The landscape stretching beyond the station was a desolation that far surpassed Koyoi’s wildest imaginings.
There wasn't a single soul to be seen in the cobblestone square. All color had been bleached away by a silver-gray mist, sinking the world into a uniform, achromatic gloom. The silhouettes of distant buildings were so thin it felt as if their substance had been hollowed out, leaving only the outlines behind—shimmering with a fragility that suggested they might crumble at the slightest touch.
Only the low tolling of a bell echoed at steady intervals, a rhythmic proof that this place still held its ground in existence. Its tone was a heavy sub-bass that seemed to bypass the ears, piercing through bone to reach the internal organs directly. With every strike, Koyoi felt a phantom grip tighten painfully around his solar plexus. The lanterns hanging from the station pillars had long since lost their fire; within their hollow frames, only the dust of information swirled in lonely vortices.
In a corner of the square, a single stone monument lay toppled, shrouded in frost. Whatever characters had once been carved into its face had been stripped away by the "Judgment of Logic," leaving nothing behind but a smooth, haunting void.
Kuon was leafing through the Register. The pale blue light of his prosthetic eye crawled silently across the pages.
Since they had arrived at this station, the Register’s reaction had changed markedly. Every time he turned a page, the faint shimmer of light-dust rising from the paper grew more intense, drifting through the shadows of the carriage like fireflies. Kuon captured a single grain of that dust with his artificial eye, attempting to decipher the fragment of information encoded within.
His jaw was set in a hard line, and a blue vein pulsed at his temple. Every time his fingertips made a dry, rasping sound against the paper, more dust took flight, casting jagged shadows across his cheek in the flickering blue light. Whenever the Register’s leather binding creaked, a sound like a faint moan leaked from within, overlapping with the fading resonance of the bell to create an unsettling chord that filled the carriage.
"…Look. This is the crushing weight of the 'Judgment' of Logic," Kuon said curtly.
The usual sarcasm had vanished from his voice, replaced by an irrepressible seep of loathing. "Those bastards treated this place like an information scrapyard. They’ve been physically 'culling' any records they deemed incompatible."
As he uttered the word "culling," the pupil of his prosthetic eye contracted sharply. The blue light cut through the air of the carriage like the stroke of a blade. His grip on the Register was so tight that the blood had left his hand, leaving his knuckles stark and white.
This was a man whose rage never touched his face. Instead, it simply burned, soundless and white-hot, within the palm of his hand. The leather binding groaned again under the increasing pressure of his fist.
Kuon’s breath came out as a white frost, and for a moment, the afterimage of the blue light wavered within that pale mist. Perhaps the voiceless cries of the culled records were flowing into his eye through the Register. Koyoi did not miss the slight, rhythmic tremor in his narrow shoulders.
"Culling? Then… what about those children? Are you saying we can't save the gods shivering in this place?" Koyoi asked, forcing the words out with all his might.
His voice was small, but it held more than just fear; there was the unmistakable bud of indignation. He clutched the drawstring pouch tightly against his chest. Inside, he felt the presence of the sleeping gods tremble as they felt the air of this station.
The culled records.
The gods whose names had been stolen, whose very existence had been erased. They must have been waiting here, somewhere in this silver-gray expanse, for someone to finally come for them. Tears welled in Koyoi’s eyes.
But he didn't wipe them away. He felt that to cry now was the only way to stay close to their pain. A single tear traced a path down his cheek and fell from his chin, splashing onto the floorboards.
Koyoi saw it clearly: from the spot where the droplet landed, a faint, warm light radiated outward. It vanished in an instant, but it left a small, scorched mark of warmth against the grain of the wood.
Asahi listened to their exchange in silence. He remained leaned against the wall, his gaze fixed on the silver-gray square outside the window. His arms were crossed, his fists clenched so hard the muscles of his thick forearms stood out in relief.
He offered no words. Yet, the aura radiating from his entire body was that of a quiet, whetted fighting spirit. Every time the low bell tolled, his eyes wavered slightly—not with terror, but with the weight of the Judgment’s toll, which he was absorbing with his entire being.
"…It’s better not to call them," Asahi muttered. "The moment you speak a name, our side will be the first to be hollowed out."
The low bell rang out across the station once more, its vibration traveling through the soles of their feet into the very marrow of their bones. To not even be permitted to call a name. To find that the very act of reaching out was a trap that invited further loss.
That was the true cruelty of this place. Koyoi bit his lip and, relying solely on the warmth of the pouch in his hands, stared at the stone steps leading to the station entrance. The bell faded, and the layers of the void prepared to swallow the three of them once again.
Yet, the heat of the pulse within Koyoi’s palm was something no void could ever take away. In the corner of the square, the frost-covered monument stood dim in the silver mist, like a silent witness to their resolve.