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Author Note:
' ' = When thinking in mind.
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After meticulous discussion and grim consensus, they finally moved.
Leaving the forest felt like stepping out of the last remaining illusion of safety. The trees thinned behind them, their shadows retreating like reluctant sentinels, and the group found themselves exposed beneath an open sky that should have offered reassurance—but did not. Even with the sun hanging above, its light felt distant, muted, as if filtered through an unseen veil. The air itself seemed colder here, heavier, pressing against their lungs with each breath.
They advanced slowly, formation tight, every step measured. No one spoke unnecessarily. Weapons remained raised, fingers tense near triggers, eyes sweeping in practiced arcs. Hunters and Bushi alike guarded one another's blind spots, instincts sharpened by loss and proximity to death. The trench—vast and brutal—had obliterated the walls that once protected Yashiro Station, leaving its insides grotesquely exposed.
They entered through that wound in the earth.
From above, the station looked like a corpse split open.
As they moved along the fractured pathways, they couldn't help but look down. What had once been homes—places where people ate, slept, laughed, argued—were now nothing more than pits of writhing darkness. Kabane filled the station's lower levels in unimaginable numbers, crawling over rooftops and collapsed structures, their golden eyes flickering like a malignant constellation. The sound of them—scraping, clicking, snarling—rose faintly, like the distant roar of an ocean made of hunger.
Takumi swallowed hard.
Takumi: If we fall… surviving would be devoured by them.
No one contradicted him. No one needed to. Even the Hunters, warriors who prided themselves on standing where others fled, had lost their earlier sharp confidence. Hands tightened around weapons. Jaws clenched. Biba Amatori stared down into the abyss with a grim, calculating gaze, his expression stripped of bravado.
Biba: If possible, we must also prevent killing the Kabane. It would provoke the others.
The words landed heavily.
Bushi 1: Wha— then if we encounter one, should we just let it kill us?!
Panic edged the Bushi's voice, thin and exposed. Before he could spiral further, another voice cut in—calmer, softer, but firm.
Album: Are you saying we should subdue them instead?
The question was simple, yet it shifted the air. The Bushi halted mid-sentence, caught off guard. Ayame noticed it immediately—the way people unconsciously paused when Album spoke, as if something about her presence smoothed sharp edges.
Ayame met Album's gaze briefly and nodded in silent thanks before turning back to Biba.
Biba: Yes. It's not easy. But if luck favors us, most Kabane should be below… and we pass above without incident.
No one argued further. They moved.
When they reached the station interior, relief washed through them like a shallow breath finally taken after near-drowning. The area was clear—for now. Ayame ordered the gate sealed behind them, and the heavy metal barrier slammed shut with a resounding crash that echoed far longer than anyone liked.
Biba: Clear the area.
Hunters: Yes!
The Hunters moved with practiced efficiency, splitting into teams, sweeping corridors and platforms with disciplined precision. Ayame's people followed suit, tension coiled tight in every step. Eventually, they found it—supplies. Food. Water. Not much, but enough.
For the first time since the Iron Fortress fell, people exhaled.
Album carefully distributed rations, her movements gentle, deliberate, as if aware how fragile morale had become. Takumi returned soon after, arms full, eyes bright with rare hope.
Takumi: Lady Ayame, I found canisters, tools… and a full map of Yashiro Station.
Ayame: Really… thank goodness.
But when the map was spread across the table, hope withered.
The trench had erased nearly every viable route. Only one path remained—a long, winding route passing directly over the mines. Kabane nests. Countless. One misstep, one loud sound, and the tide below would surge upward in numbers no one here could survive.
Horobi stepped forward then, placing a folded note on the table.
Horobi: There's one more thing, Commander.
Takumi froze the instant he saw it.
Takumi: That's Ikoma's handwriting!
The words broke something. He rushed forward, hands shaking as he took the note. Kajika followed, eyes wide, breath hitching—and for the first time since the catastrophe, a faint, fragile smile touched her face.
Takumi read quickly, then handed the note to Ayame.
Takumi: He left this in case we came late. A tower collapsed onto the tracks. He and the others went to the boiler room to use the crane and clear it.
