Dagan motioned for him to follow.
The two left the main hall behind, their footsteps gradually fading beneath the steady mechanical hum of the Iron House. The deeper they walked, the quieter everything became. Thick iron-plated walls swallowed the noise of machinery until only the echo of their boots remained.
Dim amber lights lined the corridor ceiling, flickering softly over old pipes and support beams stained dark with age. Heated air drifted through the narrow passage carrying the scent of machine oil, iron dust, and burnt metal.
At the very end of the corridor stood a narrow storage room hidden behind a heavy steel door.
Dagan shoved it open.
The metal groaned loudly.
Inside, shelves and tables overflowed with strange objects gathered from distant places and forgotten years—rusted mechanisms missing gears, cracked instruments, faded banners marked with symbols Shura didn't recognize, sealed containers worn pale by time. Dust drifted lazily through the dim Beacon light.
The room didn't feel abandoned.
It felt remembered.
Dust coated everything evenly except for narrow spaces where hands had touched over the years.
Not cleaned.
Remembered.
Some objects were positioned too carefully to be random scrap.
Others looked untouched for decades.
Like the room itself couldn't decide what deserved to disappear.
Shura slowed slightly as he stepped inside, his eyes wandering across the clutter.
"You collect all this?" he asked quietly.
Dagan moved past a stack of broken devices, brushing dust from a shelf with the back of his hand.
"Not me," he replied. "Most of it's just things people forgot about."
Shura glanced around again.
"It doesn't look like ordinary scrap."
A faint grin crossed Dagan's face.
"That's because people throw away things they don't understand."
A brief pause followed.
"Just like people."
Shura looked at him for a second but didn't respond.
The two walked slowly between crowded shelves. Every object seemed to carry some unfinished story. A broken compass missing its center needle. A cracked metal plate engraved with faded writing. A mechanical bird-like construct without wings, frozen mid-motion beneath dust.
Shura's eyes lingered on each thing longer than necessary.
Dagan noticed.
"You've been quieter than usual," he said casually. "Why?"
Shura hesitated before answering.
"Because I can't stop thinking about something I need to do."
Dagan raised a brow.
"Something important?"
"Something I can't prove."
Dagan studied him for a moment longer than before.
Not mocking.
Measuring.
As if trying to decide whether Shura was naive—
or dangerous.
Shura's voice lowered slightly.
"The only thing I can do is believe in it."
For a moment, only the hum of distant machinery answered him.
Then Dagan let out a small laugh beneath his breath.
"Those kinds of people usually end up changing everything."
Shura looked at him curiously.
Dagan shrugged lightly as he continued walking.
"Think about it. There was a time people would've laughed at the idea of industries, trains, or entire cities powered by machines."
His hand brushed against an old metal frame as he passed.
"Now people act like it always existed."
Another shrug.
"Everything impossible sounds ridiculous before someone makes it real."
Shura stayed silent after that.
But the words remained with him.
They stepped around stacked crates and narrow shelves before Dagan finally stopped near the back wall.
He shoved aside a collapsed crate and crouched near the back wall.
Metal scraped softly against metal.
For a second, Shura only saw darkness beneath the shelves.
Then something reflected the Beacon light.
"There it is."
He crouched slightly, pushing aside several metal containers before pulling something free from the darkness.
"What are you looking for?" Shura asked.
"A strange mask."
Dagan lifted it into the light.
The object was made from dark metal, smooth and almost black beneath the amber glow. Two metallic hands stretched across the eye area, fingers slightly separated just enough to allow narrow vision through the gaps.
It didn't look protective.
It looked intentional.
The fingers weren't sculpted flat against the surface.
They pressed inward slightly.
As if the hands were trying to force the wearer's eyes shut.
Like something designed to limit sight rather than preserve it.
Shura stared at it silently.
His eyes traced the craftsmanship carefully—the unnatural detail in the fingers, the subtle curves in the metal, the strange purpose behind the design.
The longer he looked at it, the more unsettling it became.
"…Creepy," he muttered.
Dagan smirked faintly.
"That's one way to describe it."
"Still…"
Shura stepped closer.
"It's beautifully made."
His gaze narrowed slightly.
