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Author Note:
' ' = When thinking in mind.
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Kaelthorn travelled for more than an hour in near-silence, his steps unhurried, his senses fully open to the distorted world around him — until the landscape itself forced him to stop.
Without warning, the forest thinned, and the earth broke open before him like a wound carved into the skin of the world.
He stood at the edge of a vast, unnatural trench stretching from Yashiro Station all the way back toward the place where the Iron Fortress had once stood. Its terrible scale seemed to sever the land in two. The trench was not simply a gouge left behind by physical force — it carried the aura of something catastrophic, as if a celestial blade of purplish-blue light had cleaved everything in its path with impossible precision and brutality.
The world around it was a graveyard of annihilation.
Ancient trees were ripped from the ground and roasted into blackened skeletons, their twisted limbs reaching upward like pleading hands frozen in their last moment of despair. Charcoal and ash coated the soil in wide, ugly strokes, and even from a distance, the ground shimmered with heat. The soil itself… had turned a disturbing shade of scorched orange, like molten clay forced to cool too quickly.
When Kaelthorn stepped closer to the trench, waves of heat rolled up the ravine walls and washed over him — not enough to harm him now, but enough to speak of the unimaginable temperatures that had shaped this destruction. A faint hiss rose from the depths as pockets of steam continued to escape from fractured earth.
Then he looked down.
The trench was deep. Far deeper than anything a natural collapse could produce. It plunged downward in jagged layers, ripping through stone, clay, and bedrock. It didn't simply cut through land — it devoured it. The force had been so overwhelming that even the fortified wall encircling Yashiro Station had been shattered like cheap pottery, its once-towering segments lying in broken slabs, half-submerged within the abyss.
But the horror did not end there.
Inside the station — and spilling down the lowest levels of the trench — countless Kabanes swarmed in churning masses. Their bodies writhed against each other, piling and collapsing in a grotesque tide. From above, they resembled a shifting sea of black, their golden hearts pulsing like scattered embers in the dark.
Fortunately, the trench's depth trapped them.
The walls were too steep, too glassy, too melted. They clawed at the sides but slipped each time, falling back onto the heaving pile of bodies. Their collective roars reverberated upward like a chorus of damned souls suffocating in a pit.
Kaelthorn observed the scene in silence. The air itself felt heavier here — oppressive, charged, tense with a malignant presence.
He stepped back from the edge.
Entering the station now would be inefficient, risky, and tactically pointless.
Instead, he turned around, walked toward the nearest intact tree, and leapt effortlessly onto its highest branch. From this vantage point, he could oversee the entire station layout, the trench, and the flow of Kabane movement.
Once settled, he retrieved the slender flat stick that had been delivered earlier. He gripped it with practiced motion, twisting and sliding its components in an intricate sequence.
A faint glow appeared.
Holographic screens bloomed into existence.
But to human eyes, the display would look like nonsense — scattered symbols, corrupted lines, glitching windows, and static interference. No coherent pattern. No readable text. A security measure deliberately designed by him.
Kaelthorn's left eye lens activated with a soft, imperceptible pulse.
The garbage resolved instantly.
Data streams aligned.
Footage windows stabilized.
Progress bars, logs, thermal scans, and microscopic readings appeared in neat rows.
With a slight motion of his fingers, he reorganized everything — windows sliding into clean formation on the upper half of the display. At the same time, a custom holographic keyboard occupied the bottom half. More keys than any human interface needed, each mapped to highly specific commands.
Kaelthorn began typing.
His fingers moved at speeds no ordinary human could track.
He reviewed diagnostics from the Hollow Fortress. Checked the automated medical labs. Cross-verified progress logs. Monitored power distribution, cloak integrity, drone performance, and internal algorithms.
Three days passed like this.
He neither ate nor slept.
The forest around him shifted from daylight to dusk to night and back again.
Occasionally, a stray Kabane wandered near the trench — only to fall in, swallowed by the black swarm below.
He kept one eye on the station. The other on the data.
Then, finally, one progress window caught his attention.
.
.
Kabane Virus
Antidote: 23.61% — In Progress
Cure: N/A — Stalled
.
