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Author Note:
' ' = When thinking in mind.
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A hand drifted gently through Kaelthorn's hair. Each motion was deliberate, unhurried, as though the strands themselves were fragile threads of porcelain that might crumble with the slightest force. Yet every stroke carried warmth — intimate, steady, tender — a sensation so alien to him that it stripped away his instinctive coldness. His head rested on a surface soft and pliant, warm in a way he had almost forgotten existed. The sensation made him feel as though the weight of his battles, his fortress, his calculations had been lifted away.
For a fleeting moment, he wanted to remain there forever. No blood. No silence. No endless construction in the dark. Only warmth.
???: Kael…
The voice slipped into his ears like the whisper of a breeze through ancient ruins. He flinched at the sound, not from fear, but from recognition. His lashes quivered, his crimson eyes opening just a fraction.
Amber. Radiant, luminous amber, staring down at him with a gaze that softened the hollowness inside. The corners of his eyes slackened; his lids lowered again. He didn't need to think. He knew.
This was her.
Kaelthorn: It's been a while, Io.
The hand paused for only a heartbeat, then resumed its rhythm, combing his hair as if unwilling to let go.
Io: Yes. A long… long… while.
The words were stretched, weighted, but Kaelthorn, basking in the strange comfort, did not question it. Her silence that followed was not void — it was a presence, filling the space around him with something unspoken. He closed his eyes fully, surrendering himself for once.
Minutes — or hours — passed unmarked before Io spoke again, her voice no longer a feather but a blade wrapped in silk.
Io: Kael… do you know how much time has passed since our last meeting?
Kaelthorn: I know. It's been more than a year.
The sigh that left her lips was small, but it echoed like a storm in the void.
Io: No, Kael. Not one. Ten. Ten years.
BOOM!
The sound wasn't real, yet it reverberated inside him, a thunderclap in his skull. His crimson eyes snapped open wide. The warmth of her lap vanished as he sat upright, breath seizing in his throat.
Kaelthorn: That's… not possible.
But the amber eyes staring back at him didn't waver. No lie. No hesitation. Just truth.
And his perfect memory began replaying everything with merciless precision. The details fell like dominoes, one after another, each one aligning with Io's words. The weight of realization turned his features cold, his chest heavy. She was right. It wasn't one year. It was ten.
The horror wasn't in the length of time. It was that he had never noticed.
Io: Kael.
Kaelthorn: Hm?
Io: Why did you conclude the Hollow Core needed more time to adjust?
Kaelthorn: You said—
Io: I said you would be able to return in one month. Not a day more, not a day less. I am bound to this place, Kael. I know its rhythm. I know its truth. If I say one month, then it will be one month.
Her voice cut through him. He clenched his fist so tightly his nails tore into flesh.
'Kaelthorn: She's right. I should have seen it. I should have doubted. Why didn't I?'
Cold sweat slid down his temples. His mind raced back. Red flags appeared everywhere, as though the veil had been lifted all at once.
First. The fortress.
Ten months for the dome. Ten months of precision, perfection, refinement. He had machines. He had an intellect far beyond mortals. He had power. He could have finished it in three, maybe four. But instead, he lingered. He wanted to linger. It wasn't survival. It was indulgence masquerading as strategy.
Second. The Infected.
Not one had come. Not a stray. Not a wandering corpse pulled back by memory. He had killed hundreds inside the school, yes — but what of those who hadn't been there? They should have returned. They should have swarmed. Yet not one set foot near him.
Third. The Survivors.
Silence. Absolute silence. No wanderers, no scavengers, no cautious eyes peering from the shadows. Construction machines thundered. Trucks moved openly. His activity was obvious, like a beacon in the apocalypse. And still, no one came. Not even the reckless, not even the desperate.
Fourth. The scavenging.
He had combed through depots, weapon caches, military posts — places that should have been crawling with dangers. Yet every trip was smooth. Too smooth. The Dark Multiverse never allowed clean victories. It was cruel. Always cruel. But for ten years… he had lived in ease.
Fifth. The Notebook.
Kurosawa Ren's words. Variants, anomalies, terrors stalking Megurigaoka. None appeared. Not even a shadow.
It was too perfect. Too clean. Too safe.
Kaelthorn's breath hitched.
Kaelthorn: Unless…
The thought clawed through his mind. His skin prickled with ice. His instincts screamed — danger.
'Kaelthorn: My perception was compromised. My thoughts tampered with. I wasn't blind. I was blinded.'
He turned toward Io. Her expression had shifted — her lips pressed thin, her amber eyes heavy with truth too cruel to dress in comfort. She nodded once.