Ayame's fingers tightened on the paper.
Ayame: No wonder they didn't return…
She didn't finish the sentence. No one asked her to.
Album: Why don't we check it out?
The suggestion was tentative—hopeful.
Warabi: Are you insane?! That section collapsed! You want us to go down there?!
The shout was sharp, fear-laced. Album flinched instinctively, stepping back. Immediately, Bushi shifted, subtle but unmistakable, placing themselves between her and Warabi. Ayame stepped forward as well—
And then everything stopped.
The air changed.
A pressure descended, sudden and suffocating, like invisible hands closing around throats. Cold sweat broke out instantly. Knees locked. No one dared to breathe too loudly, let alone turn their head.
Fear—pure, instinctive, ancient—rose from the deepest part of their minds.
Only one person looked up.
Album slowly raised her head.
And saw him.
A man sat on the edge of a shattered window frame, one knee raised, his right forearm resting casually upon it. His mantle drifted behind him despite the still air, its shadow stretching unnaturally along the wall. Golden-crimson eyes regarded them without emotion—without urgency.
Without mercy.
Sunlight touched him and recoiled.
No one had heard him arrive.
No one had sensed him until it was too late.
Weak wills cracked under his mere presence. Hearts hammered. Some felt the urge to kneel. Others to flee.
Kaelthorn had returned.
And with him, the certainty that whatever awaited them in Yashiro Station… was no longer something they could pretend to control.
.
.
.
Kaelthorn had returned.
The moment his presence settled into the ruined hall, the air itself seemed to recoil. It wasn't merely silence that followed—but a crushing stillness, as if the station had drawn a shallow breath and dared not exhale. Every instinct screamed. Every nerve tightened. Even the dust drifting in the sunlight appeared hesitant, suspended mid-fall, unwilling to descend any closer to him.
Something about him was fundamentally wrong—and undeniably changed.
The first difference was his presence. Before, it had been suffocating, yes—but now it was heavier, deeper, layered. It no longer pressed against the mind like a threat. It anchored the space, like gravity itself had been redefined around his existence. Standing near him felt like standing too close to a fault line—stable on the surface, but carrying the certainty that everything beneath was coiled, waiting.
The second change was his eyes.
They were no longer simply golden crimson.
At the center of those molten irises, embedded like a symbol rather than a biological feature, were diamond-shaped pupils—soft-edged, vertically aligned rhombuses glowing with an unnatural, crystalline pink light. They did not contract. They did not flicker. They observed. Designed. Intentional. As if carved into existence rather than born.
Within that diamond pupil lay something darker still.
Not black.
Not shadow.
But a dusk-dark void—dense, consuming, absolute. A darkness that did not reflect light, nor reject it, but absorbed it. And yet, the pink crystalline pupil remained, holding that void at bay. Golden crimson on the outside. Dusk-dark within. And between them, that fragile, impossible shard of pink—like a promise that something still stood between annihilation and order.
A boundary.
Or a warning.
Slowly—deliberately—Kaelthorn reined in his aura.
The pressure eased, just enough for lungs to remember how to draw breath. Several people staggered subtly, knees weakening as if they'd been released from an invisible vice. Cold sweat trickled down spines. Hearts hammered too fast, then too slow.
Then he moved.
He dropped from the window ledge with effortless control, boots touching stone without sound. The Hunters reacted instantly—trained reflexes overriding terror. Steam guns snapped up. Fingers curled around triggers. Biba's hand slid to the hilt of his sword in one smooth, practiced motion, steel whispering free just enough to promise violence.
Kaelthorn ignored them all.
He walked forward.
Each step echoed—not loudly, but felt. The sound didn't bounce off walls; it sank into chests. With every pace, several people unconsciously leaned back, as though distance itself might save them.
Weapons trembled.
Fear leaked through discipline.
Before a single shot could be fired, Ayame stepped forward.
Ayame: It's been a long time, Mr. Tass.
Her voice cut through the tension—not strong, but steady. The name rippled through the room like a stone dropped into still water.
Mr. Tass.
Recognition spread.
Shock followed.
Warabi's thoughts screamed.
'Warabi: A Kabaneri…? You're telling me that is a Kabaneri?!'