.
From seven percent to over twenty-three.
The Hollow Fortress was working more efficiently now that communications had stabilized.
Kaelthorn studied the numbers for several seconds, assessing efficiency curves and failure rates.
Then he closed the display.
With a subtle motion, he twisted the stick again — and the holographic screen dissolved into a faint shimmer before vanishing entirely.
He stored the device within his mantle, then withdrew his pocket watch.
One glance was enough.
'Kaelthorn: It's time.'
The fabric of space around him trembled — a distortion so slight, so silent, that no normal being could have sensed it.
Then Kaelthorn vanished.
He was going to The Hollow Core.
It was the reason he had waited.
The reason he hadn't crossed into Yashiro Station yet.
The reason he could afford patience in a world where patience often meant death.
Because what Io had for him now… was something that would fundamentally alter his chances of survival.
.
.
.
---The Hollow Core---
Kaelthorn's eyes opened slowly, as though surfacing from the depths of an endless ocean. The first breath he drew was cool—cooler than any air the outside world could offer—and saturated with a faint luminescent warmth.
Above him, the familiar cloudy dome arched like a cathedral of fractured sky, its surface veined with cracks through which ribbons of golden mist drifted down in soft, shimmering sheets. It was as if the heavens themselves were exhaling light.
In the center of this sanctum stood the Pale Tree—the ancient, impossible heart of The Hollow Core. Its trunk was smooth and bone-white, almost marble in texture, yet living. Hanging from its branches were crystal teardrops the color of liquid rubies, each one pulsing faintly as if holding a heartbeat of its own. Their glow washed the entire realm in a quiet, sacred warmth.
Kaelthorn's shoulders slackened by a fraction.
This alone spoke volumes.
Because in all the infinite, nightmarish expanse of the Dark Multiverse… this was the only place where he felt truly safe.
From behind him, a voice unfolded into existence, soft as a drifting petal yet resonant in his core.
Io: Welcome back, Kael.
Kaelthorn turned, and his expression—usually carved from cold stone—softened immediately. Io stood there, serene beneath the soft, golden haze. Her luminous amber eyes held an affection so warm it seemed to gently unmake the tension in his mind. Her presence illuminated him more fully than the tree itself.
Kaelthorn: I am back, Io.
The smile she offered him could have calmed a storm. It wasn't merely beautiful—it was anchoring, as if reminding the world itself that Kaelthorn was still something human beneath all the darkness he carried.
She stepped forward and took his left hand. Her warmth seeped into him instantly, like sunlight through frost. Kaelthorn's fingers, almost on instinct, tightened around hers. That simple gesture said more than any dialogue could.
Without a word, she began guiding him forward. He allowed himself to follow.
Io: I know what you want from me. But first… rest. Then we will talk.
Kaelthorn: …Okay.
His voice lacked its usual razor-sharp chill. Here, it held something gentler, something the outside world would never hear. A softness reserved only for her.
Together they walked through the mist-veiled domain. Their steps echoed faintly upon the rough stone floor, each echo drifting upward to dissolve into the golden fog. Silver filaments fell slowly from the dome like threads of untethered starlight, sometimes brushing Kaelthorn's shoulders like a comforting hand.
Neither spoke.
They didn't need words.
For Kaelthorn, silence next to Io was the closest thing to peace he had left.
Eventually, they arrived at the grove—a circle of pale, slender trees bowing inward around a mirror-still silver pool. The pool reflected the world above not with accuracy but with intention: droplets hung in midair as though time itself hesitated to touch this place. Birds—mere illusions sculpted from Ichor-light—remained forever in mid-flap, wings open but unmoving, scattered across the grove like moments captured outside of time.
Gold-blue beams of light filtered through the branches in shifting constellations, etching cryptic runes that crawled slowly over Kaelthorn's boots as he stepped forward. Ethereal insects drifted lazily overhead, their bodies humming with soft musical tones.
Io: This is called the Meditation Grove… Something, "The Hollow Core", created when you became Ascended.
Kaelthorn lifted an eyebrow.
Kaelthorn: Ascended? …Is that a rank in my power system?
