The Mist Train, having made a desperate escape from the tomb-like Scripture House, had sunk once again into a heavy, oppressive Silence of Providence. It was as if the chaotic destruction from moments ago had been nothing more than a bad dream.
Koyoi pressed both hands against trembling knees, watching the blur of opaque fog whip past the window. Only the steady clack-clack of wheels on the rails signaled that time in this world was still moving.
Pale lantern light flickered, as fragile as Koyoi’s own nerves. Beneath the seats, soot stirred with a ghostly, unsettling motion—a lingering tremor from the upheaval in the Natural Order.
Kuon held the stolen golden tome—the Registry of Truth—spread reverently across his lap. A blinding residue of divine aura still rose from its cover, physically warping the air into an unnatural void. Kuon’s prosthetic left eye pulsed with a sinister blue light, decoding the invisible script etched into the pages. A faint click echoed through the car as the mechanism adjusted its focus.
“...The ciphers of Providence are finally starting to unravel,” Kuon murmured. “We’re about to bring the crimes those Observers buried in these records to light.”
“...What does it say?” Koyoi asked. “Does it say anything about the gods we saved?”
“It’s not that simple. Listen carefully, Koyoi. According to this Registry... gods didn’t naturally exist in this world from the beginning.”
Kuon began turning the ancient pages, his movements as precise and clinical as a taxidermist dismantling a specimen.
“Not naturally...? What do you mean?”
“Thousands of years ago, the Observers extracted the impurities—the excess prayers and obsessions—that had pooled in the gaps of Providence. Using those as a core, they artificially cultured Gods as vessels for their records.”
The confession hit Koyoi’s soul with the force of a thunderclap.
“Artificial...? You’re saying the gods were... made?”
“Yeah. To them, a god isn't an object of faith or awe. They were just convenient adjustment parts to keep the world stable. They used the pure love of the gods to fuel this false reality. When a god wore out, they’d dismantle them under the guise of culling and recycle them into new seeds.”
“...That’s not what a god should be,” Koyoi whispered, voice trembling.
Asahi clenched his fists, his gaze fixed on the floor. “Even if they were made, that’s no reason to let them be erased. So we save them. We stop their culling right here.”
Kuon’s voice was a mix of cold hatred and nihilism—the bitterness of a man who had been forced to offer his own body as an experimental subject. Koyoi touched the drawstring pouch at his waist, checking on the three gods slumbering within. Had they sensed the truth through his soul—that their origins were born from such a hideous cycle of exploitation?
Deep in the pouch, the Moon God’s silver radiance had clouded over, flickering as if on the verge of vanishing in despair. The Wind God, learning his proud breath was merely a program, sat slumped and powerless. Only the Glass God used his power of reflection to verify the Registry’s facts, accepting the cruel logic of Providence with clinical precision.
Asahi let out a long breath and forced his shoulders to relax.
“Forget the logic. The heat and the trembling I felt from those gods... that wasn't fake. Whether they were made or not, they’re right here with us, fighting to live. I couldn't care less where the records came from.”
Asahi’s words—gritty, direct, and filled with unwavering conviction—tethered Koyoi’s spirit just as it reached the breaking point.
“...Asahi’s right. Whether it was the Rain God or the Moon God... those tears they shed were real. That’s a truth no one can replace.”
Koyoi roughly wiped away his tears with a mud-stained sleeve and looked straight at the open Registry.
“Kuon. That book... it has the correct records to save them, doesn't it?”
“Yeah. Hidden in the deeper layers is the Primal Formula the Observers kept sealed. With it, we can nullify the wedges they’ve driven in and liberate the gods from this cycle.”
Kuon’s gaze darkened. “But it’s also a trigger. Using it could collapse the very foundation of this world. What kind of hell a world without its divine adjustment valves becomes... not even this Registry knows. It’s unknown territory.”
The warning sank like lead into the heavy silence of the car. Saving the gods might mean destroying the world—an unbearable contradiction to carry on such small shoulders. Koyoi looked at his innocent reflection in the window, questioning the weight of his own resolve.
The train lunged toward the abyss, its speed unchecked. The screech of wheels grew sharper by the minute, and the fog outside merged into a single, thin thread of light. Koyoi exhaled his last breath as a vow to the future, gripping the edge of his seat until his knuckles turned white. He leaned forward, surrendering himself to the torrent of destiny.
The night was about to open the door to its final, most grueling depths.
But Koyoi now held the Key to redefine the world. With the weight of that record, no matter how cruel the wall of Providence ahead, the three of them would write their own story. Feeling the sacred warmth of the gods’ will and hope pulsing in his pouch, Koyoi fired his soul like a bullet toward their destination.
He didn’t look back—not even once.