The room was silent. The air inside carried the weight of stillness, heavy and suffocating, almost as if the walls themselves held their breath. A long shadow trailed across the dimly lit floor, stretching like a specter, and then came the sound of slow, deliberate footsteps.
Trail entered, his presence cutting through the silence like a knife. He walked with a calm yet dangerous aura, his long coat brushing the ground. His shadow leaned ahead of him, dark and stretched, until he reached the center of the room. Without hesitation, he dragged a chair backward, sat down heavily, and raised both of his feet to rest on the polished table.
The cap covering most of his face dipped low, hiding his sharp eyes. To anyone watching, it might have looked as though he was drifting to sleep, but the truth was far from it. His mind was alive, burning with thoughts, calculations running endlessly like storms clashing inside his skull. Rage quietly simmered beneath his composed exterior, for something was clawing at him from deep inside.
Trail (thinking): First Lockhead, now Hikauchi… Why are they targeting the higher-ups? And then this letter… Mikana.
The word itself carved into his thoughts like fire. His brain worked like a supercomputer, running millions—no, billions—of scenarios, hypotheses, and connections. People said he had the most sensible, sharpest, and highest IQ of anyone alive—even higher than the brightest minds working for the government. And yet, right now, even his unmatched intellect struggled to stitch together the twisted puzzle in front of him.
Finally, he muttered, his voice sharp in the silence:
Trail: "Guess I'll have to look into this myself."
But before his thoughts could go further, a sudden knock at the door shattered the quiet storm in his head. His eyes flickered with a mixture of annoyance and suspicion.
Trail: "Come in."
The door creaked open, and what Trail saw was unusual, even unsettling. A man stepped inside—older, carrying an air of wisdom and gravity. His white beard gleamed faintly in the dull light, his glasses resting low on his nose. His name was known across the city: Judge Frost Tin.
Trail quickly stood, straightened his posture, and extended a respectful hand. They exchanged greetings before sitting across from each other, two powerful figures locked in the same storm.
Trail: "Frost, what happened?"
Frost sighed, his shoulders heavy, as though the weight of years pressed down on him. His voice came out calm, yet grim:
Frost: "I heard… Hikauchi was murdered. Brutally."
Trail's jaw tightened, his words sharp and cold as a blade:
Trail: "He was. His body was torn apart… one hand gone, one leg missing. The pieces left on the floor like an offering. His skin burned, scorched beyond recognition. One of his eyes ripped out."
Frost's wrinkled hand adjusted his glasses slowly, his expression unreadable.
Frost: "And did you find… the reason behind such madness?"
Trail leaned back, his cap shadowing his eyes. His voice carried steel:
Trail: "As I said before, this organization is too clean, too precise. They leave nothing. No marks. No fingerprints. Not even the faintest human trace. They erase everything silently—as if they were never there at all."
Frost lowered his gaze, his voice softer this time:
Frost: "The reason I came here… was not only to hear the truth. I came because… I am retiring."
The words struck Trail like a hammer. His eyes widened, his voice rising in disbelief:
Trail: "Retiring? But why? You still have years left—you still have strength, life, purpose. Why give it all up now?"
Frost's white beard trembled as he spoke, his tone filled with honesty, doubt, and regret.
Frost: "Because, Trail… sometimes I ask myself if I have ever been right. Even as a judge… even as a servant of the government… are my decisions truly just? The death penalties, the imprisonments, the judgments I've handed down… do they serve justice—or do they serve power? For years I pushed these questions aside. But now… I no longer can. I want peace, not endless questions. I want to live quietly, far from the noise of politics and blood. I want the mountains, the silence, the wind."
Trail slowly smiled, though his eyes betrayed the storm still within him.
Trail: "Perhaps you're right. Maybe it is time for you to rest. Perhaps the mountains will be kinder to you than this city ever was."
Frost exhaled, his tone darkening once more:
Frost: "But I will tell you this—I sense something big is coming. Something that will shake this city to its very bones. Either it will live in peace and harmony… or it will descend into destruction and abyss."
Trail nodded, his expression serious.
Trail: "I feel the same, Frost. I received a message myself. A note. Found on Hikauchi's body."
