Southern Tanna — Higashihama Littoral, near the Ruins of the Old Sea Road)

  (Dawn, 21st of September, 299 BC)

  The waves were still rumbling.

  Above them, clouds gathered and tore apart again and again, lightning flashing in dreadful hues—violet, sickly blue, ash-white—like the heavens arguing among themselves. In that chaos, he saw her.

  Chika stood upon a rock untouched by the storm, her hair unmoved by the wind, her eyes calm where the sea was not. As Toho turned to call her name, a wind more violent than before ripped through the air. The scene shattered.

  Suddenly, all the people were safe—standing together beneath a limpid sky. He held Chika’s hand. His chest burned with words unsaid, a confession rising—

  —but she drifted away.

  Distance stretched unnaturally. The ground beneath them darkened, as though swallowed by shadow. From the sky came a strange rumbling, low and ancient. From afar, a dark steed emerged, hooves silent, its form swallowing the light around it.

  Blink.

  Silence.

  He opened his eyes.

  Everyone who had lived before lay dead around him.

  Chika stood frozen, a sharp object buried deep within her side. Her eyes met his—not accusing, not afraid—only distant.

  Then, from the horizon, light burst forth—

  Sunlight filtered through large leaves tied together with vine and rope, forming a careful, makeshift roof. The light fell directly across Toho’s eyelids. He groaned softly, raising an arm to shield his face.

  His head throbbed.

  He blinked hard, vision swimming, body stiff as if carved from driftwood. Slowly, awareness returned. Sand beneath him. The smell of smoke. Herbs. Salt still clinging to everything.

  His eyes darted to his feet. Then left. Then right.

  A man sat nearby, arranging dried leaves into a small wooden chest.

  Toho tried to rise.

  “Ugh—ha—” He clutched his head, dizziness roaring back, and collapsed onto one elbow.

  “Oh,” the man said calmly, turning. “You are awake.”

  Toho stared.

  Recognition struck.

  “You… you’re the father,” he said hoarsely. “The boy.”

  The man nodded. “Haruto.” He took several green leaves and placed them in Toho’s palm. “Chew.”

  “What is this?” Toho asked.

  “A leaf from my homeland,” Haruto replied. “Didn’t expect to find it here. Seems the sea carries more than ships.”

  Toho chewed. The bitterness was sharp—but within moments, the pounding in his skull eased.

  As he exhaled in relief, a small hand tugged at his side.

  A child knelt there, offering a wooden cup of water with both hands.

  “Thank you, sir,” the boy said earnestly. “For doing your best.”

  Toho flushed slightly and accepted the cup. “Thank you.”

  The boy straightened suddenly, standing as stiff as a recruit before an officer.

  “Kenji, sir!”

  Toho smiled. “Well met, Kenji. I’m Toho—”

  He stopped himself.

  “…Toho.”

  Kenji grinned widely.

  Haruto watched quietly, thinking: Toho.

  Birdsong drifted in from outside. As Haruto returned to his work, Toho’s fingers brushed against something pale near his bedding. He picked it up.

  White dust.

  Soft. He let it slip through his fingers. Smooth.

  Sand.

  He pushed himself more upright, grains running through his hand like time itself.

  “Everyone…” he asked, voice rough. “Everyone all right?”

  Haruto nodded—then hesitated. “Most made it.” His eyes flickered, and he turned quickly. “Kenji—more water.”

  Toho heard gentle waves beyond the shelter. Not the roar of death. Just the sea breathing.

  His head swam again. Fragments surged back—

  the wall of water,

  Chika sinking,

  his dive—

  Footsteps.

  “Good morning, everyone.”

  An elderly man entered the shelter, posture relaxed, eyes sharp. Kenji lit up.

  “Senior! Senior!”

  The man laughed. “I see you’re kicking strong, eh?” From the pack on his back, he withdrew a large fruit and handed it to the boy.

  Toho watched carefully.

  The elder noticed and offered another fruit. “Here.”

  “What is this?” Toho asked.

  “Found it here some time ago,” the man said. “Don’t know the name. But it’s sweet.”

  Papaya.

  The taste stunned him. After days of salt and fear, sweetness bloomed on his tongue.

  “A time ago?” Toho asked slowly.

  Before the elder could answer, the shelter flap burst open.

