The Mist Train, having left Yoinamihama Station behind, surged through the corridor of darkness with a "howl of the wind" unlike anything heard before. The air whipping through the carriage was no longer a mere draft from the vents; it was a "gale of information" erupting directly from the fissures in the laws of providence. It tousled the passengers' hair and rattled their clothes, incessantly whispering a curse-like warning into their ears: Go back... go back...
Koyoi retreated deep into his seat, clutching his drawstring pouch as if to withstand the air pressure. The wind lashed his cheeks without mercy, its biting chill threatening to freeze his very thoughts. Faintly, the name of the wind-swept interior lingered in the air.
Kuon sat with the golden book—the Catalog of Truth—spread reverently across his lap. The eerie azure glow emanating from his glass left eye was focused entirely on the "trails of wind" circulating through the car. Even without a physical breeze, the edges of the ledger flipped violently, the characters inscribed within shifting their positions every passing minute.
As the letters scrambled across the pages like living creatures trying to escape, Kuon spoke in a mechanical, hollow voice, stripped of all emotion. Asahi kept his right hand on the hilt of his sword, his gaze fixed on the far end of the aisle—the vestibule connecting the cars. Only his sharp, piercing stare could track the "invisible enemies" lurking within the wind, holding their intrusion at bay at the very threshold.
Outside the window, countless particles of light throbbed in the depths of the darkness, streaming past at a staggering speed in the direction opposite the train’s heading. These were the remnants of memories from travelers who had once walked this line—"soul fragments" ruthlessly stripped away by the centrifugal force of providence and cast into the void.
Every time Koyoi glimpsed this sight, a creaking pain tightened in his chest. Only the warmth of the Shizuku—the droplets trembling faintly inside his pouch—kept his sanity tethered to the present. The hand he had rested on the armrest shook incessantly, sending a vibration through the entire seat, though Koyoi himself was too far gone to notice. The lanterns on the ceiling flickered irregularly as they were buffeted by the wind, casting the three companions' shadows large against the walls, creating the unsettling illusion of someone else prowling the carriage.
"Look. This wind isn't just moving air. They’re turning this entire train into a massive 'centrifuge.' They’re trying to physically shake off any impure 'foreign objects' from among the passengers."
Kuon spoke with a raspy, ominous voice, holding the pages of the Catalog down with his fingertips as if realizing his own limits. The azure light of his artificial eye intensified, staining the left half of his face in a cold, ghostly blue. Bathed in that light, the characters in the Catalog continued to swarm across the paper like a panicked herd, desperate to hide from Kuon’s gaze as he tried to strip away the wind’s identity.
His lips were parched, and heavy shadows of exhaustion were etched beneath his eyelids, yet a feverish obsession—one known only to those who hunt the truth—burned pale and bright in the depths of his pupils. He gripped the edges of the book so hard his knuckles turned white; a lonely sentry guarding the last flickering flame in a storm. Each time the wind tried to tear a page away, Kuon’s slender fingers forced it back. His every movement bled with the determination not to let a single thread of truth hidden between the words slip through his grasp.
"…Foreign objects? Does that mean… us?"
Koyoi’s voice was fractured. Unaware that his fingertips were white from gripping the drawstrings and his nails were digging deep into his palms, he tried to read the silhouette of their fate within the wind’s roar. Every time the wind violently tossed his long hair, the faint warmth of the gods sleeping at the bottom of his pouch pulsed achingly, responding to their master’s anxiety.
Yet even that pulsation seemed on the verge of being swept away by the gale of information. Koyoi felt his body heat being methodically stolen minute by minute, leaving him helpless. His back, pressed against the seat, felt frozen; the chill crawled up his spine to the back of his skull, spreading a frost-like numbness to every corner of his mind. Still, though his eyes were clouded with terror, he kept them fixed on Kuon’s profile, searching for an answer.
His lips moved slightly, beginning to weave a wordless prayer before the wind snatched it away. If we’re shaken off like this, the warmth of those children, and even their names, will sink forever into the bottom of the darkness. That terror gripped his heart with hands of ice.
Asahi stood up without a word. He planted his feet in the center of the aisle, standing like a guardian deity as he glared into the source of the wind.
A powerful "battle aura" rose from his body, defying the air pressure and distorting the surrounding atmosphere with a heat that was almost visible. With every step he took, the floorboards groaned, the sound resonating with the wind to create a strange, haunting harmony within the car. The wind swirled as if to avoid him; like a massive boulder thrust into a raging sea, Asahi’s very presence split the storm in two.
His back was broad, radiating a sense of reliability that was more than enough for Koyoi and Kuon to take shelter behind.
"Like hell we're getting shaken off. We’re standing here on our own two feet. I’m not letting some damn breeze decide where we’re going."
Hand still on his sword hilt, Asahi threw the words out as he took the wind’s howl head-on. His voice was low and heavy, echoing off the walls in layers, carrying the strength of the earth itself crying out with a will of its own. No matter how violently the wind lashed his body, his feet did not budge; if anything, the pressure seemed to root him even deeper into the floor.
The veins stood out on the back of his right hand as he gripped the sword. Every one of his calloused fingers spoke eloquently and silently of his unwavering resolve to protect his comrades in this storm.
Watching that broad back, Koyoi felt his trembling slowly subside. Asahi’s words weren’t based on logic. Unlike Kuon’s intellect, which sought to analyze the wind’s nature, Asahi was simply facing the threat with nothing but his body and his will as a shield. To Koyoi, that simplicity was more encouraging than any amount of knowledge. Kuon also raised his eyes from the Catalog for a brief moment, and seeing Asahi’s indomitable figure, he let his lips curl into a self-deprecating smirk before returning to the hunt for the fleeing characters.
The wind continued to circle the three of them, its cold fingers scratching at their skin, but its power was no longer enough to sever the bond of trust flowing between them. At the bottom of the pouch, a Shizuku emitted a small but certain light—a silent blessing from the gods to a master who sought to move forward despite his fear.
Cloaked in the roar of the wind, the train surged further into the corridor of darkness. Whatever lay ahead, the three of them had no intention of letting go of each other’s hands.