Muren’s plan of action looked solid, a tangible path forward in his tangled thoughts. First, the offering. Incense. He knew just the place. Down by the old shrine in the quieter part of town, incense sticks were sold to tourists – the fragrant, high-quality kind, not the cheap, smoky stuff peddled near the school. He pictured the clean, rising smoke, a suitable offering to a wind spirit.


    As for freedom...it was more complicated. It was impossible to even think about a caged bird– too loud, too messy, too conspicuous.


    His eyes lingered for a moment on the window, then narrowed. He saw an abandoned kite in the corner of the room, the remains of a childhood fantasy from many years ago.


    It was worn out, discolored and withered. It looked ugly, but the lightweight bamboo frame and silk paper still held the shape of a soaring bird. Freedom temporarily restrained. Perfection.


    The talisman device had to be lightweight, airborne, and durable. Bamboo, like the kite frame, seemed appropriate.


    He gathered a few discarded chopsticks from the kitchen—unpainted, plain bamboo. That was enough. He’d carve them down.


    That evening, after his mother had retired to the muted glow of the television in the living room, Muren retreated to his room. The door shut, the latch clicked softly.


    The worn book and the dictionary notebook were already laid out on his desk, immersed in the concentrated beam of his desk lamp.


    He started with the incense. The tourist shop was a short bike ride away, and the cool evening breeze stung his skin.


    He chose a blend of sandalwood, the scent was fresh and soothing, and he imagined it drift upwards like a whispered invitation.


    He completed a brisk and quiet transaction with money saved from forgotten pocket money.


    Back in his room, he laid out the chopsticks. The grid pattern from the book was etched in his mind.


    He sharpened a pencil to a fine point, and began to carve. It was painstaking work.


    The bamboo was tougher than it looked, and his hand cramped quickly. He worked slowly, methodically, tracing the complex geometry onto the pale wood.


    His brow furrowed in concentration, tongue poking from the corner of his mouth as he focused. The world outside his room faded. Only the book, the bamboo, and the complex network of symbols mattered.


    Hours passed. The pencil lead wore down, fingers stained with graphite. Finally, as the moon climbed high in the inky sky, the talisman was complete.


    A small, flat piece of bamboo carved with a net and a grid pattern that is smooth to the touch. It seemed... right. A strong anchor for the unseen.


    Next, the kite. He retrieved it from the corner, brushing off dust. The silk paper was fragile, faded to pale hues.


    He carefully untied the rope, noting how light the frame was. He didn’t release a live bird, but this… this captured the idea of freedom. The potential to soar. It gave a symbolic sense of power.


    Location. The campus was too public and full of unwelcome glances.


    The shrine was quieter, more secluded, but still within the town’s boundaries. Too close to the everyday. He needed somewhere… separate.


    The small hill overlooking Sakuragoka, where students sometimes went to skip class or seek a moment of peace, felt right. Far away from the hustle and bustle, open to the sky, often windswept.


    Time. The book didn''t specify, but dawn seemed fitting for a wind spirit. A time of transition, when the air itself felt fresh and new.


    Dawn it was. He’d have to leave before his mother was awake.


    The next morning, the sky was still bruised with the last vestiges of night when Muren slipped out of his house. The air was cool, carrying the faint scent of damp earth. He carried a small backpack: incense, the bamboo talisman tucked securely inside, the folded kite, a lighter, and the book itself.


    The walk to the hill was quiet. The town was still asleep, streetlights casting long shadows. As he climbed the slope, the wind picked up, whispering through the sparse trees.


    Good. A receptive audience.


    He reached the hilltop. The eastern sky was beginning to lighten, a pale wash of colour against the dark horizon. He chose a spot away from the worn path, a small clearing facing the direction of the rising sun.


    He unfolded the kite, laying it gently on the ground. He placed the bamboo talisman on top of it, the carved grid facing upwards, towards the nascent light.


    He lit the incense, the sandalwood smoke curling into the still morning air, a fragrant plume rising like a prayer.


    He opened the book to the page detailing the pact. The faded ink seemed to glow faintly in the pre-dawn light. He took a deep breath, the cool air filling his lungs. Time to speak to the wind.


    This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.


    He closed his eyes, focusing on the feeling of the wind against his skin, the rustling of leaves in the trees, the distant whisper of air moving across the landscape. He pictured the talisman, the grid pattern radiating outwards, a focal point for energy.


    In a low voice, barely a whisper himself, he began to recite the words from the book. Not in the unfamiliar language – that felt too…performative. Instead, he spoke in his own words, translating the *intent* of the ancient text.


    “Wind spirit,” he muttered, his voice shaking slightly. “I offer you incense, pure and fragrant, rising like breath. I offer you this kite, a symbol of freedom, of the air unbound.”


    He paused, feeling a knot tighten in his stomach. Was this ridiculous? Talking to…air?


    He pushed the doubt away, refocusing. He was committed.


    “I seek a pact,” he continued, his voice gaining a little strength. “For the power of Windless Paradise. To move with stillness, untouched by the storm.”


    He held up the talisman, letting the faint dawn light catch the carved lines. “This is my focus. This is my offering of craft.”


    He waited. Silence. Only the rustling of leaves, the faint chirping of early birds. He opened his eyes, a flicker of disappointment. Had he imagined it all?


    Then, the wind shifted. It wasn''t just a breeze. It was a sudden gust, stronger than before, swirling around him, rustling the leaves more intensely, causing the kite on the ground to flutter and tug at its string. The incense smoke was momentarily flattened, then danced wildly in the new current.


