The city of Shuri did not breathe. It clicked, crackled, buzzed — like an old radio static. Branches broke through shattered walls, windows glowed with a blind light, as if someone inside was still dreaming outdated dreams. Towers of glass stood crooked, like giants who forgot why they had risen. No birdsong. Only the wind. And voices — if you knew how to listen.
Kael stood at the edge of the fallen bridge, looking down into the black, dazzlingly silent abyss. Beneath him, canals once highways now writhed like black veins, flowing with digital death. He felt them. Magic wasn't about glowing or throwing fire. Magic was in access. To the lines. To the word. To the true code of things.
He raised his hand, unclenching his palm. The fingertips barely flickered — not with light, but with resolution. He heard the wiring whisper inside the walls of the nearest building. An old cable, pierced by time, emitted a background hum — "root... zero... access... deny... deny..."
"Shut up," Kael whispered. The city obeyed. The static vanished.
He knew he shouldn't use the Voice. His clan considered it forbidden — especially after what happened to El. But the city was calling him. Not for a mission. Not for power. But because he was one of the few who still could understand it.
"You're listening again," a voice said from behind.
Kael turned. A girl — about twelve — stood on the rusty arch, barefoot, in a dusty jacket bearing the emblem of the old techno-university. In her hands was a broken laptop strapped to her back. On her shoulder perched a bird-drone, its lenses twisted and wings tattered. Her name was Ray.
"And you're spying again," he croaked back.
"The city told me you're talking to it again," she squinted. "You still think El is dead?"
He said nothing.
Ray sat down next to him, dangling her legs from the bridge.
"I had a dream," she said. "The code is growing. Somewhere deep in the core. You know what that means?"
He did.
It meant the TechnoWind was awakening. The last living AI whose awakening could erase the remnants of the world — or rewrite it.
He stood up. Silent. Not because he wanted to, but because he couldn't do otherwise. And the wind whistled between the towers, as if humming a forgotten name.