After the white-haired man saw the island, he immediately began swimming toward it without hesitation. The waves roared and battered his body with relentless force, crashing against him as though the sea itself wished to push him back into its dark depths. The ocean stretched endlessly around him, a vast expanse of deep blue mixed with streaks of silver light reflecting from the sun high above. The sunlight scattered across the surface like shattered glass, glittering with an almost otherworldly brilliance. Above him, clouds the color of ash and steel rolled slowly, heavy and alive, like some massive being silently observing the intruder beneath.
The sound of the ocean was deafening. The wind lashed against his face like invisible whips, and every breath he took was filled with salt. He could taste blood mixed with the sharp flavor of seawater. His legs grew heavier with each kick, yet his eyes never wavered from the island ahead — the lone patch of salvation in this boundless, merciless sea.
As he drew closer to the shore, a massive wave rose behind him like a wall of living glass. It crashed into him violently, throwing him against the jagged rocks near the beach. The sharp edges cut into his skin, and the sound of stone cracking beneath his weight mixed with the groan that escaped his throat. He gasped, struggling to push himself up, his hands sinking into the wet sand. The saltwater burned in the fresh wounds, and streaks of crimson bled into the foamy waves before being swallowed by the tide.
The beach before him stretched endlessly, its surface a blend of dark gray sand and fine volcanic dust. The ground shimmered faintly under the fading sun, giving the shore the look of a dying ember — neither alive nor extinguished. The late afternoon light fell at an angle, setting the horizon aflame in hues of gold and blood-red. The sea mirrored it perfectly, painting the world in sorrowful color. From beyond the dunes, the sound of the forest mingled with the ocean's rhythm — the gentle whisper of wind brushing through the trees, and the endless crash of waves that refused to rest.
Raising his gaze, he saw the towering form of a volcano standing sentinel over the island. Its slopes were dark and cracked, with trails of glowing embers that snaked downward like veins of fire. Thin smoke rose from the summit, spiraling upward until it vanished into the sky. The island was not dead — it breathed, pulsed, and radiated a kind of silent, ancient life. The heat that rose from the ground was subtle but unmistakable, carrying with it the scent of ash and earth. Even with the sea breeze whipping around him, the air felt warm, as though the land itself was alive and watching him.
He began to walk, step by painful step, across the sand. Every motion pulled at his wounds; every breath reminded him of the bullet lodged deep within his flesh. He remembered it now — how he had received it, how the pain had burned through him like lightning. Images of the battle flashed in his mind: the roar of gunfire, the glare of explosions, the shouts of enemies, the blinding flare of chaos. They flickered like ghosts in the corner of his memory, fading just as quickly as they came. But the pain was real — vivid, tangible, and unrelenting.
Now he was here — stranded upon an island that seemed forgotten by the world.
He turned slowly, taking in the landscape around him. To his right, the waves crashed endlessly against the rocks; to his left, a forest of ancient trees swayed under the dying light. But beyond the first line of trees, he saw something — the faint outline of structures, small and dark against the glowing horizon.
A village.
He walked toward it, driven by instinct rather than thought. The ground shifted beneath his steps, each footprint sinking into damp sand. As he neared the trees, the forest opened to reveal a small settlement. Wooden houses stood on stone foundations, built from dark timber smoothed by salt and time. Wisps of smoke rose lazily from chimneys, drifting into the sky in thin gray ribbons. The air carried the scent of burning wood, sea salt, and something older — a lingering trace of rituals and forgotten songs.
Somewhere deeper in the village, faint music played. It was not like the melodies of cities or courts — this was raw, primal, carried by hand-made instruments that hummed softly, almost in tune with the wind. The rhythm blended with the sound of the sea, creating an atmosphere both alive and solemn.
The man could sense life here, but not the kind he was used to. It felt… different.
The air itself seemed to hum with quiet energy, a subtle current flowing through everything. It was as though the island's spirit breathed through its people. Even from a distance, he could sense it — faint, but undeniably real. These people were not ordinary. They possessed power, though not much — the kind that whispered, rather than roared.
He took another step forward. His muscles trembled. The edges of his vision began to blur, the light dimming until it seemed as though dusk had fallen too early. His breathing grew heavy, uneven. The sounds around him — the surf, the wind, the distant music — all began to fade into a single low hum, and the world seemed to tilt.
Still, he kept moving, dragging one foot after the other.
At the edge of the village, he saw them — figures moving near the beach, clothed in garments of woven fibers dyed in earthy tones. Their outfits were adorned with patterns that glimmered faintly under the light — ancient symbols that meant nothing to him, yet carried weight, power, and memory. Their skin was sun-warmed, their eyes calm and watchful. Some held long wooden spears tipped with stone or shell; others carried baskets of fruit or tools made of bone and coral. Their movements were measured, almost ritualistic, as though life itself was a dance performed to an unseen rhythm.
Even in his haze, he could tell — they were bound to the island's essence. They did not merely live upon it; they were part of it. The ground, the sea, the wind — all responded to their presence. He could feel it in the air, that strange equilibrium of power and peace.
His body faltered. His legs refused to obey him. The blur in his vision grew thicker, colors smearing into streaks of red and gold. The roar of the sea became a distant murmur. And then, as the final trace of strength drained from his limbs, he collapsed.
The impact was muffled by sand. The cold moisture of the shore seeped into his skin, the smell of salt and earth filling his lungs. He tried to breathe, but his chest barely rose.
Just before the darkness took him, he saw movement — a shadow, swift and graceful. A figure was running toward him, her outline shimmering against the dim light. Her hair — deep violet with a tint of black — streamed behind her like a ribbon of night. The faint glow from distant fires reflected off each strand, turning them into waves of muted light.