Horobi swallowed hard, every instinct he possessed screaming danger.
'Horobi: Even Kabane blood doesn't feel this dense… this compressed…'
Biba's gaze sharpened, calculating, cold.
'Biba: No. This isn't Kabaneri. Even Kabane don't carry corruption like this.'
Uryuu and Sahari stepped closer to him, voices low, urgent.
Uryuu: Commander… this person is dangerous.
Sahari: Give the order?
Biba didn't answer.
Because he had noticed something else.
Throughout the entire approach, Kaelthorn had not looked at the Hunters.
Not at the Bushi.
Not even at Ayame.
His gaze had been fixed on a single figure.
Album.
She stood frozen, breath shallow, fingers clenched so tightly her knuckles had gone pale. Kaelthorn stopped directly in front of her, towering over her by a head. Those impossible eyes settled on her, and for a fraction of a second—just long enough—something tested the space between them.
Album's heartbeat spiked.
Cold sweat slid down her cheek.
Ayame, unaware of the invisible tension snapping tight, stepped forward again, smiling despite the fear still lingering in her eyes.
Ayame: It's good to see you alive, Mr. Tass.
At last, Kaelthorn turned his head.
His gaze settled on her—not unkindly, but distantly. The diamond pupil shimmered once.
Kaelthorn: I can say the same to you.
The Bushi slowly lowered their weapons, relief and hope bleeding through their fear. Murmurs stirred. Eyes searched his face desperately, silently asking the same question.
Who else survived?
Kaelthorn looked at them.
And shook his head.
Kaelthorn: I am the lone survivor.
The words fell like ash.
Hope collapsed instantly—faces crumpled, shoulders slumped, quiet sobs breaking free. Someone turned away, fists clenched. Someone else sank onto a chair, staring at nothing.
Ayame reacted quickly, refusing to let despair take root.
Ayame: Mr. Tass, let me introduce you. This is Album. She helped us survive. And Album—this is Mr. Tass. The Kabaneri who travelled with us… alongside Ikoma and Mumei.
Album forced herself to move.
Album: Nice to meet you, Mr. Tass… I've heard a lot about you.
Kaelthorn looked at her again—longer this time.
Something unreadable passed behind his eyes.
Kaelthorn: …My apologize. It's just that I saw something… interesting.
Ayame blinked, confused—but before she could ask, Kaelthorn turned away, allowing himself to be led toward the Hunters.
Album remained where she stood.
Her fists trembled.
He saw something.
Not confirmation. Not exposure.
Suspicion.
She exhaled slowly, steadying herself, and lifted her gaze to his retreating back. Whatever he was—whatever he had become—she knew one thing with absolute certainty.
He was dangerous.
And he was watching.
.
.
.
As Kaelthorn approached alongside Ayame, Biba raised a hand. The Hunters responded instantly, disciplined to the core—guns lowered, fingers easing off triggers, tension receding but not vanishing. Biba himself slid his sword back into its sheath, the faint metallic whisper sounding far louder than it should have in the still air. Then, with a practiced smile that had likely disarmed countless negotiations before, he stepped forward and extended his hand.
Biba: It's a pleasure to meet you. I am Biba Amatori. Commander of the Hunters.
Kaelthorn regarded the hand for a brief moment—long enough for some of the Bushi to stiffen again—before clasping it. His grip was firm, measured, neither challenging nor submissive.
Kaelthorn: You can call me Tass.
Biba: Then I'll address you as Mr. Tass, like the others. You may call me Biba.
They separated, the unspoken assessment between them lingering like static in the air. Biba studied him carefully now, not just as a potential ally, but as a variable—one that had entered the equation without permission.
Biba: I am grateful for your presence, Mr. Tass. With someone like you on our side, our chances of leaving this place alive increase significantly.
It was an honest statement—but built on a flawed assumption.
Biba had already placed Kaelthorn within Ayame's faction, filing him mentally as another extraordinary asset attached to the Iron Fortress survivors. Ayame noticed the misunderstanding immediately. Her lips parted slightly, ready to correct it—
—but Kaelthorn spoke first.
Kaelthorn: Of course.
