At sunrise on the fifth day, I left the continent.
Pale gold light spilled across the horizon as I pushed the ship into the water. I didn't look back. There was no ceremony, no hesitation. The Central Continent loomed behind me—silent, watchful—but I knew better than to linger.
I used magic to propel the ship forward.
Not recklessly.Not all at once.
Short, controlled bursts—just enough to build speed, just enough for the hull to cut cleanly through the waves. The sea resisted at first, then yielded, the vessel gliding forward as if it remembered what it meant to travel.
Ahead of me, the storms waited.
They were closer now. Thicker. The air itself felt heavy, charged with unstable mana. Curtains of dark cloud spiraled endlessly, lightning flickering deep within like a restless heartbeat.
As I neared the storm wall, I steadied my breath.
And I spoke.
"Māṁ rakṣatu māyā,mārgaṁ darśayatu,etān tūphānān apasarjayatu."
Let magic guide me to safety,show me the path,and repel these storms.
The response was immediate.
The wind bent.
Not violently—deliberately. The chaos ahead of me twisted aside just enough to form a narrow passage. The storm did not part.
It acknowledged.
The moment the ship entered, pain flooded my body.
It was too much.
Enduring the storm demanded far more than my remaining strength. My awareness dimmed, thoughts slowing as if wrapped in heavy cloth. I felt myself slip—not into sleep, but into something deeper.
A controlled collapse.
Every time I spoke, my body shut down to compensate. Muscles locked. Senses dulled. My mind retreated inward, conserving what little stability I had left.
I drifted in and out of consciousness as the ship pushed forward—carried not by my will, but by magic itself.
When the storm loosened its grip—when there was a lull, a pocket of relative calm—I woke.
Those moments were brief.
I used them well.
I ate sparingly. Drank. Checked the ship for damage. And then, always, I opened the Old Tongue texts I had taken from the Grand Library.
Grammar.Syntax.Structure.
I traced the shapes of words with tired fingers, forcing my mind to remain sharp. I was not about to rely on Sanskrit forever. Power without concealment was an invitation to annihilation.
Between storms, I studied.
Within storms, I endured.
Days blurred together. Then weeks.
For the next month, I navigated the endless storm belt—sometimes conscious, sometimes not—guided by magic when I could speak, and by memory, instinct, and preparation when I could not.
The storms did not end.
But they began to thin.
After another week, their grip finally loosened.
The sky lightened first—clouds thinning into pale veils instead of walls. The air followed, losing that crushing pressure that had made every breath feel borrowed. With distance, the constant drain on my magic eased. The link to the Central Continent quieted, and for the first time in days, mana flowed without resistance.
Rest.
Not recovery—but enough.
That was when the danger changed.
The open sea was alive.
Without the storms, sea beasts roamed freely again. Vast shadows moved beneath the waves, patient and immense. I kept my magic close and subtle, conserving strength. Loud power would only invite attention.
The good news came quietly.
My tracker stabilized.
The flickering stopped. Coordinates locked in. Signal strength normalized.
If my father was alive—if the Aurora had endured—then this was enough.
He would find me.
I held onto that thought.
Three days later, I saw her.
A familiar silhouette cut across the horizon—sleek, unmistakable. The hull glinted faintly as it crested a swell, engines humming with a sound I knew better than my own heartbeat.
The Aurora.
My breath caught.
I didn't think. I didn't plan. I waved like an idiot from the bow of a half-built ship, heart hammering so hard it hurt.
They saw me.
The Aurora altered course immediately.
When they drew close, ropes were thrown, engines throttled down—and then my father was there. Older. Thinner. Eyes red-rimmed and wild. He didn't wait for ladders or protocol.
He jumped.
The deck rocked as he landed, arms already around me, crushing, shaking, refusing to let go.
"I thought—" His voice broke. "I thought I lost you."
I couldn't speak. My throat closed, vision blurring as the last month—the storms, the silence, the weight of a continent—finally found release.
"I'm here," I managed. "I'm alive."
My mother reached me next, hands trembling as she cupped my face, as if afraid I might vanish if she blinked. Voices surrounded us—familiar, stunned, relieved.
Crew.Friends.Family.
For a moment, the world was just that.
My father pulled back slightly, hands still gripping my shoulders as if to make sure I was real. He searched my face—not as a man looking at his son, but as someone realizing that the one standing before him had crossed somewhere far away…
…and come back changed.
No one spoke.
The sea rolled around us, steady and endless.
I inhaled slowly.
For the first time since I had awakened—since I had spoken words that magic itself obeyed—I chose to speak not to command, not to bind, not to shape the world.
Just to exist within it.
"I am Vedant Hale. And I have returned."
No explanation followed.
None was needed.
The name settled into the space between us, carried by wind and salt and the low hum of the Aurora's engines. My father didn't interrupt. He didn't question it.
He simply nodded.
Once.
As if acknowledging a fact the world would now have to accept.
My mother's grip tightened around my arm. The crew stood still. Even the sea beasts lurking beneath the waves seemed to keep their distance.
Vedant Hale had returned.
Not as a castaway.Not as a survivor.
But as someone who had stepped beyond the edge of the world—
And come back.
Behind us, the storms closed over the Central Continent once more.
Ahead of us, the open sea waited.