Io only smiled gently. His ability to intuit the structure after a single word did not surprise her. It was, in truth, precisely what she expected.
Io: Yes. To be exact, the fourth rank.
Kaelthorn's gaze lowered a fraction as he processed that.
Kaelthorn: If Ascended means surpassing mortal limits and evolving to the next stage… then the first three ranks must still fall within human capability.
Io's smile deepened with approval.
Io: Correct. The first three ranks are Mortals. "Mortal I" is below average—those whose bodies are frail or undeveloped. "Mortal II" encompasses ordinary humans. "Mortal III" are individuals who have honed their abilities to the very peak of human potential—elite warriors, master athletes.
Kaelthorn nodded slowly.
Kaelthorn: And once you break that ceiling… You become Ascended. Beyond mortal self.
Io: Exactly.
She tugged gently on his hand, guiding him into the center of the grove.
Io: For now, rest. This place nourishes the mind, strengthens the will, and eases all burdens. It was created for you.
She sat gracefully on the still surface of the silver pool, the illusion of water rippling around her without wetness. Then she patted her thighs.
Kaelthorn lowered himself—not to sit—but to lie with his head resting across her lap. Io's warmth enveloped him instantly, a shelter more profound than any fortress of steel or blood could offer.
Her fingers slid into his hair, slow and impossibly gentle, tracing the lines of fatigue woven deep into his mind.
Io: Rest now, Kael. I will always be here beside you.
Only then… only here… did Kaelthorn allow himself to truly relax.
His eyes closed.
The walls around his mind—walls forged within the Dark Multiverse—softened, then dissolved. The fatigue he had ignored, smothered, and buried surged up all at once like a breaking tide. Pain, strain, overexertion, trauma—everything he'd endured poured through him.
And he surrendered to it.
Io continued stroking his hair, humming a soft, ethereal melody that seemed older than time itself. The grove shimmered around them, runes shifting like quiet breaths.
And Kaelthorn drifted into the deepest, safest sleep he had known since becoming the Hollowborn.
.
.
.
.
While Kaelthorn rested within The Hollow Core, suspended in a realm untouched by time or decay, the outside world did not share his stillness.
Deep within the forest surrounding Yashiro Station, movement stirred.
At first, it was subtle—shadows slipping between trunks, pausing for heartbeats at a time before advancing again. These were not the erratic, twitching silhouettes of Kabane. Their movements were deliberate. Controlled. Calculated. They advanced in silence, spreading out instinctively, using the terrain with practiced efficiency.
More shadows joined them.
Dozens.
Before long, the forest's edge loomed close. The group slowed further, tension tightening through them like drawn wire. One shadow broke away, slipping ahead alone.
When he emerged from beneath the trees, sunlight fell across him, revealing a young man with short blue hair and sharp, alert eyes. His attire was unmistakably combat-grade—lightweight armor reinforced at the joints, designed for mobility rather than defense, eerily similar in style to Mumei's gear.
He scanned the area methodically.
No Kabane.
After several seconds, he raised his hand and signaled.
At once, the remaining shadows flowed out of the forest, resolving into human figures—roughly fifty, perhaps sixty in number. Most wore the same battle attire, scarred and worn from repeated engagements. Their posture alone set them apart from the Bushi of the Iron Fortress. These were not guards. Not soldiers trained for order and hierarchy.
They were Hunters.
Battle-hardened frontline survivors, men and women who had spent years carving paths through Kabane hordes rather than hiding behind walls and rails. Their presence carried a sharpness—an edge honed by constant violence.
The group parted.
From among them stepped a tall man with long pink hair tied loosely behind his back, his expression calm but severe. His attire bore subtle marks of command, and the way the others unconsciously shifted around him made his authority unmistakable.
The blue-haired boy straightened.
Uryuu: The area is clear, Commander.
The man nodded slowly.
Biba Amatori: Good. Take a few minutes. Rest, then check our weapons and remaining supplies.
Uryuu acknowledged the order immediately and moved to relay it. The Hunters spread out, some kneeling to adjust straps, others checking blades and firearms, all with quiet urgency.
Biba turned his gaze toward Yashiro Station.
