It was late at night.
A young man stood before a set of grand double doors. The hallway was dark and empty, silent except for the faint sound of his breathing.
He took a deep breath, trying to steady his nerves.
Beyond these doors sat the leaders of the Zephyr Clan—each one possessing legendary power. Even through the thick wood, he could feel their overwhelming aura pressing against him like a storm about to inhale him.
He had no idea why his masters had summoned him at such an hour.
Still, as their loyal subordinate, he complied, despite the urge deep inside him to turn and run.
He raised his hand.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
A brief pause.
"Come in," a commanding voice called.
The doors swung open. The young man stepped inside.
The room before him resembled a haunted theater—vast, opulent, and eerily dim.
There were no lights.
Only a massive window poured moonlight into the space, casting a pale, silver glow. Three grand thrones sat below the window, but their towering backs of their chairs blocked the light, shrouding the figures who sat upon them in darkness. He could not make out their faces.
Nevertheless, the young man lowered his eyes and knelt down on one knee and pounded the left side of his chest with his right hand.
"I greet the saviors of the oppressed," he declared. "Rank A, Captain Brandon of Division 5, Unit 3—undercover specialist—reporting."
"We're glad to see you, Captain Brandon of unit 3 of division 5," said the man seated to the right. His voice was strong, yet almost casual.
"I'm sure you're curious why we've called you here at such a late hour."
The man to the right was Master Cassian—one of the twenty Master-level fire users in the world, and second-in-command of the entire Zephyr Clan.
"Indeed, your Grace," Brandon replied calmly. "Whatever you require, it shall be done."
He sensed the smile behind Cassian's words.
"Well said," the man responded. "Now, Brandon, you must know—it's that time again. Things are about to get… hectic."
Brandon furrowed his brow, trying to remember.
"…I'm sorry. I don't follow."
Cassian chuckled. "Every three years, every kingdom on the continent gathers for the same event. Surely you recall."
Suddenly, it clicked.
"The Central Continent's Grand Council Banquet?" Brandon asked.
"Correct," said Master Cassian, his voice tightening. "Ordinarily, this is important. But this year… it's different."
He paused.
"The Kingdom of Lafang is returning to the world stage."
Brandon's eyes widened. He nearly gasped aloud.
What?! No way. Why now?
But he held his composure, clenching his fists.
"No one knows why they've returned after two hundred years," Cassian continued. "But their reappearance has disrupted our plans. We already face powerful enemies. Now, we face more. And worse—we know nothing about them. Not their numbers. Not their ranks. Not their strengths. Nothing."
The final word cut through the room like a blade.
Brandon bowed his head deeper.
"You understand our concern, don't you?" Cassian asked, voice low and sharp.
Of course he understood.
The Lafang Kingdom was legendary for producing elemental users. In most nations, the birth of an elemental was random—rare. Even with two elemental parents, the odds were only 0.1%.
But the royal family of Lafang was different.
Every child was born an air elemental. No exceptions.
And now they were allying with the Zephyr Clan's enemies.
The tension in the room coiled like a snake ready to strike.
"This is deeply concerning," Brandon said carefully. "We must act swiftly—gather intelligence and adapt."
"Well said," came a new voice, smoother and sharper—from the woman seated to the left.
Master Selene.
A water elemental prodigy and one of the youngest Master-level users in history. She had once served the Waterland Kingdom, but defected. Though many questioned her loyalty, her strength, strategy, and sacrifice had silenced all doubt.
Brandon's pulse quickened at the hint of a new assignment.
This one's going to be fun, he thought.
"On the day of the Banquet," Selene said, "we want you to cause a little ruckus."
Brandon's head jerked up in surprise.
"We're not asking for a battle," she clarified. "You'll be undercover. Your true mission is to gather as much info on Pharaoh Lafang and his entourage."
Brandon exhaled in relief. A direct assault at the Banquet—where kings brought their strongest warriors—would be suicide.
He caught a flash of white teeth in the shadows. Selene was smiling.
"As for the other parts--the other divisions will handle that," she said smugly. "While they stir chaos, you'll shadow the Pharaoh."
"We want everything," she continued, voice sharp. "His allies. Their powers. Their habits. What they eat. When they sleep. Even how often he goes to the bathroom."
She leaned forward, eyes glowing faintly in the dark.
"Every detail. Leave nothing out."
Brandon swallowed.
"You're capable of this," Selene said sternly. "No—Rank A Captain Brandon."
The title echoed.
Very few made it to rank A.
Brandon was one of them.
