As the Mist Train—a massive steel beast—pulled away from Suzutomo Station with a heavy shudder, the river fog pressed against the windows like a living thing, whitening the glass into opacity. Koyoi sat deep in her worn wooden seat, tracing the cold glass with her fingertips as she watched the town lights recede into the white.
Inside the carriage, the scent of old drying timber and hot soot—the residue of divine power burned as fuel—settled thickly. It saturated Koyoi’s lungs, a gentle but certain intrusion. With every forceful strike of the wheels against the steel rails, a rhythmic rumble vibrated through the floorboards, echoing the beat of her heart. The three gods slumbering in her hip pouch also seemed unsettled by this forced journey. Each showed their bewilderment in their own way.
The Moon God suppressed its silver light to the limit, shrinking deep into the fabric to hide from the train's unnatural magnetic field. The Wind God twisted violently within the pouch, resisting the pressure of the artificial wind whipping against the train’s path. Only the Glass God remained active. Its light resonated with the lamps reflected in the window, projecting fragments of the Order from beyond the mist directly into Koyoi’s mind like a kaleidoscope.
Koyoi felt these sacred voices with her whole being. The stinging static on her skin told her they were hurtling through a gap in records, a place where the natural Order had completely frayed. Opposite her, Asahi sat clutching his greatsword, his eyes fixed on the abyss of mist like a predator waiting for its prey.
"Mist just thickened. Order density spiked," Asahi said, his heavy voice barely cutting through the roar of the engine. "It’s like it’s trying to erase the very record of our existence."
Koyoi nodded silently, tracing the faint, damp trail her finger had left on the glass.
"The mist is a giant eraser used to shroud records," Kuon added with cold precision. He had an old map spread across his knees, swaying with the train’s motion as he tried to fix their position as precisely as possible. "This stretch between Suzutomo and the Archive is a Blank Zone, where the Order is most unstable."
"A Blank Zone... does that mean nothing is there?"
"Not exactly. It is a state of unstable reality where anything could exist." Kuon narrowed his prosthetic left eye, tracking the flickering lights outside like a sensor. "Even the Observers’ instruments struggle to maintain coordinates here. The only reason they maintain this inefficient Mist Train is because this steel cage is the only thing that can safely breach the abyss."
His voice carried a mix of deep hatred for these tools and resignation toward his own fate. Koyoi etched every word into her soul, feeling the weight of the Archive they were approaching. Suddenly, the train let out a whistle like a death rattle, and the curtain of mist was momentarily torn asunder.
In that brief gap, Koyoi saw it: the tragic remains of a nameless ancient capital floating in the abyss. Stone towers lay half-collapsed, and bridges once crossed by thousands hung disjointed in the air, liberated from gravity. The scene had lost all color, sinking into silence like a sepia photograph.
The light in Koyoi’s chest surged in resonance. This wasn't just destruction; it was a graveyard of feelings and prayers, trapped in the gaps of the Order, waiting for a savior.
Even there... inside that broken tower, a forgotten god might be shivering alone.
She pressed her palm to the glass, trying to anchor that cold image with her own warmth. Kuon sensed her agitation, but the mist had already thickened, concealing the truth once more.
"Did you see it?" Kuon asked. "The graves of old records."
"Yes. I felt like they were looking at us. They seemed so sad."
"Sentimental," Kuon said. "They are nothing more than dead data, no longer worth observing."
He spoke coldly, but there was an unmistakable tremor in his voice, as if an old memory was aching. Asahi stood up, ending the conversation. He pulled a warm parcel from his rucksack—something he’d grabbed in Suzutomo—and spread it on the small table. A mountain of grilled rice balls spilled out, smelling of savory soy sauce. The scent of life instantly overwrote the smell of soot and death, jolting their survival instincts.
"Eat while you can," Asahi warned. "Once we pass the gates of the Archive, the Order will strip away even the time you need to fill your belly."
Koyoi took a rice ball as if it were a fragile treasure. With every bite, the sweetness of the grain and the charred soy sauce seeped into her like a drop of new life.
"It’s delicious. I feel... alive."
"Of course," Kuon said, picking up a small portion with his slender fingers. "It is the record of rice grown by human hands, made real by fire. The finest feast the Order can offer."
A strange tranquility followed the meal. Outside, the mist shifted from white to a deep indigo, hinting at the night's abyss. Koyoi touched her pouch, feeling the gods sleeping in rhythm with the train. The Moon God’s silver light seeped through the fabric, filling her heart with an unfamiliar silence.
"Once we reach the Archive... what do we do first?"
"There is only one objective," Kuon answered, staring at a single point in the dark. "To retrieve the true Index lost from this world."
"The Index?"
"The omniscient record at the heart of the Order. With it, the coordinates of the Kamiatsume and the means to break the gods' shackles will be revealed. But it is also the trigger that will collapse the world's order."
Kuon’s words felt like lead. To save the Order, they had to destroy it. Koyoi looked into the black night, feeling the weight of that paradox on her small heart.
The train plunged straight into the abyss. The sound of wheels grew sharper, and the mist outside blurred into a single thread of light. Koyoi took one last deep breath and let herself drift toward whatever waited beyond fate.
The night grew denser, waiting to swallow them. But Koyoi had the warmth of her companions and the bond of her gods. With that weight, she knew she wouldn't lose herself. The story, its steel heart pounding, closed in on the Archive—the tomb of truth.