Kaelthorn's mind burned. His instincts screamed louder than they had in years. Something was wrong — not in the way a blade at his throat was wrong, but in the way the sky itself felt wrong before a storm, the way shadows sometimes bent in places they shouldn't.
His lips parted, the words tasting like ash.
Kaelthorn: Since when…?
Io's amber eyes did not falter. They were steady, sorrowful, but carrying a truth that stabbed deeper than pity.
Io: Three weeks after those girls left. That's when it happened. That's when your world ended.
Kaelthorn: …Ended?
Io: Yes. The thing that came for you did not strike, did not tear, did not roar. It settled. Like a spider descending on its prey, it lowered itself into your shadow and waited. It wrapped its threads around you, invisible, suffocating, but never pulling tight. Not yet.
Her voice trembled, not from fear for herself — she was beyond the reach of that thing — but from fear for him.
Io: It watched, Kael. Watched you draw your diagrams, mark your blueprints, measure and remeasure steel. It sat in the silence of the streets when you scavenged, chuckling in that silence. It allowed you peace — false peace — because it wanted something more exquisite than your death.
Kaelthorn's fists clenched so hard that blood welled between his knuckles.
Io: It wanted the taste of your hope. Of your belief in security. It wanted you to finish your fortress, to admire it, to settle into it — so that when it finally opened its jaws, it would not devour your body first. It would devour your certainty.
Her amber gaze hardened.
Io: Do you understand now? Every day you worked. Every hour you scavenged. Every second you let yourself believe you were safe… all of it was deliberate. Fed to you like a dream. That thing made you walk in circles inside its amusement. And it stayed, Kael. For ten years, it remained — so close you would have felt its breath if you had not been blinded.
The words pressed down on him like a weight he could not shrug off.
Kaelthorn's chest heaved. His vision swam. His perfect instincts — the ones that had kept him alive, sharpened through the Dark Multiverse itself — had been smothered. And he had not even realized. He had trusted the illusion.
Io: That is the cruelty of it. To kill you would have been nothing. Too swift. Too merciful. It wants you broken. It wants you hollowed. And when it finally steps forward, when it finally decides you have ripened enough… it will want to watch your face when you understand that every act, every thought, every reinforcement you made was dust.
Her hand brushed his trembling fist. Her touch was warm, grounding — but it could not erase the chill in his blood.
Kaelthorn: …
No words came. His breath was shallow, uneven. His crimson eyes flickered wildly, reflections of the abyss curling in their glow. Fear. Real, suffocating fear. A fear that clawed into the marrow, that whispered not of death but of futility.
Io wrapped her arms gently around his neck, pressing her chest against his back, her chin resting lightly on his shoulder. She didn't add anything more, simply held him as if anchoring him in this collapsing storm of realization. For a long moment, Kaelthorn said nothing either, his breath rough, shoulders taut—until at last he exhaled, the sound low and steady, reining his composure back into place.
Kaelthorn: So, I died.
Io: No. You didn't.
One eyebrow rose faintly. He turned his head just enough that their faces came dangerously close—so close her soft, warm breath brushed against his cheek. His crimson eyes, sharp even now, locked onto hers, searching. But her gaze didn't flinch, didn't break. He said nothing more, simply waited.
Io: That thing saw through you. It knew your secret. It knew your heart must be destroyed to kill you permanently. And it tried. But just as it was about to—
She stopped. Her amber gaze drifted past him toward the great pale tree in the center of the circle. Kaelthorn followed her line of sight, and for the first time, his eyes narrowed in genuine shock.
"The Hollow Core" looked weaker—branches less radiant, veins pulsing faintly instead of with strength, its once-fractal canopy dimmer, trembling as if burdened.
Io: The Hollow Core used everything it had—every last reserve—to tear you away and cast you elsewhere. It spent all its strength to save you.
Kaelthorn caught the meaning behind her world, and his stare deepened. Another world… Not another shelter, not another building—but an entirely different world.
Kaelthorn: I don't think it's that easy to move between worlds in the Dark Multiverse.
Io: It isn't. Which is why you must listen closely, Kael. Your world is not as simple as it looked.
He turned back, his cold eyes narrowing.
Kaelthorn: I'm listening.
Io: Normally, a world is whole, closed in on itself. But yours—yours was fractured, tethered. Imagine circles drawn in ink, overlapping at the edges, bleeding into each other. That is what your world was. Not one, but many overlapping realities stitched together.
Kaelthorn: I see. Circles as worlds… overlapping paths. That means there were more connections.
