Chapter 4: Legacy of the Airy God
The train shuddered, a low groan of metal against metal, and then the world tipped. The ground ripped beneath Shirou's feet, the station dissolving into colors and shapes that made no sense. In an instant, he was no longer in Tokyo but in a realm untouched by ordinary eyes—a place of impossible light, swirling winds that carried whispers, and architecture that defied reason.
He stood, unafraid yet aware of something immense pressing down on him. It was not just the power in the air, the pulse beneath the ground, but the presence of something older, stronger, and indifferent.
A figure appeared, tall and radiant, with eyes that seemed to pierce through both body and soul. Around him, six others emerged, each with an aura of quiet authority. They did not speak at first, their gaze itself a kind of dialogue, reading Shirou as if he were a text written in the very language of Dust.
"You are of the Airy God," the first figure said finally, voice calm, echoing in the air around him. "Descendant, wielder, inheritor. Even the Goss feared your ancestor."
Shirou did not respond. He felt the weight of that truth without needing to speak. The power within him, Dust, hummed quietly, as though acknowledging its source.
"The seven of us," another began, "were disciples once. We touched the Dust realm as you do, but we failed. We became bound, fragments of the world itself. Now, we exist within the System you wield. We guide, we restrain, and we wait."
A faint hum pulsed from around his neck. Shirou touched the strange necklace he wore—the relic given by one of these forgotten disciples. It was more than jewelry; it was a key, a tether, a warning. One who had failed before him had crafted it to help the next, to control a power that could consume everything.
He could feel Dust shifting inside him. Not raw, uncontrolled, but aware, alive, like a storm waiting for direction. He could summon it, bend it, strike with it—but only the necklace kept him from unraveling, from letting the Shadow planted within him by those long-vanished forces take over.
The disciples, now whispers of power, watched silently. Their guidance was subtle, almost imperceptible, yet everywhere—threads woven into the currents of Dust, flickers in the wind, the pulse of the air itself. Shirou understood quickly: he was not alone, but he was the center. He could not lean on them as teachers; he had to understand himself.
Hours—or was it days?—passed. Time did not exist as it did in the human world. Shirou explored, cautiously, manipulating Dust in small arcs, bending shadows, shaping the wind, testing limits. Every movement resonated with the presence of the disciples. Every spark reminded him of the legacy he carried, of the god he descended from, of the power that could make him feared or revered.
"Do not forget," the first disciple spoke again, voice soft but cutting through the currents of Dust, "control is not mastery. You are a weapon forged by the Airy God, yet you must decide your path. Even gods can fear what they create."
Shirou nodded slowly. He understood more than they realized. Dust was not just power. It was inheritance, responsibility, and burden all at once. He could wield it, bend reality with it, but the Shadow of failure—of what the disciples themselves had endured—was stitched into it. He could become the god the world needed, or the storm that destroyed it.
And then, as swiftly as he had arrived, the world around him shifted. He was returned to Tokyo, the train station intact, the earth beneath his feet solid. But the hum inside him remained, the whispers of seven guiding hands woven into the System, the weight of legacy pressing against him.
Shirou Kisaragi walked from the station, head high, necklace resting against his chest. Dust moved within him, alive, patient, and waiting. He had survived the gods' realm, inherited the legacy of the Airy God, and now he had a choice. To understand, to control, to decide what he would become.
The city seemed smaller, ordinary, yet the storm inside him would not be contained forever. Someday, the Shadow, the legacy, and the power of Dust would demand an answer—and he would have to rise to meet it.