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The wind howled through the mountaintops, slicing between the pines like unseen blades.
Far above the world of men, where the air grew thin and the stars dared to whisper, a lone figure stood upon a cliff's edge—motionless, wings furled against the cold.
Feathers rustled. Eyes, sharp as moonlit steel, scanned the valley below.
"He still doesn't know," the tengu muttered.
A soft shimmer of spirit-light pulsed in the distance—faint, barely more than a flicker in the dark. But it was growing stronger. Faster. Wilder.
Ren narrowed his eyes.
"The last of them... sleeping in a world that no longer remembers him."
He turned his fan slowly in his hand, a low hum stirring the air around him. The spirits of the mountain flinched—old beings who had long hidden from the mortal realm.
"He's late," came a second voice—playful, mocking.
From the shadows, another figure emerged, cloaked in night itself. A sly smile danced across his lips, his golden eyes glowing faintly.
"You watch him like a father, Ren," the figure said. "But you and I both know… he's not a child."
Ren didn't respond. His wings tightened.
"He needs time," he said at last.
The fox-eyed figure chuckled. "Time won't stop what's coming."
Below them, the lights of the city blinked like tiny fireflies—unaware of the storm brewing just beyond their skies.
And in a quiet corner of that city…
A boy dreamed of fire.
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