Io: Yes. And those connections were what the Hollow Core reached for. It could not pierce the Dark Multiverse itself, but it could slip you through the seams where worlds brushed against one another. That is how it saved you.
A sigh escaped his lips, long and heavy, as if conceding to the inevitability.
Kaelthorn: So everything I've done for ten years… was worthless.
Io's expression softened. She leaned closer, her silver hair brushing against his neck.
Io: Not worthless.
Kaelthorn: Hm?
Her lips curved into a small, knowing smile.
Io: If it were only you, Kael, the Hollow Core would never have drained itself so completely. It didn't just transfer you—it carried "The Hollow Fortress" with you.
Kaelthorn froze. His crimson eyes widened slightly. The fortress he had poured ten years of thought and blood into—the steel dome, the reinforced floors, the layered defenses… all of it survived?
Io chuckled lightly at his silent disbelief and hugged him tighter, pressing herself against his back.
Io: You gave everything to that fortress. How could we let it be lost?
For a moment, the eternal tactician, the cold revenant forged in despair, let his eyes soften. His hand rose to her arm, fingers curling over her pale skin with unspoken acknowledgement.
Kaelthorn: Io… Thank y—
Her fingertip pressed against his lips, silencing him. Her smile lingered, tender yet firm.
Io: No, Kael. I don't need your gratitude. I do this because I want to. Because you are everything to me.
Silence fell, but his eyes told her enough—gentler now, carrying something only she could draw from him.
Io: As for the Hollow Core… you should pour all the Haze into it. Strengthen it, let it recover. That way, it won't just grow—you'll grow with it. And next time… when the time comes to shift again… it will have the strength.
Kaelthorn gave a single measured nod. At his will, golden rivers of Haze surged upward from the Reservoir, flowing toward the trembling tree. The Hollow Core drank it greedily, veins glowing, branches brightening as power returned.
Then—sudden. That pull again. The invisible gravity of ejection, tearing at his soul.
Kaelthorn: …This.
Io's hand cupped his face, her thumb brushing gently across his cheek as the vortex began to take him.
Io: Kael, I want nothing more than to hold you here, to speak until time itself fades. But you must go. You need to see your fortress again, and the world you've now been thrown into. This time, the enemies waiting for you… are far more dangerous than the Infected you've known. And Kael… this time, the Hollow Core cannot save you.
Her warning hung like a blade.
Kaelthorn's eyes didn't flicker. He met her gaze with the calm, steel-edged serenity only he possessed.
Kaelthorn: I understand.
For a moment, she faltered—her heart pulling at her chest as his expression remained unwavering. Then Io smiled, luminous and sorrowful, and pressed her forehead against his.
The next instant, darkness swallowed him. His consciousness unravelled, torn from the dimension once again, leaving her alone among the roots of the Hollow Core.
.
.
.
.
Kaelthorn's eyes fluttered open, and the first thing he saw was the ceiling of the librarian's office. A ceiling that had become etched into the bedrock of his memory — flat, pale, and silent. It was a ceiling he had seen a thousand times over the span of what he now knew had been ten years.
The lights came alive the moment he stirred, motion sensors detecting him. White light spilled into the room in a slow crawl, chasing away the shadows that clung to the corners. The soft whirr of hidden vents followed, breathing recycled air through the fortress.
On the desk before him lay his familiar tools: the portable laptop, his phone, the worn pocket watch, and the Beretta M9. All unchanged. All resting precisely as they should be. They might have been ordinary objects once, but now each was a relic — reminders of survival, of vigilance, of a decade wasted under illusion.
Beyond the desk, a wall of screens stretched across the room, silent observers that revealed every corridor, every room, every sealed door of the Hollow Fortress. They hummed faintly, casting ghostly reflections across his face.
Kaelthorn sat forward, spine straightening, gaze sharpening into cold focus. His hands brushed the keyboard, and he began.
.
.
Hours passed as he poured himself into the fortress's digital veins. Every circuit, every protocol, every stored log was examined. His crimson eyes flicked across data streams with mechanical precision, ensuring no line had been rewritten, no system corrupted.
It was monotonous work — but necessary. To Kaelthorn, tedium was irrelevant. His fortress was not merely a base; it was an extension of his will. To leave any gap, any imperfection, was to invite death.
He reactivated the long-dormant server — a machine he had built and abandoned when the false calm lulled him into routine. The server hummed awake, faint vibrations trembling through the desk beneath his hands. Slowly, meticulously, he uploaded everything: logs from his laptop, personal data from his phone, tactical blueprints, construction notes, archived recordings from security feeds. Every byte transferred was a link in the chain he was reforging.