Frost's eyes narrowed, curiosity sparking.
Frost: "A note? What kind of note?"
Trail reached into his coat, slowly pulling from his inner pocket a folded piece of paper. With his right hand, he placed it on the table between them. Frost leaned forward, his aged eyes straining to read. And then, confusion flickered across his face.
Frost: "I don't see anything. It's blank."
The words struck Trail's chest like a sudden weight. To him, the word Mikana was there, sharp and clear, burning into his vision like fire branded into his mind. Yet Frost could not see it. Why?
For a heartbeat, Trail almost slipped, almost revealed too much. But then, quickly, he masked his thoughts, his voice casual:
Trail: "There's nothing. Just a plain piece of paper."
He forced the lie smoothly, though inside his mind suspicion bloomed like poison. Something was wrong—terribly wrong.
Trail: "Keep it with you. Perhaps it will mean something later."
Frost nodded slowly. He rose, shaking Trail's hand one last time before leaving.
The room fell silent again. Trail sank into his chair, eyes fixed on the note still glowing in his memory.
Trail (thinking): Why could I see it… but he could not? Something fishy. Something dangerous.
The word Mikana pulsed inside his mind, louder, heavier, darker.
---
Far away, in the quiet of a small garden, another story unfolded.
Carlos ran toward Aron, who was sitting peacefully among the plants, his gaze calm, his hands brushing gently against the leaves.
Carlos: "Aron? You awake early today?"
Aron: "Yes. I did. Maybe because I've been sleeping earlier these days."
Carlos sat beside him, a smile spreading on his face.
Carlos: "There's a fighting game tomorrow in the City of Training. What do you say? Want to go watch it?"
Aron tilted his head, thoughtful.
Aron: "Isn't it far? Took me half a day to reach here from there last time."
Carlos grinned, waving off the concern.
Carlos: "Don't worry. We'll borrow a cart. It won't be a problem."
Aron hesitated, then nodded.
Aron: "Alright. Tomorrow then."
But in his mind, another thought flickered—one name whispered inside his heart. Lilith. Maybe… maybe I will see him there.
Carlos clapped his shoulder, satisfied.
Carlos: "Fantastic. I'll get everything prepared. But for now, I'm busy. See you tomorrow."
As dawn painted the sky with its pale light, Aron stood, stretching his arms. Suddenly, his goat came bounding toward him, bleating happily. Aron smiled softly, bent down, and caught the goat in his arms. He patted its head gently, fed it, and guided it back inside the house.
His eyes fell on the book lying nearby. For a second, he hesitated, staring at it with curiosity. But tiredness won over, and he left it where it was, heading to his bed.
Night fell. Darkness settled. And then—the book opened on its own. The air trembled. The walls of his room quivered.
Aron gasped awake, breath ragged. He was no longer in his bed. He stood once again in that strange, impossible place. Before him was the same table. And then, from the shadows, the man appeared. In his right hand gleamed a sword.
Aron: "Ahh… man, I'm not in the mood to fight you today."
But the words reflected back at him, not as sound but as command.
Pick your sword.
Aron clenched his teeth, reaching down to grip his weapon.
Aron: "Fine. This time… I'll cut you down."
But before his strike could land, pain exploded in his gut. The man's punch sent him doubling over, gasping. A side kick followed, crashing into his ribs, so brutal that saliva and water burst from Aron's mouth.
He staggered, barely holding his sword.
Aron (thinking): Who is this man? What is this place? All I feel is pain and torture. Last time… I'm sure he killed me.
Steel rang. Their swords clashed. Sparks lit the air. Aron's grip faltered, his strength draining. He tried to dodge, but the man moved faster than humanly possible. A sudden crack—Aron's arm snapped. His scream echoed, his eyes wide in shock as his limb bent at a sickening angle.
Another blow—this time to his neck. His vision blurred, the world spinning.
He collapsed, his sword shattering beside him. Blood poured from his wounds. And before he could even gather the strength to think, the man appeared above him, blade flashing once more.
The sword slashed across Aron's throat. His vision went black. His senses fled.
And there was nothing.