The train came to a halt.
It wasn't a jarring impact. It was a quiet severance, like the final exhalation of a breath. The screech of the wheels trailed off into a single, lingering cry before the steel beast fell silent for good.
Inside the carriage around us, the pale lanterns flickered violently, then died. In the ensuing darkness, the only thing left was the pounding of my own heart.
"……We're here. The Scriptural Repository."
Kuon’s voice was low, as if crawling up from the bottom of a dark pit. Only the faint blue glow of his artificial eye traced a thin line through the gloom. Asahi silently retightened the straps of her greatsword, the sound of steel rubbing against cloth ringing out with startling clarity.
The heavy door ground open.
Stale air trapped inside the carriage was sucked out in a single gasp. In its place rushed a chill that froze to the marrow, carrying with it the scent of decaying paper—a mixture of ink, mold, and stones that hadn't been moved for millennia. It stung the nostrils and settled heavy in the lungs.
The moment they stepped onto the platform, a thick layer of dust billowed up to their knees. It wasn't gray; it was the wreckage of unraveled ink—the powdered remains of words, weathered down over tens of thousands of years. With every step, particles that might once have been someone’s name drifted through the air, brushing against Koyoi’s cheek before crumbling away.
"……Don’t touch it. There are records even in that dust. Inhale it directly, and a stranger’s entire lifetime will flood your mind."
Kuon covered his mouth with the sleeve of his robe, his artificial eye the only light probing the darkness ahead. Faint sparks flared erratically deep within his left eye; the density of the world's governing logic was pushing the limits of his eye’s capacity.
Asahi stepped in front of them. She said nothing, her hand simply resting on the hilt of her greatsword as she stared ahead. Her back felt immensely broad.
At the end of the platform stood a gate.
Pitch black. No other word sufficed. Two pillars of staggering height loomed through the mist, joined by a crossbeam forged from a material that seemed to swallow light itself. The gate’s surface was coated not in moss or rust, but in layers of compressed text. Tens of thousands of kanji, overlapping like scales, let out a faint rasping sound whenever the wind brushed them.
Koyoi thought they sounded like the groans of imprisoned records.
Within the pouch at her waist, the gods stirred. The Moon God cast a thin sliver of silver light, while the Wind God whipped up a tiny, cautious vortex. Only the Glass God remained silent, focused on deciphering what lay beyond the gate.
"……They’re afraid," Koyoi whispered.
Kuon replied, his gaze still fixed on the gate. "Naturally. This is a graveyard, after all. For the gods."
A solitary draft of cold wind leaked from the gap in the gate. Mingled with the scent of old paper and stone, something else brushed against her senses: the smell of dried tears. The traces of sorrow shed by someone unknown, thousands of years ago. The scent pierced Koyoi’s heart, and she clutched the pouch tight against her chest.
"Forward," Asahi said.
It was short—a single command. The sound of her scabbard striking the stone floor echoed across the platform as their footsteps merged, heading toward the gate.
Dust billowed, their boots sank, and a chill crawled up their necks. Then Koyoi realized her breath wasn't turning white. Despite the biting cold, her exhalations were invisible—as if their very existence was being denied by this place.
The three of them stepped through the gate.
A heavy thud sounded behind them, and the world closed shut. When Koyoi turned, the platform was gone. There was no train, no mist—nothing. Only a wall of absolute darkness had swallowed the path they’d taken.
The bag at her waist trembled; she could almost feel the gods within weeping soundlessly. Ahead, rows of bookshelves emitting a ghostly blue light stretched on forever, vanishing into the distant horizon.