When it was done, the laptop was closed, the phone dimmed, the pocket watch tucked away, and the Beretta hidden once more. With his tools secured beneath his clothes, Kaelthorn typed a final command into the terminal. Locks disengaged with a hiss. The library door slid open.
The fortress welcomed its master back into its hollow halls.
.
.
The corridors were unnaturally clean. Too clean. Light panels activated in perfect sequence as he walked, casting his long shadow against steel walls. Autonomous drones crawled and skittered along the floors, polishing, repairing, disinfecting. Their faint mechanical whirrs and clicks echoed like whispers in a church.
Kaelthorn advanced, each reinforced checkpoint scanning him in silence. Doors hissed open only for him, iris scanners confirming his presence, heartbeat sensors recognizing the rhythm of his life. To any intruder, these halls would be a tomb. To Kaelthorn, they were veins, pulsing with energy, answering his call.
Finally, the staircase yielded to the roof.
The false dawn greeted him. Pale light spilled from the artificial dome, illuminating the fortress with a glow that mimicked sunlight but lacked its warmth. The sky above was painted, a serene illusion crafted from hexagonal plates that pulsed faintly with hidden power. A false world to house a fortress built for war.
The vegetable garden rustled faintly in the engineered breeze. Rows of tomatoes swayed. Green beans curled along wires. Crops thrived under artificial light, each leaf sharp with health. The shed-turned-greenhouse glittered at the edge, its reinforced glass hiding delicate flowers and herbs within. Life grown under a cage of steel.
It might have been paradise to anyone else. To Kaelthorn, it was simply efficiency perfected.
.
.
He raised his phone. Fingers tapped commands into the screen. The fortress obeyed.
The dome shifted. Hexagonal plates retreated in calculated sequence, folding back like the petals of some vast mechanical flower. The false sky collapsed, and for the first time in a decade, Kaelthorn saw the truth.
The night. Endless, infinite, scattered with rivers of stars. They glittered coldly, burning in silence, untouchable.
Kaelthorn stood motionless, crimson eyes locked upward. For ten years, he had seen nothing but poisoned skies, black clouds, and storms. To see the stars again — real stars — was a wound and a balm in equal measure. A reminder of what was lost. A glimpse of something he could never truly claim.
The air was cold. It touched his skin in ways the artificial climate of the dome never could. He drew it in, filling his lungs with the weight of the real world. For a brief moment, he allowed himself to exist in that stillness. Just a breath. Just a silence.
Then he moved on.
.
.
With fluid ease, Kaelthorn leapt from the roof, landing silently on the ground below. His boots touched the soil, yet his mind was already elsewhere. He walked to the edge of the dome's perimeter, where steel met void, and looked outward.
Forests stretched across the horizon, their dark expanse rippling in the night wind. In the distance, faint glimmers of light marked settlements. Life existed out there. Humanity survived. But how long, and in what form, remained to be seen.
And then there was the fortress itself.
The Hollow Fortress did not rest upon the ground. It drifted, suspended in the heavens, a titan of steel and silence. To the world below, it was invisible. Cloaked. Unseen. But it loomed nonetheless, a phantom citadel.
At its heart pulsed the IIQR — Ichor-Infused Quantum Reactor.
It was no mere machine. It was an abomination, a creation forged of Kaelthorn's genius, his ichor, and the harvested blood of countless Infected. The reactor was alive in a sense — quantum matter woven with living essence. It pulsed like a heart, throbbing with inexhaustible power. The IIQR did not simply produce energy; it devoured reality and converted it into fuel.
The fortress lived because of it. The lights, the sensors, the automated defenses, the cloaking veil, all fed from that endless core. The Hollow Fortress was not a home. It was a predator, orbiting above the carcass of a world.
Satisfied with its hum, Kaelthorn turned back inside.
.
.
The chamber was immaculate. White walls, white ceiling, white floor. The table at its center was white as bone, sterile and unyielding. Kaelthorn stepped forward, his presence filling the void.
He laid his left hand upon the table.
The fortress responded. Scanners unfolded from the ceiling and walls, beams sweeping across his body. His passcode was entered, his identity verified. Iris scan. Heartbeat analysis. Soul-trace recognition. Every lock demanded his essence. Every lock confirmed: only him.
The room awakened.
Panels slid open in the walls, and racks emerged. Steel groaned softly as weapons revealed themselves under the sterile light. Rows upon rows of firearms lined the chamber. Assault rifles gleamed. Carbines rested in their slots. Submachine guns, grenade launchers, flamethrowers, sniper rifles — each tool of death polished and prepared.
