Thor Gate
7:00 AM.
A thick fog blankets the Thor Gate area, shrouding it in an enigmatic gloom that evokes both intrigue and desolation. The aquamarine full moon hangs low in the gray sky, its pale luminescence struggling against the oppressive morning humidity. The harbor lies shrouded and still, while the air is laden with the sharp tang of brine interwoven with the musty scent of timeworn, rusted metal, seeping into the very fabric of the atmosphere.
In a forgotten corner, Fitran leans against a dilapidated wall, a rusty relic of better days, as his fingers dance over an old harmonica. The instrument produces a discordant yet oddly warm melody that reverberates through the stillness, resonating with memories of the past. His clothes, encrusted with dust and a patina of oxidation, appear to hold echoes of bygone eras, but he remains unconcerned. To him, there is a philosophical beauty in rust—a slow march towards inevitable decay that mirrors the human journey. Just as rust signifies a gradual demise, humans too confront a similar fate. The steel forged from the earth will eventually return to it, and so shall we.
Tap... tap... tap...
His gentle steps approached, piercing the morning stillness and infusing it with a profound calmness that felt almost tangible. Fitran paused his soothing melody, tucking his small harmonica into his pocket with a sense of finality before standing upright and brushing off the dust of rust that clung stubbornly to his clothes like memories of places long forgotten.
He realized that Rinoa would cough if she inhaled that fine dust, and the thought of her small "cough cough" disrupting the graceful aura that always surrounded her was unbearable.
From behind the thin morning mist, Rinoa's silhouette began to materialize, revealing herself with the characteristic elegance of a blooming flower, delicate yet vibrant against the muted background.
"Fitran! Sorry I'm a little late!" Rinoa called out, her voice slicing through the chilly air like a sunbeam breaking the dawn, lifting the spirits around her.
"It's okay," Fitran replied, giving a small nod, his smile radiating warmth that melted away the lingering coolness of the morning.
As Rinoa stepped closer, her eyes narrowed playfully, hiding a laughter that felt imminent, she teased, "I just heard a beautiful harmonica sound. Who played it? Don't tell me... it was you."
Fitran feigned confusion, fighting back a grin that tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Hehehe... Maybe it wasn't me. Maybe it was... the lonely spirit of the harbor."
"Fitran." Rinoa's gaze softly pierced through the walls of teasing dissatisfaction. "It was you, wasn't it?"
Drop.
Fitran immediately hung his head in a mock display of defeat, pretending to stumble as he battled against the wave of embarrassment surging in his chest. "Ouch... my pride. Why do you always know?"
"Because that voice... is too sad to not be you," Rinoa teased, her smile radiating warmth and the happiness she felt from their closeness.
She bridged the gap between them, their foreheads nearly touching, as if their very body temperatures were mingling through the nearly nonexistent space.
"You look unwell. Is it a fever?" she inquired, her tone a delicate blend of worry and concern, softened by her gentle demeanor.
Fitran froze momentarily, a heavy doubt settling in his heart. "Rinoa... you're being too aggressive..." he replied, uncertainty lacing his voice.
"Silence. We are being watched." Rinoa's voice shifted suddenly, firm and commanding, breaking through the tension.
In an attempt to reassure her, Fitran managed a faint smile. "I have taken care of it," he said softly, even as anxiety gnawed at the edges of his composure.
NYOOOHHH...!! AGHHH...!!!
The ear-splitting scream sliced through the fragile silence, and in an instant, flames erupted from the depths of the earth. They roared to life, incinerating hidden bodies, reduced to nothing but blackened ash. Scattered body parts fell like shattered porcelain dolls, consumed by an insatiable fire.
"Magic circle: Fire Pillar." Fitran declared calmly, his voice a striking contrast to the chaos unfolding around them, carrying an eerie sense of control amidst the turmoil.
He had meticulously prepared this spell before entering the fray, all too familiar with the horrific scent of death and decay wafting through the air, emanating from the vile murderous aura.
Rinoa pulled her forehead away from Fitran's, her face now set in seriousness, yet a blush crept onto her cheeks that she could not conceal. "Mist Cloaking."
The mist thickened instantaneously, enveloping them in a dense, enigmatic atmosphere that seemed to pulse with a life of its own. Footsteps, breaths, and heartbeats all faded into an eerie silence, amplifying the oppressive stillness that surrounded them.
Rinoa was lost in thought, her mind racing as she pieced together the intricacies of their situation. Fire Pillar shouldn't be active if they were floating. Mist Cloaking allows the user to levitate. Could it be that… Fitran already knew their position beforehand? She wrestled with the puzzle presented by the figure before her, desperate to uncover the truth.
Suddenly, a purple moth darted past like a living jewel, scattering fine white powder in its wake before landing delicately on Fitran's hand. It fluttered its tiny wings, as if to greet him with a gentle hello.
Fitran smiled affectionately at the small creature, enchanted by its presence. The Purple Moth—an exquisite being, finely attuned to the energies of magic. The white powder it delicately scattered revealed the existence of a magic user nearby, while the purple residue suggested that the user was cloaked in concealment.
Yet, only Fitran perceived this phenomenon. His eyes were no ordinary eyes; they possessed a unique ability to absorb ultraviolet A radiation with astonishing adeptness. Trained to filter and process the ultraviolet spectrum, his vision mirrored that of birds and bees, granting him the ability to witness a world far beyond the ken of human sight.
Rinoa smiled faintly, captivated as she watched the moth flutter away, its departure hinting at the promise of a new adventure.
"It seems they know you're not an ordinary person."
"Yes, they should have realized that a long time ago. I am... special."
Rinoa laughed lightly, the sound like the tinkling of distant chimes, filling the air with a playful humor that danced around them.