  “HELLO, HERO!”

  Imei stood there, soaked boots, wind-tangled hair, grin wide as the horizon.

  “Imei!” Toho breathed, relief flooding him.

  Imei strutted in. “You’re welcome, by the way. That rope? Expert knot.”

  “Where’s Sawai?” Toho asked immediately.

  Imei clutched his chest in mock pain. “No greeting? After I saved you and your beloved?”

  He waved it off. “Sawai’s been busy. Helping Osei—elder of his clan—with the leader election.”

  Toho blinked. “Election?”

  “Today,” Imei said. “Actually.”

  Stolen novel; please report.

  Toho stiffened. “Wait. How long was I out?”

  Haruto answered quietly. “Seven nights.”

  Seven.

  Imei clapped his hands. “Well then! You slept through the worst. Let’s go.”

  “Go where?” Toho asked, trying to stand. His legs wobbled immediately.

  Hands steadied him—Haruto, Imei, the elder.

  They guided him forward.

  Light poured in as the tent flap lifted.

  The beach spread wide before him. Fires burned. Survivors moved with purpose. Nine battered ships lay beached or half-salvaged. Children carried water from a nearby stream. Elderly sat in councils.

  Life.

  “Oiiii, hero!” Imei shouted. “This way!”

  Toho sighed and followed, hands folded behind his back, sand cool beneath his feet.

  He glanced at the horizon.

  The dark steed from his dream lingered in his thoughts—but the morning light pushed it back.

  “Finally arrived,” Imei declared.

  He clapped Toho’s shoulder. “Election’s today. Sawai wants you there. Thinks you can change things.”

  Toho nodded slowly. Resolve hardened.

  “But,” Imei added, “the elders won’t give you a chance.”

  Toho bit into the papaya calmly. “Who says?”

  “Imei the Genius.”

  “Genius,” Toho laughed softly. “Sure.”

  Imei talked as if silence offended him.

  “So,” he said, walking backward in front of Toho, hands clasped behind his head, “seven nights. Seven. Do you know what kind of reputation that builds? People are already calling you The Sleeper Who Refused to Die.”

  Toho blinked. “They are?”

  “Oh yes,” Imei grinned. “Either that, or Lazy Hero of the Sea. Depends on who you ask.”

  Imei snorted turning his back on him. “You worried about Sawai first thing you woke up. That hurt, you know.”

  Toho exhaled, rubbing his temples. “Just needed to check on both.”

  “Yeah yeah?” Imei said theatrically. “Just excuses.”

  They crested a low rise, and the settlement unfolded below them.

  Rows of mud houses stood in careful lines, walls smoothed by skilled hands, roofs thatched with reeds bound tight against the coastal winds. Some bore simple carvings—spirals, waves, clan marks scratched deep into drying clay. Between them stood tents of sailcloth and hide, remnants of the voyage not yet replaced by permanence. Smoke rose from cooking fires, drifting lazily into the noon sky. People moved with intent—fetching water, sharpening tools, gathering food.

  It was alive.

  Toho stopped without realizing it.

  *This is what we fought the sea for.*

  A freshwater stream glimmered nearby, clear and inviting. Children laughed there, splashing despite scoldings from elders. Sweet water again—like the papaya, like mercy.

  As they entered the village proper, conversation thinned around them. Eyes followed Toho.

  “The sleeper wakes.”

  “The one from the wreck.”

  “Is that him?”

  Whispers slid through the air like blades testing flesh.

  Then Sawai appeared from the central clearing, long strides eating the distance. Relief crossed his face—then irritation replaced it.

  “Imei,” he said sharply, “you know it’s a risk bringing him here.”

  Imei smiled without apology. “But you asked me to bring him for the election.”

  Sawai slapped his forehead. “You fool.”

  Toho stepped between them. “What is the problem?”

  Sawai lowered his voice. “The elders of the main clans want to interrogate you. They see you as trouble. An outsider who saved lives yes—but draws too much attention.”

  Before Toho could answer, a voice carried across the square.

  “Sawai!”

  An elderly man stood near the largest tent, posture stooped but presence commanding. He raised a hand, beckoning.

  Sawai grimaced. “Too late.”

  They approached. Osei’s eyes traveled over Toho slowly, weighing him.

  “Are you Toho?” the elder asked, voice deliberately loud.