Even from here, the devastation was impossible to ignore.
The massive trench carved through the land looked like a wound that refused to close, stretching toward the station like a scar left by a god's wrath. Heat shimmered faintly above it, and smoke still rose from places where the earth had been burned beyond recognition.
Biba's jaw tightened.
He had not planned to come here.
He had been en route to Shitori Station when the light appeared—that unnatural, purplish-blue radiance piercing the horizon. Curiosity, caution, instinct—whatever it was—had driven him to investigate.
It had been a mistake.
The moment he saw the trench, he ordered an immediate retreat. But the damage had already been done. The anomaly had drawn Kabane from every direction, funneling them toward the area in impossible numbers. Thousands. Tens of thousands.
Even the Hunters—fighters who had stood against hordes most people fled from—had been overwhelmed by sheer mass. Then came the breach. One error. One misstep.
Kabane flooded the train.
Abandonment became their only option.
They escaped into the forest with whatever they could carry, leaving behind steel, supplies, and the illusion of safety. Retreat was impossible—the Kabane sealed that path completely.
Which left only one direction.
Yashiro Station.
A suicidal choice.
But between certain death and a path that held even the faintest chance of survival… Biba would always choose the latter.
Especially when he still had something to live for.
Revenge.
He had not come this far only to die nameless in the woods.
As he stood there, lost in thought, footsteps approached from behind. A small group emerged from between the Hunters. At their front walked a young woman with dark blue hair, her posture composed despite the exhaustion etched into her face.
She stopped before him and bowed her head.
Ayame: Lord Amatori… thank you again for your help.
Biba turned—and smiled.
Not mockingly. Not cruelly. But with genuine warmth.
Biba: Think nothing of it, Lady Yomogawa. If anything, I should be thanking you… for taking care of Mumei during her time aboard the Iron Fortress.
The revelation hung heavy in the air.
Ayame Yomogawa.
Alive.
Around her stood several survivors from the Iron Fortress—scarred, shaken, but breathing. Against all odds, they had lived.
When Biba's Hunters encountered them during their retreat, cooperation became inevitable. And upon learning that Mumei—and two other male Kabaneri—had been traveling with them, Biba's decision was immediate.
Yashiro Station was their destination as well.
Same goal. Same gamble.
And now, two desperate forces—each forged by loss and blood—were about to converge upon a place already drowning in darkness.
Unaware…
That something else was waiting there as well.
.
.
Ayame Yomogawa stood at the edge of the forest and stared at what remained of Yashiro Station.
Her breath caught before she realized she was holding it.
From a distance, the station no longer resembled a place meant for people. It looked like a wound carved into the land—vast, jagged, and still steaming. The trench split the earth with merciless finality, its edges glowing faintly where heat had fused soil and stone together into something unnatural. Even the outer walls, once meant to protect thousands, had been reduced to broken arcs and collapsed slabs, swallowed halfway into the abyss as if the land itself had rejected them.
She had seen destruction before.
Aragane Station still haunted her sleep.
But this… this was different.
This was not the work of Kabane.
Not numbers.
Not attrition.
This was annihilation.
Ayame swallowed, her throat dry, and felt the weight of command press down on her chest like a physical force. Around her, survivors from the Iron Fortress stood in tense silence—some clutching makeshift weapons, others gripping torn clothing or bandages stained dark with dried blood. None of them spoke. None of them could.
Because below—within the trench and spilling into the shattered station—something moved.
Kabane.
So many that her mind refused to count them.
They crawled over one another in a living mass, limbs tangling, bodies falling and rising again, their golden heart-cages pulsing erratically like a sea of malignant stars buried beneath flesh. Their collective noise rose in waves—screeches, scraping claws, wet impacts—sounds that pressed against Ayame's skull and made her want to scream.
Yet they were trapped.
The trench was too deep.
Too steep.
Too smooth.
Ayame understood this instinctively—and the understanding brought no comfort.
It meant the Kabane were not spreading.
It meant they were waiting.
Her fingers trembled slightly as she clenched them at her side. She forced herself to stand straighter, to breathe evenly. A leader could not afford visible fear. Not now. Not when everyone left was already looking at her as if she carried their last remaining hope.