The illegitimate son of a Count, he had been cast aside with his mother. His father's wife sent assassins to silence them. His mother died. Brandon survived—killing his first assassin with nothing but a butter knife.
He joined the Zephyr Clan and climbed its hierarchy.
He knew how nobles thought. He was a master of etiquette and deception. Lethal in combat. A ghost in the shadows.
As a non-elemental, he wouldn't be detected by elemental users who could sense their own. And even among high rank combat users, he knew how to mask his power. Most overlooked him.
That was their mistake.
Brandon felt heat rise in his chest. Not fear. Excitement.
He smirked.
"Understood," he said, bowing deeply and pounding his chest with pride.
"Leave it to me."
"We'll be counting on you," Master Selene said, her teeth flashing again in the darkness.
"Eizen!" Master Cassian called out.
From the shadows, a man emerged—face and build hidden beneath a black cloak from the corner of the room, standing tall–looking as if the cloak was being worn by an invisible man.
Captain Brandon was caught off guard.
I didn't even sense his presence. Brandon thought alarmed.
Immediately he sensed it: the sharp, almost oppressive aura of a powerful opponent.
A shadow user.
To be able to hide such tremendous power can only mean one thing….
A very high-ranking elemental user in their Clan.
"This mission is too important to risk mistakes," Master Cassian said. "Eizen will accompany you. If anything goes wrong, Eizen will reveal himself."
"Communication will be easier with him there," Master Selene added. "Together, there should be no reason for failure. Every time you interact with Pharaoh Lafang's men, Eizen will analyze their power levels through their shadows."
Shadow users—especially strong ones—were rare. And priceless.
They could sense the weight and pressure of power.
They could read hidden abilities, suppressed instincts, even invisible tells.
They were the ones who ranked warriors officially.
Then a new voice filled the room—deep, authoritative, and calm as thunder.
The man in the center throne finally spoke.
Grandmaster Vandros.
Leader of the Zephyr Clan.
One of the five Grandmasters in the world—and the only Grandmaster-level shadow user.
"Brandon. Eizen," Grandmaster Vandros said.
Both men lowered their heads.
"I trust you understand the gravity of this mission," Vandros continued, his voice low and commanding. "Our future—and the future of millions—depends on your success. Do not fail."
His last words cut like steel.
Both men bowed deeply.
"Yes, Grandmaster!"
Suddenly, Eizen dissolved into a swirl of black smoke.
A voice hissed beside Brandon's ear—too close.
"Until we finish this mission, we are one."
Brandon jumped, startled by the whisper. He fell back instinctively, nearly scrambling to flee.
"Wh-what was that?!" he stammered.
Laughter echoed softly from Master Cassian and Master Selene.
Then came the voice again, snake-like and amused:
"That was pathetic."
Brandon whirled around, eyes scanning the room.
Nothing.
"Over here."
The voice again—close, yet from nowhere.
"Wh-where?!"
"Look at your shadow."
Brandon looked down.
Nothing….—wait.
Two glowing purple eyes stared back at him from within his shadow on the floor. A faint mouth formed beneath them with a creepy smile that showed his teeth.
"I will be your shadow."
***
The sky blazed a merciless blue, and the desert burned beneath it. Winds swept across the dunes, erasing every trace of passage—footprints, trails, even the faint memory of movement.
Five men rode atop tall camels, wrapped in white scarves that left only their eyes exposed. Their loose robes and tapered trousers whipped against them, flaring in the wind like restless spirits. The sandstorm clawed at their path, but the air bent around them, spiraling harmlessly away. Each of them was an air user—soldiers of Lafang, and not just any soldiers. They were the elite, the kingdom's finest blades of wind, riding with divine precision toward a single purpose.
Four men rode beneath a shaded canopy on the lead camel, but one rode ahead—upright, his figure outlined against the blazing dunes.
The wind cut across his face, yet he did not blink. His dark brown eyes flicked to the horizon—sharp, glowing faintly, as if reading the language of the storm itself. They narrowed.
"Your Highness," he called out.
The man reclining beneath the canopy stirred.
"Your Highness," the voice came again—firmer, carried on the wind.
"I'm listening," the man finally said. "Speak, Kaleb."
"The winds feel unnatural," Kaleb warned, his tone tight. "We should hurry. I fear a sandstorm is building. I can ride ahead and—"
"That won't be necessary," Caius-Jude interrupted, his voice smooth but laced with authority. "The guards can manage. And if they cannot—" He gave a small yawn, his eyes still half-closed. "—then my brother or nephew will handle it."