  “Yes,” Toho answered, standing straight. “I am.”

  Osei sighed, deep and weary. “You saved many lives. That much is beyond dispute.” His hands clenched briefly. “But we cannot reward you properly. We arrived newly. There is no settled leadership yet.”

  From inside the tent, a sharp voice cut through.

  “Osei—who are you talking to?”

  Osei hesitated. “It’s Toho.”

  The tent flap flew open.

  Chika emerged.

  She was alive.

  Color filled Toho’s chest so suddenly it hurt. Relief surged—then the dream flashed: her body pierced, blood, tears. His breath caught. He took a step toward her.

  A spear thrust out, barring his path.

  A tall man stepped forward, dark-skinned, broad-shouldered, eyes burning. “You filth,” he snarled. “You dare not touch my daughter.”

  Chika’s father.

  “Why was he let into the camp?” the man demanded. “Why is he still alive? The plan was to drive him out.”

  The words struck harder than the sea ever had.

  Osei raised his hands. “We owe him our lives—”

  Chika spoke urgently. “Father, please—”

  “Enough,” he snapped, silencing her without looking. Murmurs rippled through the crowd—some sympathetic, others cold.

  Imei stepped forward, bowing lightly. “Apologies. It was my fault. I brought him.”

  The friend of Chika's father who came out soon after muttered under his breath, “Stubborn fool.”

  Imei grabbed Toho’s arm. “We’re leaving.”

  Toho resisted for a heartbeat, eyes locking with Chika’s. No words passed—but something unyielding did.

  Her father leaned close, voice low and venomous. “If I see you near my daughter again—even in your sleep—you will not wake.”

  They turned away.

  At the village edge, Sawai tossed Toho a waterskin. “Heard you were out seven nights.”

  Toho drank. The water was sweet. Clean.

  “I just learned it today,” he said quietly. He tossed the waterskin back to Sawai.

  Imei sat on a rock, suddenly serious. “It was planned by Chika’s father to kill you.”

  Mid sip, Sawai halted, lips tightening.

  Toho froze, eyes wide. “Why?”

  Imei shrugged. “Don’t know. Overheard it one night. That’s why I had Haruto watch over you.”

  Silence settled.

  “Back in my homeland,” Imei added softly, “I learned to listen in shadows. Men like him fear change more than death.”

  They gathered fruit in the rising heat. In the distance, drums began to sound—slow, deliberate. The election was beginning.

  Imei asked, “What will you do if Osei wins?”

  Sawai grinned. “Eat everything this land offers. Then find a good brawl.”

  “What kind of goal is that?” Imei scoffed—then turned to Toho, who had gone quiet. “Sawai… what if instead of supporting those three… we created the—”

  He stopped.

  “The what?” Sawai asked.

  Imei smiled slowly. “The Toho clan!”

  Toho hissed. “Are you insane?”

  Imei blinked. “What’s with him?”

  Sawai sighed. “You really don’t know when to stop.”

  Toho looked back toward the village. The drums grew louder. Rejection burned—but beneath it, resolve hardened.

  A gust of wind rose—first warm, then cold.

  (Higashihama Settlement, Southern Tanna — Late Afternoon to Nightfall, 21st of September, 299 BC)

  The last of the fruit fell into woven baskets with dull thuds. Sweet scents—papaya, wild citrus, salt-dried berries—hung in the air as the makeshift drum echoed again from the central square. Deep. Rhythmic. Commanding. It was not music; it was summons.

  “To the vote,” Sawai muttered.

  Imei clapped his hands once. “Right. Follow me.”

  They followed him—and immediately regretted it.

  He turned down a narrow path flanked by half-built mud houses, their walls still damp, roofs unfinished. A woman carrying reeds stared at them.

  “…Wait,” Imei said slowly, looking around. “This is the storage row.”

  Sawai pinched the bridge of his nose. “Of course it is.”

  They turned back. Two turns later, Imei pushed aside a hanging mat and stepped straight into the elderly women’s quarters. Looms clicked. Hands wove. Conversation died.

  Three old women stared.

  “Oh—ah—wrong way,” Imei blurted, bowing so fast he nearly tripped. Laughter rippled as one woman waved them away, pointing sharply inland.

  “Leadership starts with knowing roads,” Sawai muttered as they escaped.