She thought of the Iron Fortress.
Of steel screaming as it tore apart.
Of the engine room.
Of Yukina.
Her chest tightened painfully.
So many had died. So many faces she would never forget. Faces she had sworn—sworn—to protect.
And now she stood here, alive, when so many better people were gone.
Why am I still here?
The thought crept in uninvited, poisonous and sharp.
Behind her, measured footsteps approached. Ayame did not need to turn to know who it was. The air itself seemed to change when he was near—less hesitant, more deliberate.
Biba Amatori.
She turned anyway.
He stood with his arms crossed, eyes fixed on the station, his expression unreadable. There was no visible fear on his face. No shock. Only assessment. Calculation. As if he were already dissecting the battlefield in his mind.
That frightened her almost as much as the Kabane.
Because it meant he had seen worse.
Ayame drew a slow breath.
Ayame: …If we enter, many of us won't come back.
Her voice was quiet, but steady.
Biba glanced at her, then back at the trench.
Biba: If you don't enter, none of you will.
The bluntness of his words struck harder than any accusation. Ayame flinched, just slightly.
Ayame: And you're willing to risk your Hunters for this?
Biba's gaze sharpened—not angry, not offended.
Biba: They're already risking their lives by breathing in this world. This is just… choosing how.
Silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating.
Ayame looked back at Yashiro Station.
Somewhere inside that hell—if the reports were true—Mumei and Ikoma had gone missing. If they were alive, they were trapped. Surrounded. Alone.
Her nails dug into her palms.
Ayame: …We go in together. Slowly. Carefully. If things turn worse—
Biba: They will.
He didn't say it cruelly. He said it like fact.
Ayame closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them again—resolve hardening behind the fear.
Ayame: Then we adapt. Or we die trying.
Biba studied her for a long second.
Then he nodded.
And somewhere far above them—unseen, unfelt by any but one—
something ancient stirred.
.
.
.
CRUNCH.
CRUNCH.
The sound did not belong to something that walked—it belonged to something that pressed existence beneath it.
Deep within the forest's darkness, heavy footfalls shattered branches, pulverized stone, and reduced ancient roots to splinters. Each step was deliberate, slow, and unhurried, as if the land itself had already surrendered and no longer resisted. Whatever moved there was enormous—far beyond human proportions—its silhouette warping the darkness around it, swallowing shadows rather than being shaped by them.
The creature's physique was colossal and unnatural. Its elongated limbs dragged through the forest with predatory certainty, joints bending at angles no living anatomy should allow. Its torso and limbs were composed of dense, gnarled material that looked neither wholly organic nor inorganic—twisted like petrified flesh fused with fossilized stone and corrupted biomass. The surface of its body was cracked and layered, as though formed under immense pressure, then fractured and reforged repeatedly over time.
Embedded throughout its lower half were faint blue crystalline structures—some partially exposed, others erupting outward like jagged growths frozen mid-explosion. These fragments pulsed faintly, exuding an unstable energy that bled into the air itself, distorting space in subtle ripples. With every step, small pieces broke away from its legs and arms, crumbling into dust before hitting the ground—evidence that the creature existed in a constant state of collapse and reformation, neither fully stable nor truly decaying.
Its arms were massive, dragging low, ending in warped, clawed hands whose fingers were long enough to wrap around a human torso. They looked less like tools for grasping and more like instruments of erasure—meant to crush, tear, and unmake. Its legs were thick pillars of destruction, partially eroded, shedding debris as it moved, yet never losing balance.
Then there was its head.
A bleached skull sat where a face should have been—elongated, animalistic, stripped of flesh and identity. No visible eyes stared from its hollow sockets, yet its awareness was undeniable. Two massive horns curved upward and outward from the skull, ancient and weathered, as if they had witnessed countless cycles of ruin. The skull-mask did not make the creature feel undead—it made it feel post-life, like something that had transcended even death.
Wherever it passed, Kabane scattered.
Not staggered.
Not challenged.
They fled.