She wore the garb of the tribe — fabric of dark tones adorned with embroidery of silver and red. The patterns on her clothing pulsed faintly, like living sigils. Her cloak fluttered in the wind, moving with both elegance and urgency.
As she knelt beside him, the man could see the light emanating from her hands — soft, white, and fluid like moonlight upon water. She placed her palm gently upon his chest. The air around them shifted, and the faint hum of power filled the silence.
It was not a harsh magic. It was warm, tender, filled with rhythm like the slow heartbeat of the earth. The light spread outward in circles, washing over his wounds. He could feel the pain ease, replaced by a strange weightless calm. The sound of her breathing, steady and close, was the last thing he heard before the world went completely still.
Her power was like the ocean's embrace — gentle yet unyielding.
Even as his consciousness slipped away, he could still feel her energy surrounding him, wrapping around his fading strength like waves cradling a sinking soul.
And then, everything faded into silence.
The woman remained kneeling beside the white-haired man who lay unconscious on the sand. The soft light of the setting sun stretched across her violet-black hair, catching on each strand like liquid fire. The waves rolled endlessly before her, whispering against the shore as if the sea itself were breathing. The air was filled with the scent of salt and fading warmth. Her hand hovered above his chest, and once again, the power of healing flowed from her fingertips — a light that glowed like liquid silver, spreading gently over his body.
The light was warm, alive, and soft. It shimmered faintly, not blinding but radiant, pulsing like a heartbeat. The wounds on his body began to knit together, the blood fading into the light until the sand beneath him was washed clean by that gentle radiance. His breathing, once shallow and broken, grew steadier with each passing moment.
She closed her eyes. Her hands trembled slightly from the strain. The power she wielded was not born from strength but from faith — an ancient rhythm between her and the land. It was as if she were singing without sound, a melody carried only by the air, one that the island itself seemed to hear and respond to.
Then she called out, her voice rising against the sound of waves.
"Help! Someone help — he's injured!"
Her cry echoed across the beach, carried by the sea breeze until figures began emerging from the line of trees beyond. The sound of footsteps thudded against the damp sand as several villagers ran toward her. She pointed toward the fallen man, her tone urgent but steady. Two men knelt to lift his limp form while another pulled a heavy cloth around his shoulders to shield him from the wind.
His body was motionless, the faint warmth of life the only sign that he still lingered in this world. The woman followed close behind, her hands still faintly aglow, casting a soft trail of white light as they made their way from the beach into the forest path.
The forest greeted them with the hum of insects and the whisper of leaves. The ground beneath their feet turned from sand to soft earth, cool and damp. The path led upward to a small village hidden within the trees. Lanterns of clay hung from wooden poles, their flames flickering orange against the dim blue of twilight. Smoke curled from chimneys, carrying the scent of herbs and wood.
The group stopped before a house built of dark timber with a roof thatched from palm leaves. Carvings of strange ancient symbols adorned the walls, each line glowing faintly in the lantern light as if alive. The door creaked open, and a wave of warmth and the scent of medicine poured out.
Inside, the air was thick with the aroma of herbs — dried leaves hanging from the ceiling, glass jars filled with colored oils and powders neatly arranged on shelves. They placed the white-haired man upon a low wooden bed, its frame carved from aged oak, covered in pale fabric. The woman sat beside him again, pressing her palm gently to his forehead. Her lips moved softly, forming a silent prayer, and once more her fingers glowed with healing light.
The faint shimmer spread across his skin like ripples in a pond. His expression, once twisted with pain, slowly relaxed. His chest rose and fell with steadier rhythm. She exhaled a long breath, though fatigue tugged at her shoulders.
Moments later, an elderly man entered the room. His steps were slow but deliberate, the floorboards creaking softly beneath his feet. His long gray hair framed a face marked by age and wisdom, and his deep-set eyes seemed to hold the memory of countless years. He stood silently for a moment, observing the scene before him, before speaking in a low, calm voice.
Take good care of him," he said, turning toward the woman. "He looks… like the one from the prophecy."
The words fell heavy in the quiet room, as if time itself had paused to listen. The flicker of the lanterns wavered slightly, casting shadows that danced across the walls. The woman looked up, meeting his gaze — surprise flickering in her violet eyes — but she did not question him. She simply nodded, her expression both respectful and uncertain.
The old man looked at the unconscious stranger once more. The flickering firelight brushed across the man's pale skin, making him appear almost ethereal — a figure carved from moonlight. The elder murmured something under his breath, words too soft to catch, before turning away. The door closed behind him with a faint wooden thud, leaving the room wrapped in silence once more.
The woman sat beside the bed again. She took a damp cloth and gently wiped away the dried traces of blood from his arms and neck. Her movements were careful, reverent. When she placed her hand over his heart, she felt the faint thrum of life still beating beneath her palm. It was weak but steady — a fragile flame refusing to go out.
Outside, the wind whispered through the bamboo blinds, and the waves in the distance rose and fell in eternal rhythm. The room glowed with soft, golden light. For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. She didn't know who this man was or why he had washed up on their shore. But deep within her chest, there was a feeling — a quiet stirring that she couldn't explain.
One by one, the villagers who had helped carry him left the house, leaving her alone in the dim glow of the lantern. She sat there for a long time, watching him. The light from her hands faded until only a few lingering motes floated in the air before vanishing.
In the silence that followed, only the sound of his breathing remained — slow, steady, alive. The scent of herbs hung thick in the air, mingling with the sea breeze that slipped through the cracks in the wooden walls.
She didn't know what the prophecy meant, nor why the elder had spoken with such certainty. But as she gazed upon the sleeping man, she knew one thing with absolute clarity — from this night onward, her life would never be the same again.