"Special like expired food?"
"Hey! That's too honest. I'll report you to the feelings department."
They both erupted into laughter, a bright melody echoing amidst the remnants of a world that had only just faced destruction. In that moment, a magical silence enveloped them—a profound stillness shared by two souls entwined in secrets, where the chaos of the outside world faded to a mere whisper, rendered distant and irrelevant.
Fitran then crouched down, his expression shifting to one of intense concentration. He slipped his hand into a small, hidden crevice in the ground, expertly rotating a concealed panel. Beneath the surface, ancient gears began to awaken, producing a distinct, rhythmic sound that ignited a spark of curiosity in the air.
Clatter... rattle...
The Thor Gate, a majestic and ancient entrance, lay before them, intricately composed of millions of gleaming magitek gears. An invisible energy, woven with magic, surged through the mechanism, transforming into a lively dance of motion as it raced from one gear to another, as if the very structure was alive with purpose.
Whosh!
With a mesmerizing whoosh, the gate gradually opened, releasing a gentle gust of wind that rustled through the air, dispersing the thick fog that had shrouded them. A wave of fragrant aromas rushed forth, immediately enveloping their senses with a sweet bouquet of floral delights. Vibrant flowers of every hue bloomed majestically, their petals drifting gracefully like cheerful snowflakes, enhancing the picturesque scenery that lay before them.
Rinoa turned to Fitran, her eyebrows raised in wonder, her eyes sparkling with curiosity.
"What is this place...?"
Fitran, unable to contain his joy, beamed at her with a wide smile that illuminated his face, and replied,
"Welcome to Cerza, Village of Happiness. A place where even someone like me... might be able to smile."
With excitement bubbling within her, Rinoa clasped her hands playfully and teased,
"If that's the case, let's see if you can still smile after looking at the food prices here."
Fitran chuckled softly, his laughter mingling with the cheerful atmosphere surrounding them.
"As long as you're treating, I'm ready!"
As the Thor Gate swung fully open, a soft ray of light penetrated through the morning fog, illuminating the world beyond. The intricate gears came to a stillness, releasing a final sigh that echoed like an old breath of the past. And then... an entirely different world unfolded, vibrant and alive.
Cerza is not merely a village; it is a womb of time that defies aging, a tranquil haven untouched by the tumult of politics, the sorcery of war, or the ambitions of the noble class of Gaia. Like a myth woven anew by the hands of the sky, this village lies hidden behind ancient, towering gates, accessible only to those who carry no greed.
The air in Cerza is suffused with a sweet, enchanting aroma—a delicate blend of wild plum blossoms, the warm steam of freshly brewed tea, and the earthy resin of cherry wood. Small, charming houses line the clean cobblestone path, swept by gentle, caressing winds. Their roofs curve gracefully, resembling the brows of a slumbering deity, adorned with shimmering black-green ceramic tiles that glisten like jewels kissed by morning dew.
Each quaint home boasts a paper lantern hanging on the porch, flickering softly with a mesmerizing blue flame—an enchanted fire believed to repel evil spirits and banish lingering bad memories. To the left of the path, a shallow, crystal-clear stream meanders, its waters sparkling in the dappled sunlight, where golden-scaled koi fish glide leisurely, appearing to savor the tranquility of a place where time holds no dominion.
Majestic cherry blossom trees rise from the rocky outcrops, their vibrant petals defying the seasons, never falling in summer or winter. They release their blossoms only when someone lets go of something from deep within their heart. When the petals finally drift down, it signifies the release of grudges, memories, or earthly desires by someone in Cerza. Thus, each falling cherry petal tells a poignant tale of redemption, a whisper of transformation resonating through the air.
The small temple bells, delicate and melodious, chime every fourth hour, not merely to mark the passage of time, but to soothe the restless souls who wander in search of solace. Within the tranquil walls of the temple resides an old, blind monk, whose wisdom transcends sight. It is said that he possesses the unique gift to discern one's fate from the gentle whispers of the wind weaving through the leaves above, as if the very breath of nature reveals secrets long hidden.
The inhabitants of Cerza adorn themselves in simple, soft, and flowing linen robes, cinched gracefully at the waist with woven belts that evoke the elegance of traditional kimonos. Rather than using full names, they prefer to be known by endearing, abbreviated titles accompanied by their trades or the seasons that cradle their births—"Hinari from the Kitchen," "Kuro born in the Snow," "En from the First Light," each name a narrative waiting to be explored.
Magic in Cerza flows not from the forces of destruction or defense but from a profound sense of gratitude. This unique magic is expressed in forms both gentle and intricate—through serene tea ceremonies that celebrate balance, the rhythmic art of bamboo cutting, enchanting moon dances that echo old legends, and haikus delicately whispered to the water, each word a ripple of intention. The villagers hold a steadfast belief that calm words possess the power to alter the trajectory of a storm.
The heart of the village pulses with energy at the Quietly Lively Square, where the market comes alive only when the sun caresses the peak of Mount Mizunashi. Here, among vibrant stalls bursting with creativity, a tapestry of handcrafted magical items beckons: origami paper that flutters to life as real birds, silver mirrors that capture not mere reflections but the essence of treasured memories, and bamboo flutes that sing only to the ears of one who is truly beloved. Each item breathes enchantment, inviting wonder into the everyday.
If Fitran were standing there, witnessing all of this, he might fall silent for a moment, enveloped by the enchanting atmosphere. In a place like this, there is no reason for revenge. Instead, the air is filled with the gentle whispers of nostalgia; there are no burning magical sounds disrupting the serene ambiance. There are no suspicious gazes piercing through the tranquility. Only the soft rhythm of breath, harmonizing with the gentle rustle of leaves. Time itself seems to stand still.