Mindless as they were, driven by hunger and instinct alone, even they recoiled in primal terror. They crawled away, threw themselves into ravines, or froze in place before being crushed underfoot. This presence was something Kabane instinctively recognized as above them—an apex not of flesh, but of annihilation.
This was not merely a monster.
It was a Kabane Lord.
A being that radiated authority—not through command, but through inevitability. Its presence felt ancient, apocalyptic, and final, as if it were not born from the world, but from catastrophe itself. It was less a living creature and more a walking embodiment of ruin—an echo of destruction given form.
The same entity Kaelthorn and Mumei had witnessed during their first meeting.
The one whose single thrown spear had nearly obliterated the Iron Fortress from an impossible distance.
From that moment, it had decided.
Kaelthorn was prey.
Not because he was weak—but because he was worthy.
Since then, the Kabane Lord had followed him—not hurriedly, not obsessively, but patiently. Watching. Measuring. Waiting. Like a predator that had already marked its kill and knew time would eventually bring the hunt to its conclusion.
Now, it stood upon the highest peak overlooking Yashiro Station.
From there, the world lay open beneath it—the trench carved by purplish-blue devastation, the writhing sea of trapped Kabane, the approaching humans moving cautiously through the forest below.
It saw Biba Amatori.
It saw the Hunters.
It saw Ayame and the survivors of the Iron Fortress.
And it did not care.
To it, humans were nothing more than insects—noisy, fragile, and endlessly delusional. It had seen them countless times: self-proclaimed leaders who spoke of courage and resistance, who rallied others with hollow words, only to collapse into trembling wrecks the moment they stood before true annihilation. Knees buckling. Voices breaking. Bodies soiling themselves as they begged for mercy.
Worthless.
That was all humans were.
Except one.
Kaelthorn.
From the moment their gazes had crossed, the Kabane Lord had known. Kaelthorn did not avert his eyes. He did not tremble. He did not plead. Even knowing death stood before him, he remained still—cold, unyielding, and unafraid.
That alone made him different.
Not strong enough to defeat the Kabane Lord yet—but strong enough to face death honestly.
That was why Kaelthorn had become its chosen prey.
Now, the Kabane Lord waited.
It did not rush.
It did not roar.
It did not announce itself.
It simply stood, towering over the world, its skull angled slightly downward, sensing… listening… anticipating.
Waiting for its prey to emerge.
Waiting to see whether Kaelthorn would rise to meet the fate it had been promised—
Or prove himself a disappointment after all.
.
.
.
Ayame returned to the forest slowly, her steps careful, measured—not because the ground was treacherous, but because she needed those few extra seconds to prepare herself for what she would see.
There were fewer people than before.
Far fewer.
Barely thirteen figures remained gathered beneath the fractured canopy, scattered in small clusters as if proximity alone could ward off despair. The firelight from distant wreckage painted their faces in flickering orange, revealing exhaustion etched so deeply it seemed permanent. These were not soldiers standing at the edge of battle anymore. These were survivors clinging to momentum, afraid that stopping—even for a moment—would allow grief to finally crush them.
It should have been fifteen.
Ayame's gaze lingered on the empty spaces without meaning to.
Kurusu Konochi should have been here.
The memory surfaced unbidden—iron screaming, the world flipping end over end, and Kurusu's arms wrapping around her without hesitation, his body interposing itself between her and annihilation. He had not asked. Had not spoken. He had acted, as he always did.
They had survived the impact.
But survival was not the same as escape.
Kurusu's injuries had been catastrophic. Broken bones, crushed organs, blood loss so severe that even standing upright had been an act of defiance. And yet, when the horde closed in, when the screams grew closer, he had made his choice without consulting her.
He stayed behind.
To delay the Kabane.
To buy time.
To let the others run.
Ayame swallowed, forcing the memory back down before it could break her composure.
If they had not encountered Biba Amatori and his Hunters by chance—if those battle-hardened warriors had not shared their dwindling rations without hesitation—then the thirteen before her would have already joined the dead.
That truth hung in the air, heavy and suffocating.
???: Lady Ayame…
The voice came from her right, low and measured.
