The train’s swaying grew slightly more erratic.
It was the kind of shudder that took hold when "something" waited beyond the mist. It wasn’t that the tracks were warping; rather, even the rails’ purpose seemed to waver.
Koyoi rested her drawstring pouch on her lap, pressing it down with her palms. The gods within were silent. It wasn’t a dead silence, but a stillness—the kind felt when someone holds their breath, waiting.
In the seat opposite her, Asahi let his scabbard click softly. He didn't draw the sword. He couldn't. And yet, a sliver of his killing intent leaked out.
The air in the carriage grew a breath’s worth colder.
"…Since when has your sword taken on a look like that?"
Kuon spoke curtly. The pale blue glow of his prosthetic eye fell into the narrow gap of the scabbard.
Asahi didn't answer, letting the blade peek out just a little further.
On the surface of the steel were streaks of light—not engravings, but something else. Faint lines ran parallel; they vanished if you drew too close, yet remained unreadable from a distance. They were lines that carried only the lingering aura of names.
"…They’re names," Koyoi said.
Asahi gave a derisive snort. "Let’s go with that."
His voice was too light for mere bravado. It was clear that Asahi himself hadn't fully grasped the nature of the lines within his blade.
Inside the pouch, the droplets pulsed.
In that instant, the lines on the sword shivered in unison, and one of them became distinct. Koyoi felt as though she heard a voiceless sound. Not a voice calling out, but a voice setting something in place.
Kuon gritted his teeth.
"…A sword is a vessel for records. It sinks names into the steel. That’s why it’s heavy."
Asahi furrowed his brow. "If it’s heavy, all I have to do is swing it down."
"No. Heavy means you can't go back. Every time you cut, the names fade by as much as you’ve cleaved."
Koyoi pulled the pouch closer to her chest. She had come here to gather, yet the sword was an instrument of loss.
"…Then, Asahi’s sword is—"
Before she could finish, Asahi clicked his scabbard shut. The sound of the blade returning was sharp and final.
"I don't want them to fade."
It was a small voice. A truth so quiet it was almost missed.
"But there are things that won’t stop unless I cut them down. …So I hesitate. That hesitation—that is my sword right now."
Kuon closed his ledger and nodded.
"Then use that hesitation. A sword isn’t just for cutting. It can be used to show the way, too."
The train gave a massive lurch.
The mist outside the window thinned for a heartbeat, revealing a distant light. Asahi rested his hand on the hilt. The droplets in the pouch pulsed in the same rhythm.
The lines within the sword tilted quietly toward the light.
The train continued its journey through the fog. Following the direction the sword pointed. Toward the place where names still drifted.
As they drew closer to the destination indicated by the sword, Koyoi’s body began to react before her thoughts could catch up. Kuon sliced the air with his palm, gauging the stiffness of the boundary. Before he could even put it into words, he felt the air behind him grow thin.
Before crossing the point of no return, they would decide only the direction to take.
"Once you speak it, it is decided," Kuon said. "So, keep what you see with your eyes locked in your heart."
Koyoi drew a single line in her catalog. She didn’t write "Asahi’s Sword," but simply a line to capture its form.
"The train is close. The closer things are, the faster they are stolen."
Koyoi breathed in, then out. She steadied her breath, keeping it shallow, using only the pulse of the droplets as her guide.
Nothing happened. Or rather, only pressure arrived in the shape of nothing.
She realized then that this next step was the true beginning. That was the way Asahi’s sword exerted pressure.
Koyoi confirmed a single meaning within her heart and stepped forward. Through the fabric of the pouch, the droplets trembled slightly—as if to tell her that, for now, the names had not yet been stolen.