The word landed softly.
Too softly.
For a moment, Ayame froze. Then realization caught up, and a warmth spread across her chest so sudden it almost felt unreal. At the Iron Fortress, she had pleaded, reasoned, and endured silence. He had refused her without cruelty, without explanation. And now—when everything had already fallen apart—he chose to step forward.
A genuine smile bloomed across her face, unguarded and bright, one that spread to the others before they could stop themselves. Hope—fragile, dangerous hope—stirred again.
Kaelthorn: I heard you were discussing whether to rescue Ikoma and Mumei.
The mood shifted instantly.
Biba's expression sharpened, the warmth draining from his eyes as calculation replaced relief.
Biba: Yes. But the situation makes any such attempt… impractical. The risks far outweigh the benefits.
Kaelthorn: They do.
Kaelthorn agreed without hesitation, his tone flat.
Kaelthorn: And yet—it's still worth taking.
Biba's brow twitched almost imperceptibly.
Biba: I'm listening.
Kaelthorn didn't face him fully when he answered. His gaze drifted instead toward the far wall, toward the direction of the station's depths.
Kaelthorn: You already know the reason. And even if I hadn't brought it up—you would still attempt the rescue.
The certainty in his voice struck deeper than accusation.
For the first time since their meeting, Biba felt exposed.
His eyes narrowed slightly. Kaelthorn wasn't guessing. He was stating a conclusion. That alone forced Biba to reassess the man standing before him—not as a mere Kabaneri, not even as a weapon, but as someone capable of dissecting intent itself.
Biba: I'm afraid I don't understand what you mean, Mr. Tass.
A lie. A clean one.
Kaelthorn didn't challenge it. He didn't need to.
Instead, he turned away.
Kaelthorn: Speak with your people. We'll do the same. In one hour, we reconvene and share our stances.
With that, he began walking toward the opposite side of the chamber, his mantle shifting quietly behind him. The decision had already been made—not voted on, not debated—simply declared.
Ayame hesitated for half a heartbeat before bowing politely to Biba.
Ayame: Excuse us.
She followed Kaelthorn, the survivors of the Iron Fortress falling in behind her almost instinctively. Album lingered for a fraction longer than the others, her eyes flicking once toward Biba, then back to Kaelthorn's retreating form before she joined the group.
When they were gone, only the Hunters remained.
Biba stood where he was, watching them leave, his smile long gone.
The board had changed.
Before, Ayame was malleable—pressured by numbers, fear, and responsibility. Her people could be guided, nudged, sacrificed if necessary. But Kaelthorn's presence shattered that balance entirely. Control had slipped through his fingers, replaced by an unpredictable force that did not negotiate from weakness.
Biba exhaled slowly.
Plans would have to be revised.
And for the first time in a long while, the outcome was no longer something he could fully shape.
.
.
.
After walking to one side of the hall, Kaelthorn stopped near a fractured wall where rust and cracks spread like veins. He crossed his arms and leaned back against it, posture relaxed yet immovable, as though the ruin itself had been built around him rather than the other way around.
His presence alone seemed to press down on the air, quieting stray whispers before they could form. Only then did he speak, his voice calm, measured, and utterly devoid of hesitation.
Kaelthorn: Rest for a bit. We leave to rescue them in an hour.
For a moment, no one reacted—then Takumi's restraint shattered.
Takumi: Really?!
The young steam smith's voice cracked as hope burst through exhaustion and fear, his hands clenching into fists as if afraid the words might vanish if he didn't grasp them fast enough.
He was the one who had worried the most about Ikoma from the beginning, the one who had argued, pleaded, and nearly begged when the idea of abandoning the scouting team first arose. A few of the others reached out instinctively, urging him to calm down, but none of them could hide the relief flickering in their own expressions.
Ayame, however, did not let herself be carried away so easily. Her relief was tempered by responsibility, and by the weight of leadership that never truly loosened its grip.
Ayame: But Commander Biba hasn't given us his decision yet. Are we going to attempt the rescue on our own?
Her voice was steady, but concern lay just beneath the surface. She knew better than most how thin the line between courage and recklessness could be—especially in a place like Yashiro Station.