The table itself opened. Within lay handguns, pistols, revolvers, lined with surgical precision. Kaelthorn withdrew the Beretta M9 and returned it to its place. Then he reached for the Desert Eagle. Heavy. Final. Absolute. A weapon of devastation compressed into steel.
With a flick of command, the racks withdrew, leaving the room sterile once more. Then, at his will, they opened again — this time offering magazines, grenades, and ammunition. Kaelthorn armed himself carefully: four .44 Magnum magazines, two fragmentation grenades, two thermite grenades. Each chosen with purpose, each concealed upon his person.
The racks withdrew. Silence returned.
Kaelthorn turned, his footsteps echoing in the empty chamber. The fortress was ready. His weapons were chosen. His mind was steady.
Now it was time to face the world that awaited him beyond the stars.
.
.
Kaelthorn stood motionless at the edge of the Hollow Fortress, cloak unfurling in the high wind like torn banners of war. His crimson eyes glowed faintly, unblinking, as he surveyed the settlement below.
From this height, it looked like a fortress of man—steel walls, heavy gates, layered defences. But time had stripped it bare. Rust gnawed its bones. Hinges sagged like broken necks. The once-living mechanisms of survival now hung crooked, half-devoured by neglect.
Inside, soot-stained train platforms sprawled like arteries across the settlement. Cargo crates split open years ago lay scattered in heaps, tarps torn and stiff with mildew. Abandoned steam engines towered in skeletal silence, their boilers cold, pistons locked forever mid-motion. They stood like corpses that once had hearts of fire.
Nature had begun its reclamation. Ivy crept up stone and steel, weaving through cracks like veins. Banners that once shouted "Hope Rides the Rails" and "Steel is Life" now clung in tatters, faded cloth snapping weakly in the wind—ghosts of promises that no one believed.
The air was oppressive. Heavy with the musk of rust and oil, wet stone, and the faint rot of wood. Each imagined step below seemed to echo already, as if the ruins themselves warned intruders away.
Kaelthorn raised his binoculars, every detail filed away in his mind.
The houses were fortresses in miniature—thick timber, stone, and salvaged steel hammered into walls. Sloped roofs patched with rusted sheets. Windows narrow, barred and shuttered, built not for comfort but for siege. Chimneys still whispered smoke into the night, proof that something—or someone—clung to life.
Yet the homes were scarred. Bullet holes patched with scrap metal. Boards nailed over claw gouges. Weather-beaten wood stripped of paint, stained dark from years of smoke and rain. Some leaned on broken foundations, ivy strangling their frames. Every structure breathed desperation.
Then the light shifted. Clouds slid across the sky. In the brief gloom, Kaelthorn saw them.
Golden-black radiances, scattered throughout the streets like dying embers.
He narrowed his eyes, focused. His gaze cut through distance—and what he saw was no longer human.
Skin greyed to ash. Veins glowing with molten corruption. Eyes hollow, with only red pupils burning like coals in the void. Hearts pulsed brightest of all—molten cores caged in ribbed iron, radiating hunger.
The entire settlement throbbed with them.
'Kaelthorn: So. These are the ones Io warned me about.'
Then it came.
WHISTLE!!!
A whistle. Long. Piercing. A sound that split the silence like a blade drawn across glass.
Kaelthorn's head snapped toward the horizon. From the forest came smoke, light, and the low thunder of wheels on rails. The ground trembled with its approach.
A train. No, not merely a train—a leviathan.
The armored fortress burst from the trees, iron lungs roaring. Its steel hide was plated thick, blackened by soot and old fire. Bolts jutted like scars hammered into wounded flesh. The cowcatcher at the prow was jagged, a steel jaw built to crush everything in its path. Above, two burning headlights cut the night in spears of orange.
Steam screamed from the boilers. White plumes tore skyward. Pistons hammered in rhythm, the engine a living beast of metal fury. The earth quaked beneath its relentless surge.
Carriages stretched behind it, each one a fortress on wheels. Gun mounts glinted, barrels tracking the shadows. Guards crouched at every station, eyes sharp, fingers steady on triggers. Narrow windows barred with steel slit the armoured sides. The entire train groaned with weight and power, each breath of steam a war cry.
'Kaelthorn: The driver has no intent to stop. They already know this place is lost.'
The Undead reacted instantly.
Their heads turned in unison, red pupils igniting. Screeches tore through the air as they hurled themselves onto the tracks.
The train did not falter.
The cowcatcher struck first. Flesh, bone, and burning ichor exploded in sprays across the prow. Limbs shattered like twigs. Bodies crushed into crimson paste, smearing the steel red as the train plowed through.
