Beyond the Corridor of Providence, the three of them waited for the train at a lonely waystation on the outskirts of Churyo. A gash, torn open by a single strike from a Sweeper, ran down Asahi’s left arm. Though he had bound it in cloth, blood still seeped through the fabric.
Asahi leaned against a stone pillar, his face a mask of stoicism as he fought to steady his breathing.
The stone was thick with ash; at his touch, the fine powder clung to his sleeve. When the train finally rattled into the station, its chassis was buried under a gray shroud, the flames within its lanterns flickering with a frail, dying light. The doors creaked open, spilling out the scent of cold iron and stagnant air.
Inside, the carriage was empty.
The wooden seats were chilled to the bone, but as they sat, a quiet reprieve settled into their weary frames. Their feet, heavy from the long trek across the narrow stones of the Corridor, finally found rest. The train lurched into motion.
Through the window, the gray town of Churyo drifted past until the mist claimed it.
Kuon spread the Ledger across his knees, but his brow soon furrowed in a grimace.
“...A few pages were ruined during the skirmish in the Corridor. Some coordinates are no longer legible.”
“Will we be alright?” Asahi asked.
“Hardly. But I have records cross-referenced at the Archive. If I piece them together, the way forward will still show itself.”
Asahi adjusted the cord of his sword with only his right hand, keeping his wounded left arm still. The battle in the Corridor had been brief but fierce. A Sweeper’s scythe was imbued with the power of Providence; wounds dealt by such a blade ran deeper than common steel, and the healing was agonizingly slow.
Koyoi rested her drawstring pouch upon her lap. As they drew further from Churyo, the presence of the gods began to rouse. The droplet of the Rain God pulsed faintly, its rhythm vibrating against her palm.
The gods, who had been almost entirely silent within the walls of Churyo, were waking as the distance grew. Outside, the scenery shifted. The gray mist thinned, replaced by a seeping, translucent white light. Beyond the haze, spots of light—like floating lanterns—began to appear, one by one.
Their colors were a chaotic tapestry: ghostly blue, bleeding amber, and a pale, radiating violet. Rows of these lanterns lined the tracks, and the train wove through them like a needle through thread.
“...We are entering the Moonlit Gorge,” Kuon murmured.
He looked out the window, his prosthetic eye narrowing as its azure light scanned the rows of lanterns.
“This is a realm where the Margins of Providence have accumulated. A place without records, where the very definition of existence grows thin.”
The air itself changed.
The smell of ash vanished, replaced by a void where no scent could linger. This absence of scent meant the place had no record in the world’s history. There was only a hollow, biting cold that stung the back of the nose.
Inside the pouch, the Wind God gave a faint tremor. In a recordless void, the existence of the gods themselves became unstable. Koyoi pulled the pouch close to her chest, cradling it with both hands to shield its warmth.
The temperature inside the carriage plummeted.
Their breath turned white, and frost began to crawl across the edges of the windowpane. Through the frosted glass, the light of the lanterns appeared as blurred smudges. Asahi closed his eyes, letting his body rest.
In the aftermath of battle, he slept whenever the opportunity arose; it was his way. And yet, beneath his closed lids, his eyes moved slowly, tracking the unseen.
His consciousness had not fully drifted.
The rows of lanterns grew denser. Through the white void outside, the silhouettes of stone pillars flickered in and out of view—vestiges of things that once were, remaining only as shadows within the margins.
The train began to slow.
Kuon opened the Ledger. He cast the blue light of his eye upon the pages, but though characters flickered into view, they faded almost instantly. Even the Ledger’s functions were dampened in this realm.
“The next stop is the Market Void. It was the first place where Providence was discarded. From here, the path leads to the heart of the Moonlit Gorge.”
Outside, a row of unlit stone pillars drew near. Only the skeletal frames of what was once a marketplace stood in the white expanse. The train came to a final, heavy halt.
Beyond the doors, a cold silence lay in wait.