Kaelthorn didn't even look at her when he answered.
Kaelthorn: No. He will agree.
There was no emphasis, no dramatic flair. Just certainty—absolute and unshakable. That alone was enough to make several people breathe easier. They didn't understand how he could be so sure, but after everything they had witnessed since his return, none of them found the confidence misplaced. No one questioned him.
No one, that is, except Album.
Album: Why would he?
Her voice was soft, but not timid. Curious rather than confrontational. She tilted her head slightly, brows knitting together as she spoke.
Album: Didn't he say the risks far outweigh the benefits?
For the first time since he'd spoken, Kaelthorn turned his head. His gaze settled on her—not cold, not hostile, but keen, as though peeling back layers she hadn't realized were visible.
Instead of answering, he asked a question of his own.
Kaelthorn: Album… have you ever seen a Kabaneri fight?
The question caught her off guard. She blinked, momentarily thrown off balance, before shaking her head.
Album: How could I? All three of you were separated from Lady Ayame's group. I've never seen any of you fight properly.
She frowned slightly, sensing there was more beneath the question than he had let on.
Kaelthorn: I see.
He paused, as though confirming something internally.
Kaelthorn: Then it seems Biba hasn't shown his hand yet.
Album: Eh?
Confusion crossed her face, but it didn't take long for understanding to dawn. Ayame stiffened subtly. Takumi's hopeful expression faltered. Even Kajika, who had been sitting quietly with her arms wrapped around herself, lifted her head.
Kajika: S-So… they have a K-Kabaneri with them?
Her voice trembled, fear and disbelief mixing together. Kaelthorn's reply came without mercy.
Kaelthorn: They have two.
The words struck like a hammer.
Shock rippled through the group as several heads snapped toward the Hunters gathered on the opposite side of the hall. Murmurs broke out instantly—disbelief, anger, fear, and betrayal bleeding into one another.
Bushi 1: H-How is that possible…?
Bushi 2: They hid something like that from us?
Bushi 3: That's… that's a betrayal!
The tension spiked sharply, emotions spiraling toward panic as old wounds resurfaced—fear of Kabane, distrust of anything tainted by them, memories of loss that still hadn't healed.
Ayame's voice cut through it like a blade.
Ayame: Stop.
It wasn't loud, but it carried authority. Enough to halt the rising chaos mid-breath.
Ayame: Don't take it that far.
She stepped forward, placing herself squarely between her people and the Hunters' direction, her gaze sweeping across the faces of her group one by one—firm, unwavering.
Ayame: Calling it deception will only put us in a worse position.
Takumi: But why?! They hid something that important—
Ayame: Just as you said.
She interrupted him gently, but decisively.
Ayame: They hid it. That doesn't mean they lied.
The words settled heavily. She let the silence stretch, forcing everyone to listen.
Ayame: If we had lost people because of that omission—if their secrecy had directly caused harm—we would have every right to confront them... But since joining them, they've shared their scarce rations, given us protection, and guided us through territory that would have killed us otherwise.
Her gaze hardened slightly.
Ayame: If we accuse them now, we won't look righteous. We'll look ungrateful.
No one spoke.
The realization was uncomfortable, but undeniable. When they imagined themselves in the Hunters' place—stronger, better equipped, yet burdened with responsibility—the accusation rang hollow. Blaming them now would only paint Ayame's group as desperate survivors willing to bite the hand that kept them alive.
One by one, shoulders lowered. Voices died out.
Ayame exhaled slowly, relief slipping through her composure just enough to be noticed by those closest to her. The balance between the two groups had always been fragile, but the truth was clear.
They needed the Hunters far more than the Hunters needed them.
And fracturing that relationship now—especially in a place like Yashiro Station—would be fatal.
From his place against the wall, Kaelthorn watched it all unfold without comment, his expression unreadable. Yet in his stillness lay the quiet certainty that this outcome had been inevitable from the moment he spoke.
.
.
Album: If we ask them politely, I am sure they would tell us about it… and apologize for hiding it from us.