But the dead were endless. Dozens leapt onto the carriages, claws gouging at metal. Others swarmed the sides, climbing with monstrous speed.
Gunfire erupted. Bullets spat from the reinforced slits. Some Undead were blasted off in showers of ichor, tumbling lifeless into the night. But others clung on, undeterred, glowing cores refusing to extinguish.
One slammed its fists into the armoured wall. Steel bent inward. Another tore at the roof plating with clawed hands, sparks flying.
Kaelthorn's eyes narrowed, studying.
'Kaelthorn: Faster. Stronger. More durable. They surpass the Infected in every aspect. Evolution built for slaughter.'
The train roared, pushing free of the settlement's borders.
Kaelthorn's decision was immediate.
A silent command rippled through the sky. The Hollow Fortress began to cloak itself, dome shifting into concealment. But Kaelthorn did not remain.
He stepped off the edge.
The wind howled like a beast as he fell. His cape tore through the night air, a streak of shadow descending. He twisted mid-fall, aligning his body like a blade, eyes locked on the moving fortress below.
He hit.
BOOM!
The impact was thunder. Steel shuddered. Bolts rattled. The entire train lurched as though struck by a falling star. Inside, men shouted in alarm. On the roof, the Kabane froze mid-motion, their glowing eyes swivelling as one toward the intruder.
Kaelthorn rose. Slowly. Deliberately.
His crimson eyes burned like twin suns in the dark. His black-red cape snapped in the gale, spreading like the wings of a predator.
His hand slid to his blade. The steel hissed free. He spun it once, smooth and precise, then lowered it, stance cold and unyielding.
A storm of monsters crouched before him, growling, hearts blazing. The train thundered beneath them, wheels shrieking iron. The night itself seemed to hold its breath.
Kaelthorn: Come.
.
.
.
Inside one of the armored carriages, the sudden tremor rippled through the steel walls. A girl stirred from her sleep, shifting on the rough bedding of hay with a thin pillow beneath her head. Her short brown hair clung in strands across her face, and her reddish-brown eyes blinked open in irritation. She wore a pale pink yukata, modest yet out of place in this metal coffin of war, and around her slender neck an indigo ribbon was tied too tightly—like both ornament and shackle.
Girl: What was that?
Her voice, soft yet edged with curiosity, drew the attention of the only other occupant. A man sat across from her, posture composed despite the shouts and scurrying feet of the panicked passengers outside. His medium-length dark hair framed a face that betrayed neither fear nor urgency. Dressed head to toe in clean, white garb, he leaned calmly on the staff resting across his knees.
Man: Probably a Kabane. But… it didn't sound that simple.
Unlike the others, who pressed against slitted windows and muttered in fear, his words carried a tone of quiet calculation.
Girl: Should I check it out?
Man: It will be better. Be careful, and make it quick, Mumei.
Mumei: Mn. I will.
The girl, now named Mumei, pushed herself up lightly. Despite the train's constant rattle beneath her feet, she moved like flowing water, her balance unbroken. Her petite frame slipped out of the compartment and into the night air.
.
.
The Kabane stormed the roof like a tide of living corpses, their molten hearts pulsing faintly behind steel cages. Their claws screeched across the armored plating as they scrambled for purchase, fangs snapping in mindless hunger.
Kaelthorn stood his ground, cape lashing behind him in the rushing wind. His knife whispered through the dark, a red shimmer gleaming at its tip.
SHIN!!
The blade cut true, plunging into a glowing cage. The Kabane convulsed as its heart burst, spraying molten ichor across Kaelthorn's arm. His flesh drank it greedily, veins burning with the rush of power.
BA-DUMP.
His heart pounded once, and the world sharpened. His crimson eyes glowed hotter, every detail of the battlefield etched with unnatural clarity.
More came. He pivoted sharply, driving the blade upward through a Kabane's jaw, then ripping it free in a spray of bone fragments. The corpse crumpled underfoot, kicked aside like broken debris.
BANG!
BANG!
His Desert Eagle roared, deafening against the howling wind. Two Kabane were blown apart mid-leap, molten cores shattered. The sheer force hurled their bodies into the darkness, limbs cartwheeling into the night.
The hatch clanged open behind him. A small silhouette rose from the carriage below.
Short brown hair whipped in the air, a ribbon snapping taut against her throat. Mumei stepped onto the roof with measured grace, pink Yukata rustling faintly. Her reddish-brown eyes widened as she beheld the figure before her—a man moving like a storm, carving through Kabane with unnatural precision.
