’s right-hand man. Ten ruling the high seas—before you vanished one day, along with his fabled hoard. Sound familiar, mister ‘Weng’?”
“I’ve long hung up the ropes,” said Old Weng wearily. “I’m a bun-maker now. That’s all.”
“Oh, there’s no such thing as retirement in our line of work. You of all men ought to know that. A dozen fleets scoured up and down the coast for you, but who would’ve thought you’d be holed up down here?”
The pirate grinned, showing silver teeth.
“Spare my wife and daughter,” said Weng. His hands were trembling. “They knew nothing.”
“Doubtful.” The pirate stroked his beard. “But take us to Redbeard’s treasure, and I’ll consider it. Hell, I’ll even bury you there! My courtesy.”
He gave a mocking bow to the hoots and hollers of his mates. Old Weng hung his head.
The pirate scanned the room. “If word of this gets out….” He growled.
Then he saw the man in the corner and frowned.
He frowned some more.
He locked eyes with the man.
Silence.
“It can’t be…” he choked.“Master Zane?!”
Zane kept chewing.
“This man—he can’t be under your protection… is he?”
He chewed some more.
“Out, all of you!” roared the pirate. His goons tumbled out the door. He started to tremble. “This one meant no offense, Master Zane—please—this one didn’t know, couldn’t have known—forgive me!”
He dropped to the ground and banged his head against the floorboards.
Then he fled.
Zane swallowed.
Well, that was convenient.
He was about to tell the fellow he rather liked this restaurant, but there seemed to be no need.
He picked up his stick, bade a gaping Old Weng goodbye, and headed out.
Behind him, he heard Weng’s daughter gasp—“Who is he?”
The restaurant exploded in shouts.