Now that the panic had settled into uneasy silence, Album finally voiced what had been weighing on her. Her tone was gentle, almost hopeful, as if believing that sincerity alone could smooth over what had been concealed. But instead of nodding in agreement, Ayame's lips curved into a faint, weary smile—one that carried more resignation than warmth.
Ayame: It's not that simple, Album.
Album blinked, genuinely taken aback.
Album: Eh? Why is it?
Ayame drew in a slow breath before answering, as if carefully arranging her thoughts to avoid cutting too deeply.
Ayame: First… to people like Commander Biba, Kabaneri are trump cards. Weapons of last resort. He has no obligation to reveal something like that to outsiders—especially not in a world where information itself can decide survival.
She paused, her gaze drifting briefly to the forest beyond, where shadows stretched unnaturally long.
Ayame: Second… Kabaneri are rare. So rare that until we met Mumei, none of us even knew they existed. To most people, there is no distinction. Kabane… Kabaneri… they sound the same. They look the same. They are feared the same.
Her fingers clenched unconsciously.
For a moment, memories surfaced—how they had treated Mumei and Ikoma at first. The distrust. The weapons half-raised. The silent prayers that they wouldn't turn. A faint ache settled in her chest.
Ayame: To the world… cooperating with Kabaneri is the same as siding with Kabane. Who would willingly align themselves with monsters? Even standing in the same camp is already considered tolerance.
She exhaled softly, then continued before regret could slow her.
Ayame: Third… even if we swear to keep their secret, what guarantee do they have? What's stopping us from selling that information to another station? Or letting it slip? One rumor would be enough to make every settlement treat the Hunters as enemies.
Her eyes hardened slightly.
Ayame: And fourth—
Kaelthorn: That's enough.
His interruption was calm, almost casual—but it carried finality. Ayame stopped immediately, her mouth closing mid-sentence. Kaelthorn turned his attention to Album, his gaze steady and assessing.
Kaelthorn: You understand now, don't you?
Album hesitated, then slowly nodded. The weight of it had finally sunk in.
Album: …Then doesn't that make it even more reasonable to save your people instead of risking everything for Kabaneri? Why would the Hunters agree to rescue them?
Kaelthorn closed his eyes, as if the answer was too obvious to waste words on emotion.
Kaelthorn: Because the value of a Kabaneri far exceeds all of you combined.
The words landed like a hammer.
Album froze.
She looked around instinctively—and that was when she noticed it. Ayame's gaze lowered. Takumi's shoulders sagged. Even the Bushi, hardened by loss, avoided meeting her eyes. No one argued. No one denied it.
They already knew.
They had seen it.
Mumei and Ikoma carving paths through hordes that would have annihilated ordinary fighters. Standing amidst swarms of Kabane, fearless of claws or bites, their bodies moving faster than fear could catch up.
Kaelthorn: In reality… if Biba could save even one Kabaneri by sacrificing all of you—and half of his Hunters—it would still be considered a worthwhile exchange.
Fear rippled through the group.
Not outrage. Not anger.
Understanding.
It was brutal. Cold. And undeniable.
They were expendable. Not because they were weak—but because the world itself had decided that those who could defy Kabane were worth more than those who merely survived them.
Album's chest felt tight. She finally understood why Ayame hadn't protested earlier. Why no one had voiced this truth aloud.
As the silence stretched, Kaelthorn opened his eyes and stepped forward.
As he passed Ayame, he leaned in slightly, his voice low enough that only she could hear.
Kaelthorn: Now you look like a proper leader.
Ayame stiffened.
For a brief instant, her eyes widened—then a faint, self-deprecating smile touched her lips.
Ayame: …I would have liked to hear that earlier.
Kaelthorn didn't respond. He continued walking, his expression unreadable.
When he had first seen her aboard the Iron Fortress, she had been a sheltered heir forced into command by circumstance—carrying responsibility without yet understanding its cost. She had lacked the weight, the decisiveness, the cruelty that leadership demanded in a broken world.
Now she had them.
Authority.
Resolve.
Clarity.
But also emptiness.
She had finally become a leader—only to look around and realize that there were barely any people left to lead.
Reality had not merely taught her.
It had punished her for learning too late.
And that, perhaps, was the cruelest lesson of all.
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*A/N: Please throw some power stones.
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