As they stepped onto the platform, a fine mist seeped from the gaps between the cobblestones, lapping at their soles like a cold, spectral tongue. The resonance of the "Low Bell" had long since faded, yet a phantom vibration lingered—a subtle distortion in the air that left a metallic tang deep in their lungs with every breath.
Koyoi scanned their surroundings. The station was utterly deserted, save for the three of them. Thick layers of cobwebs choked the ticket window; a single strand caught a glimmer of the Laws’ light, tracing an eerie, silver geometric pattern in the gloom.
Kuon’s prosthetic eye traced the catalog, line by line. His pace was noticeably slower than usual; the very meaning of the text seemed to shift moment by moment, forcing him to reread the same passages again and again. Deep furrows etched themselves into his brow. The flickering blue light of his artificial eye pulsed irregularly—like the warning light of a precision machine on the verge of total overload.
"Look. This is the weight of 'Judgment' by the Laws," Kuon said flatly. "They used this place as a dumping ground for information, physically 'culling' any records they deemed incompatible."
His voice was hollow, yet that very lack of inflection betrayed the depth of the emotion churning within him. It wasn't a flare of passion, but a frozen rage—a crystal of despair so tightly compressed over the years that it had solidified into something too hard to ever explode. As he closed the catalog, Kuon’s hands shook ever so slightly.
"Culling? Then those children..." Koyoi’s eyes welled with tears. "The gods shivering in this place... you’re saying we can't save them?"
His tears weren't born of simple sadness. They were the product of two opposing forces colliding violently in his chest: the terror that they were already too late, and the desperate, aching need to save them anyway. He wiped his eyes with his sleeve and clutched his drawstring bag tight. The three deities slumbering within returned a faint warmth, responding to his grief. That small spark of heat was the final fortress remaining in Koyoi’s heart.
Asahi walked ahead in silence, his sword slung over his shoulder. His broad back served as both a wall, shielding them from whatever threats lurked behind, and a compass, marking the path forward. His stride was heavy and certain; with every step, a faint tremor rippled through the cobblestones, sending hairline fractures spiderwebbing across the surface of the frozen "Layer of Void."
"Better not call out," he warned. "The moment you speak a name, our side will be the first to erode."
Koyoi pressed his lips together, stifling the call he had been about to make. Instead, he sent a silent prayer from the depths of his heart to the shivering gods. A voice without sound.
Yet, he felt it—the droplet inside the bag pulsed with a sudden, sharp rhythm. Even if his voice could not reach them, his prayer had. That heartbeat, felt through the fabric, was the only warmth in the freezing station air.
Asahi didn't stop, but he slowed his pace just enough to ensure Koyoi and Kuon wouldn't fall behind. He offered no words of comfort; his back alone continued to lead them. The mist quietly swallowed their footprints, leaving the cobblestones of the station as empty as if they had never been there at all.