"Now I'm wondering who made something like—"
"I'm sure you're also wondering where it was found," Dagan interrupted with a grin.
A faint smile appeared on Shura's face.
"Am I that predictable?"
"Very."
Dagan turned the mask once in his hands, watching the dim Beacon light slide across the metal fingers.
Then, unexpectedly, he held it out toward Shura.
Shura blinked once.
"…For me?"
Dagan shrugged.
"Thinking about its use already?"
Shura hesitated before carefully taking it.
The metal felt colder than expected.
Surprisingly heavy too.
"Just throw it away later if you can't find a reason to keep it," Dagan said casually.
Shura looked at the mask again.
Something about it felt unfinished.
Or familiar in a way he couldn't explain.
Before he could think further, a low mechanical tone echoed throughout the Iron House overhead.
The Beacon Shift.
Lights along the corridor subtly brightened as the afternoon cycle began.
Dagan glanced toward the doorway.
"Sounds like your time's up."
"Unfortunately."
The two stepped back into the corridor together, the heavy steel door groaning shut behind them.
After a few steps, Dagan spoke again.
"Your work's done too?"
Shura nodded once.
Dagan sighed dramatically.
"Lucky you. My shift's just beginning."
At the split in the corridor, Dagan slowed.
"So what are you doing now?"
Shura thought for a second.
"Learning," he answered simply.
Dagan laughed softly.
"…As expected."
Then he disappeared down another hallway, leaving Shura alone beneath the dim amber lights.
Shura looked down at the strange mask resting in his hands.
The metal fingers covering the eyes almost looked alive beneath the shifting Beacon glow.
After a moment, he slipped it carefully beneath his coat and continued walking.
Remembering Whitelock's instructions, Shura headed toward the office.
His footsteps echoed quietly through the corridor while his thoughts remained elsewhere.
Shura touched the outline of the mask beneath his coat.
Cold metal pressed faintly against his side.
Another forgotten thing carried forward by someone else.
Just like the objects in the storage room.
Just like Valryn.
Just like him.
The words refused to leave his head.
Several minutes later, he reached the office.
Whitelock looked up from behind the desk.
"So, Shura."
He closed the ledger in front of him.
"Tomorrow is Spectral Gold Day. You don't have work scheduled."
A pause.
"What are you planning to do?"
"Nothing special," Shura answered. "Maybe visit the library. Study something."
Whitelock leaned back slightly.
"I might have extra work for you."
Shura tilted his head.
"That depends on the work."
"Letter delivery."
Whitelock reached into a drawer and placed a sealed letter onto the desk between them.
Shura frowned slightly.
"Why me?"
Whitelock gave him a dry look.
"Impressive. Most people thank the person offering work before questioning them."
"Can't help it."
A faint breath escaped Whitelock's nose. Not quite a laugh.
"I think you're the perfect choice."
"Why?"
Whitelock folded his arms slowly.
"Because nobody else wants the job."
His eyes drifted briefly toward Shura's silver-threaded coat.
"And I'm fairly sure nobody's going to bother someone who looks like you."
Shura stared at the letter silently for a moment.
"Why does it need to be delivered personally?"
"Because it's far from here," Whitelock replied. "And because the man refuses to deal with couriers."
"And what do I get?"
"Ten Copp now. Ten more after the delivery."
Shura's eyes widened slightly.
"That's a lot."
Whitelock shrugged.
"Long trip."
Silence settled briefly between them.
Then Shura nodded once.
"…Fine. I'll do it."
Whitelock slid both the letter and a train ticket across the desk.
"Take the train from the third compartment during the second sub-cycle of Beacon," he explained. "Get off at the second stop near Alric Mountain."
Shura listened carefully.
"From there, walk straight until you reach a lake."
Whitelock paused slightly.
"There might be a tree there."
He sounded uncertain saying it himself.
"Near the lake you'll find a house. Deliver the letter there."
Whitelock looked directly at him.
"Got it?"
"Yes."
Shura picked up the ticket carefully along with the ten Copp coins and slipped them into his pocket beside the strange mask.
The ticket disappeared into his coat beside the mask.
Cold paper.
Cold metal.
Both carrying him somewhere he didn't understand yet.
"…Alright," Shura said quietly.