Descending onto the hidden cloud continent, Malik felt the heartbeat of the storm beneath him. The land hummed with latent power — storm-qi flowing through stormstone conduits, arcs of lightning feeding workshops, irrigation systems, and defense grids. Bridges of hardened mist swayed under the wind, but they were strong enough to support the movement of armies or entire marketplaces.
He walked among the 1,500 clansmen handpicked by Kharon. Their tattoos glowed faintly, each pattern unique, marking not only loyalty but the mastery of storm-qi. They trained in both martial and moral discipline — Kharon had ensured that. Malik now stood as the inheritor, not merely of a throne, but of a living civilization designed to thrive without him, if necessary.
Using his Earth knowledge, Malik activated arrays and turbines, channeling lightning through capacitors that he had calibrated from Georgia Tech engineering principles. The storm energy lit workshops and powered hydroponic farms, where rare grains fermented under controlled arcs of lightning. His vodka production was both nostalgic and symbolic — a taste of Earth in the sky, a product that connected memory with industry.
He visited the research labs where rift navigation systems were being assembled. He smiled at the ingenuity: floating platforms stabilized by storm-qi, cloud-borne cranes, and mist bridges that moved like clockwork. Every innovation was an intersection of Earth engineering, storm-magic, and street-smart pragmatism inherited from his life in Atlanta.
Here, Malik understood the magnitude of his inheritance. This was not just land. It was a living, breathing entity, waiting for him to grow it, explore it, and make it his own. And in that realization, he felt both the weight and the thrill of freedom.