She turned to see Suzuki Tanzaemon approaching—his posture upright, but only through discipline rather than strength. His Western features were sharp under the visor that concealed his eyes, blonde hair styled immaculately despite everything, as if maintaining that order was his last line of defense against chaos.
Suzuki Tanzaemon: It seems… we are going to join them.
Ayame nodded once.
There was no point in pretending otherwise.
She explained the plan in simple terms. No embellishment. No false hope. The Yashiro Station lay ahead, filled with unknowns, Kabane, and something far worse—the same force that had torn the Iron Fortress from the world like a discarded toy.
When she finished, silence followed.
She counted them again.
Thirteen.
Three Steam Smiths: Suzuki Tanzaemon himself, Takumi, and Kajika.
The rest—Bushi, guards, fighters—ten people who could still raise a weapon. And even among those ten, exhaustion had already hollowed them out. But the Steam Smiths could not be abandoned. Without them, even survival beyond the next battle would be meaningless.
That meant everyone would fight.
Ayame's eyes drifted to the far side of the clearing.
Kajika sat alone there, knees drawn to her chest, arms wrapped around herself as if trying to hold her mind together through sheer force. Her trembling had not stopped since the crash. Every so often, her breathing would hitch, and her eyes would glaze over—lost somewhere only she could see.
Kajika had seen the children die.
Not abstractly. Not from a distance.
She had seen them torn apart.
The same hands that once soothed crying infants, that fixed broken toys and patched torn clothes, had been stained with blood she could never wash away. Trauma had taken root in her like a parasite, feeding on every moment of quiet.
Ayame had woken her more than once from screaming fits during the night. Sometimes words helped. Sometimes, only presence did.
And sometimes… nothing worked at all.
Others had noticed.
Some had suggested leaving Kajika behind.
Ayame had refused.
If she abandoned her now, she would never forgive herself.
Across the clearing, Takumi worked in silence, methodically dismantling and reassembling steam guns with hands that moved on instinct. He checked valves, pressure seals, ammunition feeds—anything to keep himself occupied.
But his eyes kept drifting in one direction.
Not just his.
Several Bushi and even a few Hunters pretended to check their equipment while stealing glances the same way.
The reason was impossible to miss.
Near one of the trees, a girl knelt beside an injured Bushi, carefully wrapping a bloodied arm with practiced precision. Her long pinkish-red hair caught the firelight, tied partly back while the rest flowed freely down her spine. Her movements were gentle, unhurried, radiating a calm that felt almost alien in this shattered world.
Album.
Her presence alone seemed to anchor people.
When she smiled—soft, sincere—it was enough to make hardened men look away, embarrassed by the unfamiliar warmth it stirred. Her reddish-pink eyes held no malice, no exhaustion, only quiet resolve. Something rare. Something fragile.
Her clothing marked her as an outsider immediately—white and red, sleeveless, functional, unlike anything from the Iron Fortress. And yet, when chaos had struck, she had stepped forward without hesitation.
Ayame had seen it herself.
Album had fought when needed.
Healed when possible.
Comforted when no one else could.
She had helped Kajika more than anyone.
Ayame approached her.
Ayame: Thank you for your hard work, Miss Album.
Album straightened, wiping sweat from her brow, and smiled.
Album: It's Alright, Miss Ayame. I'm happy to help.
But the smile faltered when she saw Ayame's expression. She then said softly.
Album: So… we're really going.
Ayame exhaled.
Ayame: Yes. We have no choice.
Album looked toward the darkness beyond the trees—the direction of Yashiro Station.
Album: More people will die.
The words were not an accusation.
They were a statement of fact.
Ayame closed her eyes for a brief moment.
Ayame: …But we can't stop moving forward.
Album nodded slowly.
Album: I understand. I'll help however I can.
Ayame bowed deeply.
When she straightened, resolve had replaced hesitation.
She gathered everyone.
Weapons were checked.
Routes were discussed.
Fallbacks—few as they were—were acknowledged.
Ahead lay Yashiro Station.
Behind them lay only death.
And somewhere beyond both, something ancient was watching.
It was time to move.
.
.
.
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*A/N: Please throw some power stones.
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