Shiran floated effortlessly above the town, his translucent blue hair dancing with the gentle breeze like liquid sky. Below him sprawled a bustling settlement, one that might have passed as human to a casual observer—but Shiran knew better. These were beastmen, shapeshifters who could meld flesh and spirit between human and animal forms at will. Over his endless journey through worlds and dimensions, he had encountered countless demi-human races—each a unique tapestry of power and culture. This town was merely another thread in the vast web of existence, another potential conquest or curiosity to explore.
His half-spirit bloodline had made the early years of his life a turbulent struggle—traveling between worlds was no simple feat, and adapting to each environment demanded constant vigilance. But now, with the god factor fully awakened, such trials were relics of a forgotten past. He was no mere traveler anymore; he was a force—a demigod of storms, undefeated and unrivaled, especially after absorbing the power of a fallen dependent of the Destruction God. His Storm God had declared him unbeaten within his domain, elevating him to a league reserved for legends.
Graceful as if descending invisible stairs, Shiran moved toward the town gate. He sensed the stir of awareness already rippling through the defenders, but he neither feared nor cared. On this planet, he was untouchable. The only equal threat—Shiro—was a recluse, hidden away in shadows, unlikely to cross his path. A sly smirk played across Shiran's lips at the thought. Nothing could stand before him.
At the entrance, the guards waited—already alert from his overwhelming aura. Ten knights in shining armor stood at the forefront, flanked by fifty disciplined soldiers, all taut with tension and ready for battle. Shiran's eyes surveyed them coolly, his contempt masked behind an expression of casual amusement.
"So," he said, arms crossed, voice dripping with amusement, "I see I'm not welcome here."
The head knight stepped forward, hand resting on his weapon's hilt, voice booming with authority. "State your name and purpose."
Shiran's gaze drifted lazily around the scene. "Just a passing traveler," he said, voice smooth, laced with subtle magic. "I noticed something crash-landed here a few days ago."
His words carried a hidden charm—a soft hypnotic weave that blurred the soldiers' minds just enough. The knights' stern countenances softened, eyes glazing subtly. With a faint chuckle, Shiran strolled past them unchallenged.
As his hand brushed the gate's control panel, a translucent screen shimmered to life:
Name: Shiran Taisen
Rank: Legendary
Race: Unknown
Status: Demigod
A sudden shift swept through the ranks of soldiers. Recognizing the name and status, their postures shifted from defiance to reverence. They bowed deeply, almost comically fast in their submission.
Shiran clicked his tongue in mild annoyance. His goddess had not bothered to inform him that his status had officially changed. Normally, his records would mark him as a demi-human—but as a recognized demigod, everything altered.
He sighed and entered the city—one hidden from the unawakened by a powerful magical veil. For someone with a fully awakened third eye like him, such illusions were trivial. His gaze swept the surroundings—teleportation capsules glided between towers, floating vehicles zipped overhead, and buildings reached dizzying heights. The city was advanced, a futuristic playground for the powerful and the arrogant.
Unimpressed, Shiran wandered the streets, searching for something to pique his interest. New armor, perhaps—he hadn't updated his gear in too long. His current ensemble—a light blue cape draped over a modest chest piece, light gauntlets, and greaves—felt outdated against the storm of his growing power.
His eyes caught a nearby shop, its display showcasing weapons and armor, crafted with artistry and magic. He grinned. Maybe it was time for a change.
The bell chimed softly as he pushed the door open, immediately feeling the heavy gaze of the shopkeeper—wide eyes brimming with awe and fear. Shiran paid no mind. He was here for one reason: to claim something worthy of the Storm God's chosen.
As he browsed, his thoughts drifted toward the future. The gods had declared him unbeatable, yet complacency was the enemy of power. Greater threats lurked beyond horizons, in shadows where even gods hesitated.
With a determined glint in his eyes, Shiran lifted a finely crafted set of armor, running his fingers over the craftsmanship. This would do nicely.
The storm was always brewing—and Shiran would be at its eye, wielding the power of the heavens themselves.