The jolt of the stop sent a groan through the seatback, and the oil lamp on the ceiling swung in a long, sweeping arc.
Only the dry rattle of chains against the walls remained in the carriage; then, a silence so absolute followed that it felt as if every other sound had been stripped from the existence of the world. Koyoi heard the pulse of blood in his own ears, and the realization that even that sound was unnaturally faint made his body stiffen.
Black soot clung to the palm he had used to wipe the windowpane. It had the texture of dry ash, yet the moment it felt the warmth of his skin, it returned a faint, rhythmic throb. It was as if the soot itself were the wreckage of information that had once been alive. Koyoi wiped his hand on the hem of his coat and checked the pouch at his side, making sure the droplet within had settled into stillness.
The silence spoke eloquently: even the gods of rain and river had no choice but to hold their breath before this absolute stasis. A low bell from the station chimed once in the distance. Its resonance rippled through the layers of emptiness like a stone cast into water, only to be swallowed instantly by the deepening hush.
Kuon was reading through the catalog in silence. The cerulean glow of his prosthetic eye illuminated the ink on the pages. The beam was narrower and sharper than usual, reminiscent of a surgeon’s lamp probing a surgical site.
The pages of the catalog were meant to hold the records of Hoshifuri Town, but most of the text had already faded. All that remained were fragmentary strings of numbers and ancient symbols whose meanings were nearly impossible to decipher. Kuon slid his finger across the page as if chasing the vanishing letters, shifting the angle of his blue light in an attempt to salvage even a single grain of the dying information’s residue.
Asahi remained standing in the aisle, gauging the direction of the "Instrumental Wind" surging from outside by the faint shiver of the hairs on the nape of his neck. His right hand rested on the hilt of his sword, his feet planted shoulder-width apart, his center of gravity lowered and ready for instant movement.
“...Look at this. This is the weight of the Logic’s ‘Judgment.’ They’ve been using this place as a scrapyard for information—physically ‘pruning’ any records deemed incompatible.”
A trace of irritation colored Kuon’s voice. The blue light of his eye grew even sharper, piercing the surface of the catalog at an acute angle. He moved his jaw as if grinding his teeth, staring fixedly at the fragments left in the record.
In the set of his mouth as he spat the word pruning, there was a mixture of loathing and an even deeper, intellectual fury. To deem information "incompatible" and discard it like trash—the sheer arrogance of those who made such judgments was, to Kuon, the ultimate unforgivable act. Koyoi could read that much just from his profile.
The binding of the catalog swelled unnaturally as it soaked up the brine-heavy dampness from the sea, and faint grains of light spilled from between the pages. Like the final scream of the pruned records, they flickered for a heartbeat in the blue light before vanishing.
“Pruning? Then... what about them? Are you saying the gods freezing in this place can never be saved?”
A core of strength settled into Koyoi’s voice. He wasn't trembling.
Instead, a heat bordering on anger was infused into every word. He cradled the pouch against his chest with both hands, feeling the warmth of the silent droplet within as he looked Kuon’s prosthetic eye straight in the beam. Even as he spoke the possibility of them being unsaveable, his eyes refused to accept it.
Deep inside the pouch, the droplet of the Rain God shivered slightly, emitting a faint light as if responding to its master’s stubborn will. The cold presence of the River God stirred as well, their emotions swirling and melting together in the palm of Koyoi's hand. If the gods discarded here are freezing, then I will warm them with my own hands, he swore to himself, biting his lip.
The station bell chimed once more in the distance, its tone vibrating through the void as if to bolster his resolve.
Asahi continued to silently scan the surroundings. Every time the Instrumental Wind blew through, he sharpened his senses to read the faint residue of information carried on the breeze. His fingers tightened once around the hilt of his sword, then relaxed.
In that single motion, his own brand of vigilance and resolve was condensed. The white light pouring in from outside the carriage traced the line of his jaw, casting a thin shadow over his grimly set lips.
“...It’s better not to call out. The moment you speak a name, it is we who will be eroded first.”
Koyoi started to open his mouth, then slowly closed it.
Between the impulse to call their names and the price that act might exact, he felt a creaking pain deep in his chest. The droplet in his pouch pulsed once more, returning a warmth that seemed to soothe him. Asahi said nothing; he simply took one step forward and stared into the darkness of the station.
His back was filled with the quiet weight of a man who had chosen to be a shield for the other two. The layers of emptiness continued to drift down around them, while only the Instrumental Wind carried the thin, cold remnants of the countless records that had once existed in this place.