Shura moved through the Iron House, his boots clicking softly against the reinforced steel floor.
The sound echoed through the massive structure in dull metallic repetitions, mixing with the distant clang of forged steel and the low mechanical hum buried somewhere deeper inside the building.
The Iron House never truly became silent.
Even during quieter cycles, the place breathed.
Workers passed through narrow aisles carrying crates of scrap metal, weapon frames, toolkits, or bundles wrapped tightly in stained cloth. Heated air drifted through overhead vents alongside the smell of oil, iron dust, and old smoke.
Shura walked through it all without urgency.
Without belonging to it either.
He reached the back office and stopped at the doorway.
The owner sat behind a thick iron desk layered with ledgers and scattered machine parts. His broad shoulders curved slightly forward as he wrote, but even sitting down, the man carried the weight of something immovable.
Like iron left too long under pressure.
"I thought you'd run away," the man said without lifting his eyes.
The pen continued moving.
Shura leaned lightly against the metal frame.
"I can't for now," he answered calmly. "But you can deduct the money if I miss it next time."
The scratching sound stopped.
For the first time, the man looked up properly.
Sharp eyes moved over Shura slowly—from the silver-threaded coat to the tired expression resting beneath his pale hair.
There was still disbelief there.
"I still can't believe someone like you is working here," he muttered. "Thought you only came to this place to play around."
Shura gave a small shrug.
"No," he said simply. "I'm serious."
The man closed the ledger with a dull thud.
"As long as you're going to work here…"
He leaned back slightly.
"Whitelock."
A brief pause followed.
"You're Shura, right?"
"Yes, Mr. Whitelock."
That was enough.
No handshake.
No formal welcome.
Just acknowledgment.
As the conversation ended, Shura glanced down at his sleeves.
I should change my clothes soon…
His fingers brushed against the copp inside his pocket.
Only a few remained from the work payment.
And the other fifty Zenkyou gave me…
Shura exhaled quietly.
Then pushed the thought aside.
"Okay then," he said. "I'm going to work."
"Tomorrow is Spectral Gold Day," Whitelock suddenly said.
Shura paused slightly.
Whitelock looked like he wanted to continue speaking, but stopped halfway through the thought.
"…Come here after your work ends."
Shura gave a silent nod.
Then he picked up the broom resting beside the doorway and stepped back onto the main floor.
The Iron House felt quieter during this cycle.
Dust gathered beneath weapon racks and training frames. Steel chains hung motionless from ceiling rails. The Beacon light above reflected dimly across reinforced flooring, turning everything grey-gold.
Shura swept slowly.
Not lazily.
Precisely.
Every movement deliberate.
Every corner properly cleaned.
But his mind wasn't fully there.
It drifted.
Toward the Free Area.
Toward Blair.
Toward the old boatman.
Toward the brass arm gleaming beneath dull canal light.
He was waiting.
Shura swept the same section twice without noticing.
The thought lingered strangely inside him.
Waiting.
The sound of the front entrance suddenly rolled through the hall with a heavy metallic groan.
Cold air entered first.
Then footsteps.
Dagan and Rhea stepped inside together, and the atmosphere shifted almost immediately. Workers nearby straightened subtly without realizing it. Conversations lowered. Even the background noise felt quieter around them.
Shura remained still for a second too long, broom hovering above the floor.
"Hey."
Dagan's voice carried easily through the hall.
Shura blinked once before looking up.
"Hello," he replied. "I have something to say."
Dagan raised a brow.
"Directly? Alright then."
He folded his arms loosely.
"What is it?"
"I met a vendor," Shura said. "An old man selling handmade crafts and decorative objects."
The moment the words left his mouth, Dagan let out a long exhausted sigh.
His hand dragged across his forehead.
"Those aren't decorative objects," he corrected quietly. "They're collectibles."
Shura tilted his head slightly.
"You should meet him."
"He's still selling those stupid things?" Dagan muttered.
There was frustration in his voice.
But something heavier underneath it.
"He doesn't need to do this anymore. I already provide enough."
His gaze lowered briefly.
"He should just relax and eat properly."
Shura stayed silent.
Dagan crossed his arms tighter.
"He collected all that junk while traveling across different places with that idiot… Valryn."
Shura repeated the unfamiliar name slowly.
"Valryn?"
Dagan looked genuinely surprised.
"You don't know him?"
Shura hesitated.
"No."
Several seconds passed.
Then Dagan laughed once beneath his breath.
"He really is just like my father," he muttered. "Collecting strange things and calling them treasures."
His expression dimmed slightly afterward.
"Ever since he left…"
Dagan stopped there.
Then corrected himself quietly.
"…He doesn't hear me anymore."
The air around the sentence felt heavier than the words themselves.
"I'm sorry," Shura said.
Dagan immediately waved the apology away.
"Hey, he's not dead."
A pause followed.
"He's just… not here."
Shura froze slightly at the wording.
Dagan noticed.
Then exhaled through his nose.
"Valryn was part of the Odyssey."
Silence.
Dagan narrowed his eyes slowly.
"…Don't tell me you don't know what the Odyssey is either."
Shura looked genuinely uncertain.
"Actually…"
A brief pause.
"I don't."
Rhea finally laughed after silently observing the conversation from nearby.
"You two are going to stand here talking forever at this rate," she said while stretching her shoulders. "I'm going before my muscles forget they exist."
Dagan waved a hand without looking at her.
Shura rested both hands on the broom handle thoughtfully.
"If those things are important memories…" he asked slowly, "then why sell them?"
Dagan looked at him.
Shura continued quietly.
"Isn't it pointless to spend your whole life collecting something only to let it go?"
For once, Dagan didn't answer immediately.
He leaned back against a rack of iron plates, shoulders lowering beneath invisible weight.
"He's not selling them for money, Shura."
The frustration in his voice disappeared completely.
"He's trying to spread Valryn's memories."
Dagan looked upward slightly.
"He wants pieces of those places to survive in other people's hands…"
A small silence settled.
"…Until Valryn finally returns from the expedition."
Dagan lowered his head slightly afterward.
"Hope he stays safe," he muttered tiredly. "So my father can travel with him one last time."
It wasn't anger anymore.
It was fear.
The fear of losing someone slowly enough to watch it happen.
Shura watched him silently.
The word remained inside his thoughts.
Memory.
Then another voice surfaced from somewhere distant inside his mind.
Empress Rose.
"Memory is fragile. It reshapes itself to survive."
Shura unconsciously whispered aloud.
"Memory…"
Again.
"Memory…"
And quieter still—
"Memory…"
Dagan narrowed his eyes slightly.
"Where did you disappear to?" he asked.
Then his expression shifted suddenly.
"Oh, right."
He pushed himself away from the iron rack.
"I've got something to give you."
Shura immediately shook his head.
"I don't want anything."
"Nah. You're keeping it," Dagan replied casually. "You helped my father deliver the message."
Then he shrugged.
"Throw it away later if you want. I don't care."
Shura hesitated.
Then gave a small nod.
"I'll try to keep it."