You leave the temple behind and follow the night until the land opens into a broad, wind-bitten plain. The air here tastes of rain and iron, and every blade of grass leans in the same uneasy direction, as if the world itself is listening for a storm. Your integrated arsenal shifts quietly beneath your skin with each step, a patient mechanical chorus in the dark. Far ahead, the horizon flashes white for a heartbeat, and the clouds there look bruised and restless.

After hours of travel, you reach a boundary of rough pasture where old stones stand half-buried like broken teeth. Local warnings are carved into them in weathered script, naming this place a corridor of twisting skies and vanished caravans. The wind grows stronger by the moment, tugging at your clothes and whistling through your hidden metal channels. Somewhere beyond the fields, a low roar begins to build, and you realize the land is preparing to show you exactly what it means to be hunted by air.