For a heartbeat, she froze. The way he stood, the way he struck—this wasn't human. His presence pressed against her chest like a weight, each movement calculated and merciless.
Mumei: …What… is he?
She whispered, barely audible over the wind.
But hesitation killed, and hesitation wasn't in her nature. Twin blades sang as she drew them. A Kabane lunged, and she spun, slicing its legs out from under it before driving steel into its glowing core. Sparks erupted across her Yukata, ichor spraying like molten embers.
Her eyes flicked to Kaelthorn's. Cold, crimson fire met her guarded steel. No words were exchanged, but a recognition sparked: two predators in the same hunt.
The Kabane grew frenzied, hurling themselves at the roof in droves. Some clung desperately to the train's sides, clawing and climbing, their glowing cores like embers crawling up the steel walls. The night filled with the clang of claws against iron, the hiss of steam, the thundering grind of wheels.
Mumei struck quick, agile as a dancer, each motion fluid and sharp. But even as she moved, she felt his presence overshadowing hers—Kaelthorn cut through Kabane with terrifying efficiency, his every movement backed by the unnatural rhythm of his blood-forged power.
BANG!
A shot rang out, shattering another heart.
THUD!!
A corpse flopped uselessly off the train, limbs twisted like discarded dolls.
And still, Kaelthorn barely breathed harder.
Then—everything stopped.
Kaelthorn's head snapped toward the horizon. His eyes narrowed, glowing faintly in the dark. The Kabane still swarmed, but his attention was elsewhere—something heavy pressed against the air itself, thick and oppressive.
Mumei felt it too. The hair at her neck prickled. Her stomach clenched. She didn't know why—but something wrong was watching.
Out of the forest's shadow, it emerged.
A figure—humanoid, but unmistakably other. Taller, broader, its flesh faintly steaming in the cool night air. Its presence was brighter than any Kabane's, but not mindless—no, its eyes gleamed with intelligence, patient and cruel. Its presence spread like frost down Mumei's spine.
Kaelthorn's lips moved. One word, almost a growl.
Kaelthorn: …Strong.
The creature raised its arm, spear gripped firm. Blue energy, cold and otherworldly, coiled around it like liquid lightning. The hum built, vibrating in the bones of everyone who watched.
And then—
FWOOSH!!!
The spear left its hand, tearing the air asunder.
Kaelthorn moved a fraction too fast for the eye. His head tilted—just enough. The spear screamed past his cheek, its energy trailing sparks of blue fire.
CRASH!!!
The engine took the blow. Steel shrieked as if alive. The entire train buckled, wheels grinding off the track. The carriages swayed violently, passengers screaming inside. Mumei was flung sideways, barely catching the rail, her blades clattering against the roof.
The train threatened to tip. For a moment, it was going to flip—the iron beast nearly rolling to its side.
.
.
Below, fear was its own contagion.
Mothers clutched their children tighter, muffling whimpers with trembling hands. Lanterns swayed wildly, casting broken shadows across hay-strewn floors. Every bang on the roof sent screams tearing loose from throats. Every rattle of gunfire above felt like the sky cracking apart.
Riflemen at the firing slits shouted to steady one another, their bullets sparking against Kabane flesh. The creatures fell from the train, only to rise again, glowing hearts thudding louder than the guns themselves. Sweat and powder smoke thickened the air.
A child peeked through barred windows, only to shriek as a Kabane's face smashed against the steel, molten veins glowing inches from his own. His mother yanked him back, her sobs mixing with his.
And then—
CRASH!!!
The spear slammed into the engine.
The carriages convulsed. Glass shattered. Lanterns burst. Darkness plunged half the compartments into chaos as passengers tumbled over one another, hay scattering, bodies slamming into cold steel. Screams drowned the roar of the train.
One man clung to a seat post until his fingernails cracked and bled. His voice rasped hoarsely:
Passenger: It's over… it's over… we're finished.
Some wept openly. Some whispered frantic prayers. Others simply stared blankly into the dark, their minds breaking beneath the tremor.
Then… silence. A silence so deep it suffocated.
BAM!!
A loud noise came, making the whole train tremble. Then the train steadied. Wheels ground back to balance. The Fortress of Iron did not fall.
No one cheered. No one dared. They all knew—something else had held them steady. Something outside. Something not human.
.
.
BAM!!
Kaelthorn slammed his boot into the roof. The metal dented under the force, the entire frame shuddering. The counterforce dragged the train back onto the tracks with a shower of sparks. Screeching metal, howling wheels—and then it steadied.
Steam burst skyward. The fortress-train lived.
