Sixty thousand miles away, on a small floating isle pieced together by ninety-three Floating Stones, two figures were the only inhabitants: a near-eighty-year-old woman and a lovely teenager of about fifteen or sixteen.
The girl, tears rolling down her delicate cheeks, clung to the older woman and sobbed. No one else was there to comfort her.
The older woman was Grandma Wynn, while the tearful girl was Ivy Wynn. Though not related by blood, Grandma Wynn had raised Ivy since she was a baby. They lived alone on this tiny floating isle.
Under the illumination of a brilliant night-pear stone, two objects lay on the ground: an oxygen tank and a set of clothes.
The respirator tube was stained crimson, and the smell of blood filled the air. The garments were torn and soaked in gore, scraps of flesh clinging to the fibers. They were beyond salvage.
Ivy Wynn was the same person known in the district as "MorganBlossom." Grandma Wynn gently patted her granddaughter's back, trying to soothe her.
Inwardly, the old woman sighed, wishing she were less of a burden on the girl.
Her presence slightly boosted Ivy's luck thanks to the game's rules about young children and seniors, but it was Ivy herself who struggled hardest.
The first truly helpful supply box they'd acquired emerged from a sea beast's belly. That was where Ivy found the diving equipment.
She'd been swallowed by a monster in the process, and although she miraculously escaped, her right leg had suffered a disfiguring burn from corrosive fluids.
Even now, she spent seventeen hours a day in the water, fishing for more crates, while Grandma Wynn guarded their tiny patch of land.
"Child," Grandma Wynn said, using the name she'd always called Ivy, "it's okay. If those items are ruined, then so be it. We're luckier than most. At least I'm still here, and as long as we have each other, we can keep going."
Fate, it seemed, had taken the diving gear away from them again.
Shortly after midnight, the third day on the desert island ended. The sky blackened with swirling clouds, and a fine rain began to fall on Logan Lane.
Soon the drizzle became a downpour, drenching everything. Mud and gravel ran with the rivulets of water on his enlarged island, turning the sand sticky and red wherever his blood had pooled.
Perhaps the rain washed away the grime clogging his wounds, because the pain eventually stirred him awake.
He blinked, confused, before his first panicked thought: Where's my Breeze Sword? Where's that Purple Shell?
Not far from him lay both items, faint blue luminescence on the sword from its embedded Breeze Stone, and the shell's flickering purple glow.
Relieved, he bared his teeth against the pain. Glancing down, he realized with chagrin that he was completely naked.
Fortunately, no one else lived on his island—he was the owner here—and had no reason to worry about someone mocking his exposure.
Gritting his teeth, he struggled through the rain, using his Breeze Sword like a crowbar to roll the Purple Shell toward his hut. It took almost an hour to drag himself and his battered prizes back to the thatched shack.
He cleaned and dressed his wounds with what little medical gear he had, gulped down a few anti-inflammatory pills, then roasted some meat over a small fire. By the time he finished eating, it was already three in the morning. Exhaustion overwhelmed him, and he collapsed on his blanket to sleep.
What Logan didn't know was that soon after he dozed off, a lone, shadowy figure emerged from the downpour. Pausing at the Purple Shell, it seemed to examine it, then walked straight into the hut where he slept.
Inside, Logan had placed an iron box of smoldering embers to provide warmth, ensuring the flame wouldn't spread and cause a blaze. The soft glow illuminated the small hut enough for the visitor to observe the unconscious Logan in detail.
Had Logan been awake, he might have felt a chill: he was alone on the island—or so he believed. Yet here stood another presence, staring intently at him without making a sound. The figure left just before 4:59 a.m., vanishing into the heavy rain.
Logan slept through the entire encounter, oblivious to the visitor's presence—and to the mysteries that would soon unravel.