Each time the flickering of the lanterns skipped a beat, the color of the shadows crawling from the cracks in the cobblestones shifted.
First came a soot-black, then a deep indigo, and finally, seeping from the depths, an ominous golden phosphorescence—the light emitted by records stripped of their names as they began to rot. The light entwining itself around Koyoi’s ankles carried a faint warmth, possessed of an urgent will, as if someone drowning were reaching out with the last of their strength.
Inside the drawstring pouch at his waist, the Drop of the Rain God pulsed with a dull ache. Its vibration seemed to resonate with the lamentations of the records buried beneath this place. Koyoi gripped the drawstring tightly with his left hand and tested the coldness of the stone pavement with the tips of his right fingers.
The temperature biting into his fingertips was near freezing; from the point of contact, a thin frost spread outward in the shape of petals. The pattern of the frost resembled an ancient divine name he had seen somewhere before. Koyoi crouched down, bringing his knees to the stones, trying to get a better look at the icy sigil.
But the moment his fingers brushed it, the frost evaporated without a sound, leaving nothing behind. It was as if the name itself refused to be perceived. In a corner of the station, the lid of an abandoned wooden crate rattled despite the lack of wind. A single old scrap of paper fluttered into the air, illuminated by the golden glow. Something had been written on it in ink, but the characters faded before his eyes. The blank white slip drifted through the darkness for a moment before dissolving into the particles of the World’s Logic.
Kuon was quietly reading through the registry. The blue light from his prosthetic eye illuminated the ink on the pages. Every time that light swept across the surface, the handwritten characters would flare up for a heartbeat before instantly bleaching away.
It was as if the book itself were afraid of being read. Kuon’s slender fingers pressed down on the edge of the page, forcibly restraining the characters as they tried to flee. The blue glow of his artificial eye grew sharper, and a thin sheen of sweat broke out on his forehead.
The struggle with the registry was no longer a battle of intellect; it had become a pure contest of wills. Luminous dust spilling from between the pages formed a thin layer at his feet, etched with eerie patterns by the blue light. Kuon scooped up a pinch of the dust and held it up against his glowing eye.
The powder gave off a faint, momentary flash before vanishing. Just before it flickered out, fragments of records spanning thousands of years—condensed within that dust—surged into Kuon’s artificial eye at high speed. His expression twisted for an instant; the veins at his temples throbbed, and the corner of his mouth twitched.
Even so, Kuon did not look away.
“...Look at this. This is the ‘redefinition’ of records. They’re trying to physically ‘bleach’ the very Logic of the World... to make it as if none of it ever happened, before we can even decipher the truth.”
Kuon’s voice melted into the cold air of the carriage, causing the flame of the wall-mounted lamp to tremble. The hand he used to close the registry was shaking slightly. The blue light of his eye contracted sharply, and even from where Koyoi stood, the smoldering rage deep within his gaze was unmistakable.
It was rare for Kuon to show such raw emotion. Usually armed in a suit of irony and sarcasm, the man was now unable to suppress the passion overflowing from within. The weight of the word “bleaching” seemed to drop the temperature in the carriage by several more degrees.
The afterimage of the blue light remained on the cover of the closed book like a long, lingering scar. Kuon pressed the registry down against his knees and ground his teeth. The sound of his jaw tensing echoed softly through the deathly silent station.
As if cued by that sound, the lanterns dimmed all at once, plunging the three of them into a deeper darkness.
“...Bleaching? Does that mean the names of those children will all just... turn white?”
Koyoi asked, his voice trembling. Yet, behind the fear in his eyes, something else was flickering. He pulled his pouch close with both hands, pressing his fingers into the fabric as if to confirm the warmth of the gods sleeping within.
To be turned white. To lose one’s name. It meant the very proof that those children had existed in this world would dissolve away. The faces of the small gods he had saved until now flashed through Koyoi’s mind like a kaleidoscope. If their smiles, their tears, and even their trembling were all to be bleached, then their journey itself would be reduced to a fiction.
He bit his lip until the taste of iron spread across his tongue. As if responding to his anxiety, the drop inside the pouch pulsed even harder. Along with that heartbeat, the fabric of the pouch began to emit a faint light.
The names of those children are still alive within this small warmth.
Koyoi chose to believe that. He had to; otherwise, he wouldn't even be able to keep standing on these stones.
Asahi gripped the hilt of his sword with crushing force. He drew a final, steadying breath, anchoring his spirit amidst the storm of information. The strength of his grip traveled through the blade to the scabbard, the tip of which struck the floorboards with a low thud. His broad shoulders rose and fell as he exhaled a deep, white mist into the air.
He stared straight ahead, unflinching, at the "Zero Point" of Logic expanding outside the window. His eyes were as quiet—and as fervent—as a hound that had locked onto its prey. Whether it was "redefinition" or "bleaching," it was all the same to him.
No matter what the enemy tried to do, the place he had to strike remained unchanged. He braced his feet on the cobblestones, slowly shifting his weight to confirm his connection to the ground.
“...The night is long,” Asahi grunted. “But I’m going to drag the real ‘answer’ of the World's Logic out of that single point. I’m not stopping until then.”
His voice was rough and piercingly direct. It wasn't that fear or anxiety didn't exist within him; rather, this was a man who knew how to forge those emotions into the strength needed to grip a sword.
Koyoi looked at the backs of the two men and felt that he, too, had to stand tall. The lanterns flared one last time, casting the three shadows sharply against the stone. Though those shadows were being eroded by particles of information, they remained undeniably there.
The drop inside the pouch continued its quiet, powerful pulse. Koyoi synchronized his breathing with that warmth, and together, the three of them waited for the moment the silver bell would ring out once more. The phosphorescence scattered across the stones swirled slowly around their feet before being sucked into the depths of the station and vanishing.
No one knew what waited for them beyond. But their shadows remained—etched upon the stone in the heart of the Zero Point, refusing to fade.