The familiar, comfortable rhythm of the wagon wheels on the hard-packed dirt road was a soothing counterpoint to the chaotic symphony of thoughts in Kenjiro's mind. The laughter from their encounter with the Super Jeans had faded, leaving a quiet, contemplative mood in its wake. He looked at his party, at this strange, dysfunctional, but fiercely loyal family he had somehow managed to assemble, and a new, heavy weight of responsibility settled on his shoulders. This was no longer just his fight. The Ouroboros, the masked man, the creeping erasure of the "time disease"—it was a threat to them all, to the entire world. The fate of this world, as Ryo had so irritatingly pointed out, rested on the shoulders of a pouting boy in a skirt.