Descent

The sky was dim, shrouded in thick storm clouds that dulled the world beneath them.

Finch remained suspended between sea and sky, still in the process of dislodging from the black beach. The uneven lower half of the city, mirroring the jagged outlines of its buildings, drifted upward as its own ascent continued.

A translucent golden barrier, which had initially covered only the upper hemisphere of Finch, now expanded downward, sealing off the lower portion as well.

To the east, the first raindrop finally struck the ocean.

It did not ripple—it reeled.

The water's surface caved inward, forming a crater vast enough to fit Finch's central tower lying on its side. A moment of eerie silence followed as the ocean hesitated, the vacuum left behind yearning to be filled.

Then, with the force of a collapsing world, the sea surged inward.

A violent implosion consumed the impact site, sending walls of water cascading outward with the force of a thousand storms. It was as devastating as the initial blasts that had launched the rivers skyward.

More followed. The sky wept, and each tear fell with the weight of a mountain.

Finch—the city by the seas, known for its unrelenting defiance against the worst Fenros had to offer—floated hundreds of meters above the churning abyss, its golden barrier a stark contrast against the solid black sand and the brooding sky.

Instead of allowing the barrier to fully expand, the Navy compressed it, condensing its energy.

It now resembled an inflated disc. Several ships hovered to the underside of Finch, to streamline the barrier.

The downpour continued. None of it made sense to Leon.

For all his intelligence, for all the things he understood about the world, the storm unfolding before him was beyond comprehension.

His gaze was wide, unblinking, watching as a familiar sight finally took shape.

It was raining.

Yet, something was different.

The raindrops were not mere droplets. They were the size of mountains.

And they were not guided by the wind—such weak forces could not dictate their descent.

Most fell in near-perfect vertical lines, dispersing into mist as friction tore them apart.

But some remained whole. Among them, a few moved erratically, darting across the sky at speeds that made even Leon's fastest moments feel sluggish.

Nyssa stirred in his arms.

She had been still—almost absentmindedly so—until now. The sight of those rapidly moving raindrops snapped her out of her reverie.

She stiffened.

Her breath hitched.

"That—" She pointed at them with a trembling finger, gripping Leon's sleeve as she continued, "is called Tuh'du."

Leon followed her gaze.

The sky churned with something beyond mere water. Some drops split mid-air. Others fused into titanic spheres before falling. Some froze in place as though suspended by invisible strings.

And then, one drop caught his attention.

It was not the largest nor the fastest, but—

'It's glowing.'

A faint purple light pulsed within the droplet as it danced through the sky. It moved strangely, bobbing and twisting, its form shifting in ways that defied logic.

Then, suddenly, it changed course.

It was heading toward Finch.

The air grew heavier. The barrier glowed slightly brighter.

Leon felt the shift.

To the north, a figure emerged from the central tower.

Blond hair, piercing blue eyes—his presence exuded a calmness that stood in direct opposition to the chaos around him.

The Admiral appeared once again, and inhaled deeply.

And then, he yelled.

A sound so deafening it carved through the storm.

Leon's hands instinctively clamped over Nyssa's ears, though he doubted it would help much. The sheer force of the man's voice resonated through his bones.

And then—

Flash.

Leon's peripheral vision caught movement.

The glowing purple drop was no longer distant.

Time slowed.

In the brief moment between the Admiral's inhalation and Leon's realization, the drop had already arrived.

Nyssa's hands shot up, covering his ears in return.

Then—

BANG!

The impact sent a blinding light across the city, its brilliance second only to the earth-shaking roar that followed.

Leon's senses reeled. Nyssa, despite Leon's efforts to shield her, was disoriented.

And yet, this was only the beginning.

More were coming.

From the sky, the next wave of anomalous raindrops pierced the clouds.

Some twisted into the shapes of serpents. Others stretched into walls of water, rolling toward Finch like collapsing glaciers. Some boiled midair, exuding scalding steam, while others froze solid before shattering into razor-sharp shards.

Leon turned his gaze toward the Admiral.

The man remained composed.

His calmness eased Leon's own rising fear.

'I'm… afraid?'

The thought unsettled him.

He shook it off, looking instead to Nyssa. She was familiar with this kind of storm. Perhaps she had answers.

"What do you know?" His tone was clipped—sharper than intended. He wasn't dismissing her fear, but understanding the storm might help him suppress his own.

Nyssa pulled away slightly, adjusting herself as she steadied her breathing.

"Tuh'du…" she began, voice unsteady.

"It is what we call it." Her eyes lost focus, searching through memories.

"The clouds," she continued, "form at the point where the Laws are most chaotic."

Leon's eyes narrowed. "The sky is the source?"

"Yes."

She looked toward the window, out at the distorted world beyond.

"Many have tried to reach the moon," she said softly. "But the Laws dictate that we must stay."

Her grip on his sleeve tightened.

"The clouds that bring Tuh'du are subject to the Wills of the Gods. And they rain down their judgment."

She stopped.

Leon didn't press further.

Because the next wave was approaching.

* * *

In Kindrall back within Oran, a boy was repeatedly swinging his blade in a series of vertical slashes.

It was Felix. His dark brown hair framed a face set in concentration, and his hazel eyes burned with intensity as each swing was imbued with his will.

Sweat trickled down his face as he practiced relentlessly. Every swing was precise—yet he paused now and then, glancing toward the distance where rain fell.

'It's picking up,' he thought, a flicker of concern mingling with his focus. 'I wonder if Leon made his way out.'

He continued his practice. Even as the rain entered Kindrall and washed over his weary body, he did not relent.

Selia's gentle calls to cease were met only with the sound of his blade slicing through the downpour.

'Precision,' Felix murmured to himself as he readied another vertical slash, his aim fixed on an unseen target.

'Follow it…'

"–x!"

The world seemed to slow; his wooden longsword met a falling raindrop, grazing it almost imperceptibly.

'No.'

He swung again—a more determined arc—and this time, his sword caught a raindrop cleanly.

"–lix!"

'No,' he repeated, unsatisfied. Pausing, he held his wooden blade aloft, maintaining his stance in a moment of stillness that recalled a long-ago memory.

He remembered that day three years past, when he had been practicing with Garthem. Leon had watched them, silent, before retreating to his room.

That memory fueled Felix's every swing—a desperate attempt to recreate the feeling of that perfect slash.

That day in the armory, as Felix rested, he'd found himself coincidentally in the path of Leon's precise strike, a fleeting moment of understanding changed his perception of the sword.

He swung once more, but the slash missed any raindrop entirely. He raised his arms again, his body tensing to resume the movement—when suddenly, a firm hand landed on his shoulder.

"Come inside," Garthem said softly.

Felix's muscles relaxed reluctantly as he lowered his weary arms. In that brief pause, father and son stood together for a few seconds in the mild, cleansing rain.

Then they walked back inside. As they retreated, Felix cast one last glance toward the storm-tossed world outside.

'I hope he's doing alright,' he thought quietly.