As the sun dipped toward the horizon, the sky erupted into an unexpected thunderstorm. Half of the sun still clung to the edge of the world, its searing heat colliding with streaks of lightning that tore through the sky.
This rain arrived without warning but was perfectly timed, washing away the oppressive heat that had lingered for days.
"The Weather Matrix again… The temperature continues to rise, they have been activating it more often these days..."
I flinched as an old person passing by next to me mumbled those words under his breath, tilting his head backward as he opened his umbrella.
I too lifted my chin but the large hood of my waterproof jacket obscured my vision. Even though I was born in such conditions, it was still amazing how the Weather Matrix worked. It could deliver rain or snow on demand, but of course, the best weather conditions were reserved for the higher-class citizens.
We were in the New Avalon Union, an island in the western seas. A country built of countries, or what they were able to plaster back together to create a country.
I walked through the abundant greenery of the mountain range. Underneath the dark veil of rain clouds, my tiny figure clad in black must have stuck out like a sore thumb.
Though the weather report warned us about the rain switch today, I did not want to drag an umbrella with me so I opted for a waterproof jacket instead. It was two sizes too big and to others, I looked like a black ghost.
But the thing that might have made everyone glue their suspicious eyes to me was the object I had secured under my right arm. It was a long, thin object covered in a thick black cloth and wrapped in a long brown rope.
Halfway up the mountain, the sharp blow of the wind moved my hood to the side and I winced, as a strand of wet hair stuck across my face.
I narrowed my eyes, peering through the thick curtain of rain. The mountain was eerily silent—perhaps the animals had already sought shelter. The only sounds came from the bustling port in the distance.
This was an isolated island, a mountain rising above the sea, surrounded by an intricate web of shipping lanes. Cargo ships moved steadily through the waters, keeping to their scheduled routes.
Above them, the skies were ruled by the Union's controlled airways, where sleek airships glided through the misty twilight. Their neon-lit signals, glowing in various colors, cast an almost dreamlike illusion against the rainy backdrop.
But beneath that dazzling display, the reality of the island was starkly different.
Cramped, low-income housing sprawled along the coastline, the air thick with the sharp tang of salt and industry waste. People moved through the streets, their faces weary and gray, drained by the weight of their daily struggles. It was a sobering sight—a harsh reminder that, beneath the veneer of progress, life for many remained unchanged.
This place wasn't a paradise—not even close. It couldn't even be called a city.
The gleaming prosperity above only seemed to hasten the decay below. The rising elite of the new world watched with indifferent eyes as the remnants of the old civilization crumbled beneath them.
This stark contrast was the very reason District Apollo kept receiving an "F" in the Union's comprehensive development reports.
District Apollo—a forgotten stretch of a worthless land, so contradictory to its name.
It had missed out on the "Golden Age," the era of rapid technological advancement that reshaped the New Avalon Union. While the rest of the world soared into an economic boom, District Apollo lagged behind, its lifeline tied solely to the export of marine goods.
Over time, it withered into one of the most barren digital outposts within the Union—a backwater you could count among the few truly underdeveloped places left.
When I finally cleared the mountain range, the rain stopped abruptly, as if I'd crossed into an entirely different world. The sharp, salty tang of District Apollo hit me like a slap.
I lowered the hood of my cloak and jumped up and down a little to rid it of the lingering droplets. After passing through a rusted security checkpoint, I kept moving, my steps steady on the cracked pavement.
"Tom, my husband's been out at sea for nearly two weeks now. You don't think something's happened, do you?"
A young woman's voice reached my ears and I turned around almost automatically. There, just a few steps away from the checkpoint, an old man with a black old-fashioned pipe stood near the wall, puffing out thick rings of white smoke as his narrow eyes looked down at the woman before him.
"The Union asked for a local guide this time, Jake was the best one! The sea's been rough lately. And you've seen the weather! We have been frying under the sun for so long, I bet the dry winds made them wait at the caves. If we don't hear anything in the next couple of days, I'll send someone out to look."
But then his eyes shifted, catching sight of me approaching. His scowl softened instantly, replaced by a warm, familiar smile etched into his weathered face. "Well, look who's back—Emma's home."
I offered him a respectful nod. "Hey, Grandpa Tom."