Northern stood at the alcove, his consciousness flooding with the events that had unfolded in his absence.
It felt like waking from a dream and trying to recall its details—only this time, there were no gaps, no fragments. Every moment had been experienced in full by his clone’s static consciousness, making the recollection seamless.
And with Link now integrated as an ability, the connection had grown far stronger than before, its influence weaving through his mind like an unbreakable thread.
Not much had transpired since he left.
The Drifters were locked in battle against a monstrous creature, a beast as mighty as a whale. An Apex predator that had recently migrated into the region, it had swiftly seized control of the sea’s domain, subjugating other creatures before launching an assault on Lithia’s stronghold.
The Drifters were holding off its minions—creatures that weren’t just adept swimmers but astonishing climbers as well. Yet, with a carefully coordinated formation and precise execution of orders, they managed to keep the tide at bay.
But the Apex whale was a relentless thorn in their side, growing increasingly difficult to subdue.
All available Savants and Sages with water-based talent abilities were locked in a ferocious struggle against the Destroyer, their battle raging over the city’s port.
The city hall, once bustling, had grown noticeably quieter. More defenders had been deployed to the port, thinning the numbers stationed within.
Bairan, Jeci, and Lynus had also arrived a short while ago. They had come to him—but before they could engage, Bairan had halted them, leading them away without a word.
Shortly after, they reported to the authorities of the stronghold.
Northern hadn’t seen them since.
He leaned away from the wall, scanning his surroundings for several long seconds before stepping forward, emerging from the shadows and into the grand light of the hall.
Mere moments later, a group of figures emerged from a hallway, descending a broad staircase to the floor where he stood.
Among them, Northern immediately recognized familiar faces.
Bairan walked behind a gaunt, aged man. Jeci and Lynus followed closely, alongside three other familiar Drifters. Several others, likely high-ranking figures of the stronghold’s command, moved with them.
Each left some kind of impression on him, no matter how subtle.
But none compared to the tremor that ran through him at the sight of the man leading them.
The man was striking—a confident figure with sharp, well-defined features.
His spiky, slightly unkempt red hair framed his face, lending him a wild yet undeniably charismatic look. Strands of crimson flared under the hall’s soft lighting, shifting with each step he took.
His piercing, jade green eyes carried an intense, almost feline quality—mischief and calculated charm glinting beneath their surface.
Smooth, lightly tanned skin complemented his strong jawline and high cheekbones, while a subtle smirk played on his lips. It wasn’t arrogance—just the expression of a man who knew exactly who he was.
A single earring dangled from his ear, an understated symbol of defiance, adding to the effortless rebellion of his aesthetic.
He wore a loosely draped white shirt, open just enough to reveal a hint of his toned chest and broad shoulders. His pants, free-flowing yet well-fitted, were tucked neatly into boots that reached the middle of his shins.
The hall’s dim illumination cast dramatic shadows across his face, emphasizing the chiseled angles of his features, making his eyes burn all the more vividly.
But what struck Northern most was not his appearance.
It was the air of absolute power in his every stride.
The effortless authority that dictated his presence—without a single word.
Northern knew, without a doubt.
This man had to be a Paragon.
A Paragon, in Lithia.
Of course.
It made sense now—why the city had withstood the relentless onslaught despite the damage it had suffered.
Why there was still that flickering glimmer of hope in people’s eyes.
Because someone like this existed among them.
Yet, even with such a presence, the problem remained the same.
A Paragon’s existence didn’t guarantee victory.
No matter how powerful he was, no one could singlehandedly turn the tide. Even a Paragon was bound by the limitations of their abilities.
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Northern wanted to see.
And so, he did:
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Name: [Raizel Vairstrid]
True Name: [Burning Storm]
Attributes: [Tides], [Waves]
Soul Rank: [Evanescent]
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Soul Core Saturation: [Low]
Talent: [Velocity Sovereign]
Talent Class: [EX]
Talent Ability: [Kinetic Surge], [Momentum Guard], [Breakneck Edge], [Momentum Chain], [Speed Eclipse], [Inertia Overdrive], [Relativity Rupture].
Northern’s jaw dropped.
For the first time in his life, he regretted a decision.
Truly, regretted it.
The choice to copy Tever’s ability—a darkness that existed outside of all else.
At the time, it had seemed invaluable. But now, standing before a Paragon, witnessing an EX class talent, he felt an insatiable hunger gnaw at him.
He wanted to have it!
And his slots were already full.
His jaw tightened. He bit down on his inner lip, suppressing the frustration that threatened to surface.
He wanted to check more details about the talent abilities—but the man was already approaching.
Northern forced himself to settle. Breathe.
He exhaled slowly, eviscerating the excitement thrashing inside of him.
Then, as the group closed in, his expression hardened. His gaze turned cold.
Finally, the man stopped in front of him.
For a brief second, he glanced back at his subordinates. They, too, studied Northern with sharp, unrelenting scrutiny.
The intensity of their observation was unsettling—enough to make Northern wonder what Bairan had told them beforehand.
But he stood unmoved. Unbothered. His breath remained soft, his stance unwavering. He simply waited.
Then, at last, the Paragon spoke.
His voice carried the same presence as his aura—gallant, authoritative, effortlessly commanding attention and respect. Charisma wrapped around each syllable like a natural extension of himself.
"Wow," he said, eyes gleaming with something unreadable. "I did not expect you to look so young."
Northern tilted his head slightly.
He wasn’t quite sure how to respond.
First, he wasn’t even certain if the man’s words were a compliment or a veiled disregard.
Before he could decide, the man spoke again.
"Oh, please, don’t take that as disrespect. I mean well, really…"
His voice trailed off, eyes locked onto Northern’s with a convolution of disbelief—a struggle to accept what he was seeing.
Then, finally, he admitted, "I’ve been a Drifter for forty years. I have never met a Sage as young as you."
Northern met the Paragon’s gaze with unwavering calm. His expression gave away nothing.
Then, with a slow, measured breath, he replied:
"That just means you’ve been looking in the wrong places."
There was no arrogance in his words.
No boast.
Just an undeniable truth—a statement that neither sought validation nor required explanation.
The Paragon’s jade green eyes gleamed, the edges of his smirk deepening ever so slightly.
His subordinates exchanged glances, uncertainty flickering across their faces. Was Northern’s response a challenge? A simple observation?
They didn’t know.
But Northern held his silence, letting the weight of his words settle.
Let them interpret it however they wished.