    A sound. Not a word, not exactly. More like a…resonance. A low hum, carried on the wind, vibrating in the air, and… was it his imagination, or did he feel it vibrating in his bones too?


    The sound faded. The wind settled, not to stillness, but to a steady, consistent flow, as if the air itself was now listening.


    A thought, not spoken, but felt, bloomed in his mind. Clear, distinct, and undeniably not his own.


    Service.


    It wasn’t a question. It was a condition.


    Muren swallowed, his heart pounding. He understood. The pact was offered. And accepted.


    “Service,” he repeated aloud, his voice stronger now, filled with a new kind of certainty. “I accept.”


    The wind swirled again, briefly, then subsided completely. The incense smoke rose straight up, undisturbed. An unnatural stillness settled around him, a pocket of calm on the windy hilltop.


    He looked down at the talisman in his hand. It felt…different. Warmed, somehow. Alive.


    Windless Paradise. It was his. Now, he just had to figure out what service the wind spirit demanded. And when. And how often.


    He closed the book, a slow smile spreading across his face.


    The uncharacteristic tranquility around him lingered for a moment, then lifted gently, replaced by the usual light hilltop morning breeze.


    The incense continued to burn steadily, its aroma now pungent, almost metallic. Muren picked up the talisman, turning it over in his fingers. It felt…warmer, definitely. And heavier, though imperceptibly so. It was as if a small wave of electric current was bursting beneath the smooth bamboo surface, a roaring force waiting to be released.


    A feeling of quiet excitement came over me, but soon, a sense of unease arose.


    Service. The word echoed in his mind, context-free, inwardly heavy with indescribable obligation.


    What kind of service did a wind spirit require?


    He shivered, despite the rising sun now painting the eastern sky in hues of apricot and gold. The excitement of gaining power was already tied to the burden of responsibility. This wasn''t a game. This was a pact.


    He carefully gathered his things – the kite, now feeling less like a symbol of freedom and more like a discarded offering, the spent incense sticks, the book.


    As he descended the hill, the first stirrings of the town awakening drifted up – the distant rumble of a delivery truck, the faint clatter of a bicycle chain. Normal sounds. Ordinary life. But for Muren, everything felt subtly altered. He carried a secret now, a powerful force rumbling just beneath the surface of his ordinary life.


    The walk to school felt different. The wind, no longer just an ambient force, now felt…aware. He imagined whispers carried on each gust, unseen eyes watching him from the currents of air. Instinctively he touched the talisman safely tucked away in his pocket, an act of comfort for the unknown world he had just encountered.


    --


    Sakuragoka High loomed ahead—a concrete beast snarling with chains of routine.


    The morning sun bled pale gold over its cracked walls, but Muren saw only shadows. The playground, usually a cacophony of shouts and scuffling shoes, lay eerily still—a predator feigning sleep. Yet the air prickled. He could taste the tension now, raw and metallic, like ozone before a storm.


    Clink. A basketball bounced rhythmically near the lockers.


    There they were.


    The bullies—territorial predators—lounged against the metal cabinets like kings of rust and ruin. Their leader, a boy with eyes like frosted glass, flicked a lighter open. Click. Hiss. A flame bloomed, casting jagged shadows over his smirk. Muren’s fingers twitched toward his pocket, where the bamboo talisman hummed faintly.


    "If I activated it now…"


    He imagined it: windless speed, ghosting past their sneers before they could blink. A phantom strike. A lesson.


    But no.


    His grip tightened. The talisman pulsed—a heartbeat not his own. *Not yet.* The spirit’s price hung unspoken, a blade over his neck. Power demanded strategy, not impulse.


    He lowered his gaze, shoulders slumping into the practiced slump of unremarkable.


    Inside the echoing hallways, the familiar clang of the bell – that iron monstrosity – ripped through the air, scattering the remaining pockets of quiet.


    Students streamed past him, a river of uniforms and bowed heads. The bullies’ eyes scraped over his frame—dismissive, bored. Their contempt was a familiar sting, but today, it curdled into something darker. "Amusing", he thought, biting back a smirk. "They have no idea what’s thrumming in my pocket."


    The talisman warmed, as if laughing with him.


    Inside, the hallways yawned wide, fluorescent lights buzzing like angry wasps. Muren navigated the chaos with detached precision—dodging backpacks, sidestepping clusters of gossiping girls. His mind whirred.


    *Windless Paradise.*


    The spell’s mechanics unfolded in his head: air resistance nullified, movement streamlined to lethal efficiency. He could be a shadow. A blade. A *god* in this den of feral children.


    But at what cost?


    Service. The wind spirit’s voice echoed, cold and melodic. Each quest would be a gamble. A misstep, and the talisman would crumble to dead bamboo.


    “Prioritize survival. Observe. Adapt.” His mantra, etched into his bones since middle school.


    He reached his classroom, the familiar monotony of desks and textbooks.


    As he slid into his seat, the classroom door slammed open. A first-year stumbled in, collar crooked, eyes red-rimmed. Fresh prey.


    Muren’s jaw tightened. Not my problem.


    He traced the talisman’s grid through his pocket, the symbols biting into his fingertips. Magic thrummed, sweet and seductive.


    But the question of service loomed, a shadow cast over his newfound ability.


    What would the wind spirit ask of him? And when would the call come? He looked out the window, at the wind-ruffled leaves of the trees outside, suddenly feeling a profound connection to the unseen forces of the air. He had made a pact. And now, he had to wait for the wind to whisper its demands.