Kaleb hesitated, jaw tightening. "Yes, Your Highness."
He fell silent, feeling conflicted.
Miles ahead, a pale shape shimmered through the dust—a colossal wall of ivory stone, towering from the earth like a monument of the gods. The Great Wall of Lafang. It gleamed under the desert sun, unshakable, eternal. To stand before it was to feel one's insignificance.
High above, guards patrolled the ramparts, their cloaks thrashing violently in the wind.
"These winds are brutal!" one shouted, gripping his spear as grit pelted his face. "Didn't think patrol duty meant enduring this!"
"Me too," The other shouted, his eyes were now slits, trying to keep the sand from his eyes.
The air howled—wild, unrelenting—carrying blades of sand that sliced across their garments even their skin.
The gusts slammed into the wall in booming bursts that made even stone groan.
"I thought these walls were tall!" another guard shouted. "Didn't think even the wind could reach us—but this is insane!"
All along the South Gate, the guards stood shoulder to shoulder, arms outstretched against the raging wind. Pale gray light shimmered faintly around their hands as they channeled their air abilities in unison, forming a trembling wall of force against the storm.
But it wasn't enough.
The desert pressed forward—merciless, unrelenting—as if it refused to be subdued by mortal hands.
Minutes bled into hours. The winds grew sharper, heavier, laced with shards of sand that cut through cloth and skin alike. Crimson streaks appeared on their arms; tatters of white robes fluttered like wounded flags.
Their muscles quivered with strain. Eyes burned and watered until vision blurred to nothing but swirling gold. Power drained from them like air from a dying flame. Each breath came ragged—raw, painful, tasting of dust and iron.
Still, they stood.Still, they fought.Holding the line long after their strength should have failed.
Only one among them stood unbothered—calm, composed, his hand raised in quiet command.
The wind curved away from him, bending in unnatural obedience.
He was no ordinary guard.
He was one of the Talmīde d-Mshiḥa–3—the Third Order of the most powerful and revered air users in the kingdom.
"H-h-how is he so calm?" one guard stammered, shielding his eyes.
The man turned, eyes steady. "First day on duty, isn't it?" His tone carried through the storm—half amusement, half pity. "You'll get used to it."
Before anyone could answer, the ground trembled.
The guards froze. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
A deep rumble rolled across the horizon, shaking the very air. At first, it sounded distant—a growl under the sand. Then, from the far distance, a swirl appeared. Small. Spinning. Growing.
The sky dimmed as the swirl grew massive, rising until it blotted out the sun. The wind howled louder, a sound like the scream of a thousand beasts. The air pressure shifted—suffocating, heavy. And then they saw it.
A wall of sand. Towering. Endless. Alive.
It crawled toward them like a monster made of dust, swallowing mountains, devouring the horizon.
"A sandstorm!" someone screamed, voice breaking.
"Call for backup!"
"Get the high-ranking air users!"
"Hurry!"
But no one could move. The storm had already taken hold. The wind became claws, ripping at their cloaks. Sand struck their faces like hot iron. The sky vanished into chaos—nothing but churning brown and thunderous sound.
The guards dropped to their knees, covering their eyes, choking on sand. The storm was no longer wind—it was wrath. The desert itself had risen to erase them.
And then—
Silence.
Just like that.
The sudden stillness hit harder than the storm. No howling, no grit, no sound—only the echo of their own breathing.
"W–what happened?" one whispered, his voice trembling in the unnatural calm.
The Talmīde d-Mshiḥa–3 guard stepped forward, his cloak settling around him."Calm yourselves," he said quietly. "No need to panic. Someone's already handling it."
"Someone?" the rookies echoed, disbelieving.
The veteran tilted his chin toward the horizon."Look below."
They followed his gaze—and froze.
A lone figure stood before the storm.Black and gold robes whipped around him.He looked impossibly small against the wall of sand that towered above him—an ant facing a god.
He wasn't running.He wasn't fighting.He simply stood.
Hand raised. Palm open.
And the storm—obeyed.
The monstrous wall split down the middle, parting with a hiss like a serpent's breath.The sand curved away to either side, flowing around him in massive, rippling waves.
The guards could only stare, slack-jawed."H-how can one person do that?"
Down below, the man stood unmoving.The colossal wall loomed behind him. His dark hair flicked beneath a gold-edged hijab.
His eyes were closed—his breathing steady, tranquil amid chaos.
Then—he opened them.
Gold.
Not light. Not fire. But molten metal—alive, burning, divine.
He raised his hands slowly—then slammed them down.
