The man led me across a swaying suspension bridge, its ropes groaning under the wind. But this was no ordinary wind. It didn’t howl or whisper; it pulsed, shifting in pitch with every step we took, like an artificial breath syncing with our movements.
We stopped before a colossal wall etched with countless symbols. The man pointed toward one near the edge—a circle surrounded by three jagged curves, like a warped sun struggling to rise through storm clouds.
My chest tightened. I had seen this symbol before—on a wooden toy that once belonged to Hoàng Long.
“What… does it mean?” I asked.
The man’s eyes flickered with surprise. “You’re searching for the child too, aren’t you?”
Before I could answer, movement stirred on the far side of the bridge. Four figures emerged, each wearing mismatched armor and masks carved from strange materials—bone, metal, something like glass. One, smaller than the rest, tugged their sleeve down, revealing a mark burned into their wrist: the same symbol.
The memory shard of Gió inside my pocket flared with sudden heat, its rhythm pounding like a second heartbeat.
The masked figure stepped closer. Their voice was cold, but steady.
“If you want to find him,” they said, “follow me.”
The words lingered like a command carved into stone. The bridge creaked behind us as if even the air knew this path could not be turned back.
