Inside the Mist Train.
As the carriages groaned into motion, the floorboards vibrated with a faint, lingering tremor—the aftershock of the shattered laws triggered by the collapse of the Scripture Repository. It hummed against the soles of the three travelers’ feet, a ghostly reminder of the world they had just left behind.
Koyoi traced the milky-white curtains clinging to the windowpane with his palm. He watched as the afterimage of that obsidian gate, which had once loomed over the world, dissolved into a spray of informational dust and vanished into the void.
The lanterns overhead flickered unnaturally, pushed to the brink by the fluctuating threshold of Providence. With every short blast of the steam whistle, the air inside momentarily regained a lush, vivid moisture, and the scent of lamp oil enveloped them like a predestined shroud. Koyoi measured the depth of the shadows in the corridor with the yardstick of his own soul; he had foreseen the exact moment of their departure by the sharp, prickling sting of static electricity against his skin.
Only when the carriage’s swaying returned to a rhythmic pulse did Koyoi finally become conscious of his own breathing.
With every exhale, the frigid air of the Repository that had been etched into the back of his lungs was slowly replaced by the Mist Train’s growing warmth. Inside his drawstring pouch, the Deity of Droplets pulsed softly, emitting a faint glow as if confirming its master was safe. Koyoi sank deep into the backrest and stared fixedly at his own palms.
The sensation of gripping Kuon’s hand still lingered there, and every joint in his fingers throbbed with a dull ache. The misty landscape streaming past the window burned a pale, silvery trail into his retinas—light that felt like tears trickling down his cheeks. The leather upholstery was cracked with age and dampness, releasing a faint, musty scent of mold.
Even that smell felt nostalgic to Koyoi now, a visceral proof of being alive. He gently loosened the strings of his pouch and peered inside. The Deity of Droplets sat at the bottom like a tiny sphere of light, its glow as quiet and solitary as a star submerged in the deep sea.
The wreckage of the countless records he had seen in the Repository remained scorched behind his eyelids. When he thought of the weight of the prayers that must have been poured into even a single volume, a tightening pain shot through his chest.
Kuon was absorbed in the Registry. Only the light from his prosthetic eye flickered coldly in the gloom.
"…Did we make it? Did we actually succeed in stealing the records from their ‘Inviolable Realm’?"
Kuon muttered the words as he leaned weakly against the wall, his left eyelid clamped shut. His voice was a blend of relief and exhaustion, stripped of its usual razor-sharp edge. The pale blue light emanating from his artificial eye blinked intensely for a moment before rapidly dimming.
Leaving the Registry resting on his lap, Kuon looked up at the flickering lanterns with a hollow gaze. Under the dancing light, his profile looked gaunt, the shadows of fatigue carved deeply over his sightless right eyelid. The power of Providence he had exhausted during the battle in the Repository still pulsed through his limbs as a dull numbness, visible in the slight tremor of his fingertips.
Kuon stroked the cover of the Registry, tracing the embossed golden lettering with his thumb. Where the truths sealed within this book would lead their three destinies—that was a secret known only to the Registry itself.
"…We didn't steal them. We simply reclaimed our true history."
Koyoi answered in a trembling voice, taking a single step forward. His footing was unsteady, but his voice held a firm, unwavering core. He looked at his own reflection in the windowpane, observing the mixture of anxiety and resolve on his face as if it belonged to a stranger.
Each time the pouch swayed against his chest, the Deity of Droplets emitted a warm pulse of light in response to his words, momentarily softening the darkness of the carriage. His lips were dry and cracked, but the strength with which he gritted his teeth was far greater than it had been before they set foot in the Repository. The weight of what he had seen, felt, and the truths he had grasped now supported his spine from within.
Mist swirled beyond the glass. For a fleeting second, the forms of the gods he had once saved seemed to flicker in the haze before vanishing. Koyoi widened his eyes, but they were already nothing more than phantoms.
Asahi stepped forward and scanned the surroundings, his hawk-like gaze piercing the mist flowing past the window.
Faint scars from the recent battle lingered on his shoulders, where wisps of Providence leaked out like trailing threads of light. He leaned his greatsword against the seat and propped himself up with one hand against the wall—a posture that embodied his pride, refusing to show even a hint of weakness. His breathing was still heavy, rising into the chilled air of the carriage in white, misty plumes.
"…Let’s go. We left the answers back there," Asahi said, spitting the words out.
His voice was low, yet it resonated in every corner of the carriage, chasing away the silence that had been lurking under the seats. His words were brief, but they condensed the entirety of the journey the three of them had shared.
The answers exist.
The answers are out there, somewhere. Believing that was the only weapon they had left—and, simultaneously, the most powerful one.
Asahi tapped the hilt of his greatsword lightly and began walking toward the far end of the corridor. His steps were heavy with fatigue, but each one moved him resolutely forward.
Watching his back, Koyoi reached out and gently placed his hand on Kuon’s arm. Kuon looked startled for a fraction of a second, but his face quickly returned to its usual expressionless mask. He didn't pull away; instead, he stood up quietly. Even after their hands parted, the warmth of the other remained on their palms.
The Mist Train gave a long, trailing whistle. The rhythm of the wheels synchronized with the heartbeats of the three travelers, carrying them toward their next coordinates.
Outside the window, the dust of information continued to dance, its silvery light dissolving into the fog until the world was once again enveloped in a deep, milky silence. The fire in the lanterns flared brilliantly one last time, bathing their faces in amber light, before quietly fading into a dim glow.