  They dropped the fruit at a communal platform. An elderly lady took Toho’s share, her hands rough but gentle as she patted his.

  “Young lad,” she said softly, “be careful not to put the cart before the horse.”

  Toho frowned. “The… cart?”

  She smiled cryptically and turned away.

  They joined a work line by the freshwater stream. Tools bit into earth; sweat darkened skin; mud caked calves. Toho worked without pause, rhythm steady, breath controlled. In the corner of his vision, he saw her—Chika—standing apart, arms folded, eyes thoughtful.

  Their gazes met.

  Just for a heartbeat.

  Her father stepped into view at once. His stare cut like iron. Toho dropped his gaze, drove his tool deeper into the soil.

  A sharp voice rang out. “All men and women—listen up!”

  The settlement converged toward the square. Able-bodied men pushed past, shouldering Sawai and Imei aside.

  “Hey!” Imei protested, stretching theatrically. “Ok, you fake—oi, I did all the work.”

  “Good work, Sawai,” Imei said. Sawai shot back, raising his arm as if to swat him. Laughter eased the tension.

  Toho set his tool down, wiping his brow.

  “You recover quickly, I see.”

  He turned. The elderly man with the papaya stood there, Haruto beside him, smiling with hands folded.

  “Sorry,” Toho said. “I just felt I had to be involved.”

  The drums rolled—longer now. The oldest man of the settlement stepped forward, leaning on a carved staff. Silence fell as if commanded by the earth itself.

  “As you know,” the elder said, voice carrying, “we survived. And now—we are in a new land!”

  Cheers erupted.

  *New land*, Toho thought.

  “We need a leader,” the elder continued. “One who will lead us to conquer this land.”

  Sawai crossed his arms. “As though it’s that easy.”

  The elder’s eyes swept the crowd—and lingered on Toho. He spat on the ground in open disgust, then smiled broadly at the people.

  “You deserve a leader strong. Charismatic. One you can trust with your life.”

  A youth stepped forward, unrolled a hide scroll, and read names.

  “Bakaru of the Red Steppe.”

  “N’Jali the Hill Fox.”

  “Osei of the Crossing Clan.”

  Three men stepped forward. Chika’s father—Bakaru—stood tall, jaw set. N’Jali smiled thinly. Osei bowed, weary but steady.

  Toho's attention taken to the seaside as time stopped again—

  A gust of wind swept the square. Utensils rattled. Fire smoke bent sideways.

  “And even the wind,” the elder intoned, “is eager to anticipate the new leader.”

  Drums thundered in perfect cadence.

  Another gust—stronger. Roof thatch tore loose. Children squealed; some laughed.

  “And the new leader is—Osei!”

  The settlement exploded in cheers.

  Fire posts were lit as evening fell. Osei walked toward the central seat, applause rising like surf.

  Toho stood unmoving.

  The papaya elder leaned close. “Do you know what this is?”

  “No,” Toho answered.

  “It’s just the wind,” Sawai said.

  Imei nodded quickly. “Yes. Wind.”

  The elder shook his head. “This is the southern wind that rises from the north.”

  Toho frowned. “The what…?”

  “You will understand one day,” the man said.

  Clouds thickened unnaturally fast. The breeze sharpened; children stumbled. As Osei reached the seat, a violent gust toppled fire pits, his body hair standing up still and cold sweat coming down his brow.

  Rain crashed down in sheets, drenching the celebration into chaos.

  The election ended.

  “Kenji!” Haruto shouted. “I have to get him!”

  “You left him there?” Toho asked, then to his friends.

  “I’ll be back.”

  “Oki-doki!” Imei waved wildly.

  They ran. Ground churned to sludge. The sea beyond the huts foamed white.

  Haruto lifted a shivering Kenji. “Let’s go! Toho, help me with the herbs.”

  As they ran back, time froze.

  Rain hung suspended. Haruto and Kenji before him. Toho’s breath caught. His gaze drifted to the forest—

  A massive flock of birds erupted upward, then wheeled toward the inward parts of the land in terror.

  “Over here!” Sawai’s voice cut through.

  They sprinted to a hut. The door slammed shut behind them.

  Inside, bodies huddled. Outside, the wind howled like something alive.

  And Toho felt it clearly now—

  The wind had chosen.