The air convulsed.The ground quaked.Waves of invisible force blasted outward, bending the sand into spiraling arcs that screamed through the sky.
Again—BOOM.Another wave tore through the desert.
And again—BOOM.The sandstorm buckled, recoiling against the invisible wall of his will.
He turned once, spinning his hands, gathering the air into a single, perfect spiral.The desert howled as a cyclone formed around him, blades of wind slicing through the storm.Then—he dove forward, straight into the raging heart.
The desert exploded.
For a moment, he was gone. Swallowed whole by the sand.Then—light erupted outward. Wind detonated in every direction, tearing the storm apart. The sky cleared with a thunderous crack as dust burst into golden mist.
When it was over, silence returned.The desert lay flat, still, and breathless.
The man stood alone—unshaken, framed against the burning sun. His black-and-gold robes fluttered softly in the fading gusts. A few grains of sand rested on his lashes. He exhaled once.
The storm was gone.
From the wall, the guards could only whisper.
"He… did that alone?"
"Impossible…"
"That was… unreal."
"Coolest thing I've ever seen."
The man turned.
In the next blink, he was standing before them.
His presence pressed down on them like a physical force—the kind that silences air and thought alike.
The guards stumbled back, except the veteran, who dropped to one knee.
"I'll assign more high-ranking users to your post," the hero said quietly."Good work today."
He bowed once.The guards bowed lower, trembling.
Whoever he was, he wasn't just powerful. He was authority. He was peak of human strength.
He turned to leave—
—and that's when they saw him.
A tall figure in white stood behind them, silent as a ghost. They hadn't heard him approach. He bowed his head slightly. Only his emerald eyes were visible above his scarf—calm, unreadable.
The two men walked away together, their cloaks trailing through the dying wind.
The silence lingered long after they were gone.Then, shakily, one of the rookies spoke.
"Is… is that what it takes to be a high-ranking user in the kingdom?"
"H-how did we not see him?" another gasped. "He was right there!"
"That was insane," whispered the third, eyes wide. "Completely insane."
The veteran guard gave a low scoff. His arms folded, expression unreadable."You kids don't know anything."
They turned to him, confused. "What do you mean?"
He exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing toward the now-still horizon."You think anyone can do that? You're dead wrong."He looked back at them, the wind tugging at his cloak."I'm a high-ranking user myself—part of Talmīde d-Mshiḥa–3 and even I couldn't do that all alone."
The rookies gawked."Wait… don't tell me—"
The veteran smirked, pulling down his scarf. Streaks of gray ran through his dark hair.
"He's more than a warrior," he said softly."That man… is Crown Prince Amon Lafang."He paused, nodding once."And the one in white—his brother, Joseph Lafang."
The rookies froze.
"WHAAAAAT?!"
"You mean we were standing next to the Crown Prince?"
The veteran smiled faintly, his voice quiet but full of pride."Who else could command a storm like that? His Royal Highness is one of the three strongest in the entire kingdom."
The desert wind rose again—not in fury this time.
But in awe.
In respect.
***
Both men entered the quiet chamber.
The room was pristinely clean, the air faintly perfumed with rosewater and cedar.
The maids bowed deeply.
"Your bath is ready, Your Highness," said the elder maid.
Steam drifted from the open doorway, soft and ghostlike.
"Thank you, Lady Maacah."
The black-robed man loosened his hijab and pulled it away, revealing a youthful face—handsome, composed, but worn with exhaustion. His bronze skin glistened faintly with sweat; a few dark strands clung stubbornly to his forehead.
"Of course, Your Highness. Shall I have your carriage prepared?"
"That will not be necessary. Your thoughtfulness is appreciated."
Lady Maacah nodded and ushered the other maids out. Some lingered for a fleeting glance before the door closed softly behind them.
"Are you going to bathe?" Amon asked.
The man in white, with sharp emerald eyes, shook his head. "I'm fine. Go on—we have to leave any minute now."
Amon gave a curt nod. "Very well. I shall be brief."
He slipped off his heavy robes, revealing a sculpted frame—strength born of quiet discipline. The candlelight traced the contours of his back like molten gold.
Joseph leaned back in his chair, arms folded, his tone low and measured. "Whose ability shall we use—mine or yours?"
Amon paused at the doorway, glancing back through the steam.
Before he could answer, Joseph's lips curled into a knowing smirk. "Let us use mine. We shall arrive within two minutes."
Amon chuckled under his breath. "No—mine will suffice," he said, vanishing into the haze.
A faint whisper of wind followed, carrying his voice to Joseph's ear."Let's keep that private."
***