Mumei stared at him, heart racing. He wasn't human. He couldn't be. No man stopped a train with a stomp.
Far in the dark, the creature stood, its breath steaming in slow, controlled puffs. Its eyes never wavered, fixed on Kaelthorn alone.
The Kabane no longer mattered. The train no longer mattered. In that moment, the night itself seemed to bow around them. Predator had found predator.
Its gaze pressed down like a weight, suffocating and cold. Even Mumei, hardened by blood and war, felt small under it—an insect caught between giants.
The creature inhaled, exhaled, then slowly turned, fading back into the black woods. But its meaning was clear. This wasn't over. It had chosen Kaelthorn.
Kaelthorn's eyes glowed brighter, unblinking, as he watched it vanish. His voice was low, quiet, but edged with iron.
Kaelthorn: …I'll be waiting. Then we'll see who hunts who.
Mumei's grip on her blades tightened. She didn't say a word, but her thoughts burned. Whoever he was, he wasn't an ally, wasn't an enemy—he was something else. Something dangerous.
And the night had only just begun.
.
.
.
.
.
Kaelthorn moved his gaze away from the creature's lingering presence in the distance and fixed it instead on the girl before him. She stood on the carriage roof, posture taut, blades at the ready, her reddish-brown eyes burning with vigilance. But under the weight of his stare—those crimson eyes glowing faintly in the dark, unnatural, cold—her throat tightened. She gulped despite herself, and a bead of sweat ran down her temple.
For Kaelthorn, the silence between them was louder than the roaring train beneath their feet. He studied her with the same detached calculation he gave to battlefields—measuring her stance, the way her muscles tensed, the slight tremor in her grip. She wasn't ordinary. He could see it. Something within her was altered, twisted toward survival.
He slid his Desert Eagle back into its place beneath his cloak, keeping only the blood-honed knife in his right hand. Then, with his left, he lifted his index finger, curling it slowly into a mocking beckon.
A provocation.
Mumei stiffened. His gesture struck her pride like a blade, as though he were calling her a child. Rage stirred in her chest, but the suffocating menace radiating from his eyes kept her from charging blindly. Still, she would not retreat.
With a single motion, she untied the indigo ribbon at her neck. For an instant, her amber eyes flared with a golden glow before dimming back to their human hue. Kaelthorn caught the shift immediately. His thoughts flickered.
'Kaelthorn: This girl… Interesting.'
And then she vanished.
No—she moved, but her speed was so far beyond human that to most eyes it would appear as a disappearance. In less than a heartbeat, she was before him, twin blades arcing with lethal precision.
SLASH!
CLANG!
Her steel met his knife with a ringing crash. Sparks spat into the wind. She pressed harder, momentum carrying her into a flurry. Blow after blow, her arms blurred, strikes raining from every angle with blinding speed.
Kaelthorn yielded ground step by step, cloak snapping in the wind, his boots grinding sparks against the iron roof. Yet, though she drove him back, her blades never touched him. His knife intercepted with uncanny precision—parries, deflections, redirections, as if he had already seen each attack before it came.
The truth was simple: he had. His instincts and mastery read her like an open book. Each shift in her weight, each flicker of her gaze telegraphed the next movement. To her, it was a battle; to him, a rehearsal.
Her strikes were swift, stronger than most foes he had met. Faster, even, than his own raw speed. But speed without experience is chaos. And Kaelthorn thrived in chaos.
CLANG!
THUNK!
Steel rang as he caught her right-hand blade, twisted, and kicked at her shin in the same motion.
Mumei gasped—her footing broke. She stumbled, dropped to one hand to keep balance, but before she could recover, Kaelthorn's shadow loomed. He seized her collar, vaulted effortlessly over her body, and flung her backward like a discarded doll.
BAM!
Her body slammed against the steel, skidding across the roof before she rolled to her feet again.
But Kaelthorn was already upon her. His knife carved through the air in sudden offence, the strikes fluid yet cruel, arcing from odd angles that made her stumble to follow. Each slash pressed her further back, her remaining blade shrieking against his edge.
CLANG!
One strike jarred her so hard the hilt tore from her hand. The blade spun into the night, lost. She barely raised the other in time to block.
BANG!
The block cost her. Kaelthorn pivoted smoothly, driving his boot into her gut with punishing force.
Mumei: Gah!
The kick ripped the air from her lungs and hurled her backwards. She smashed into the frame of the carriage, metal groaning under the impact. Her knees buckled, arms trembling as she tried to rise, but her strength faltered.
'Mumei: Oh no… I'm out of time…'
Her altered stamina was burning out, and she knew it.
Kaelthorn's steps echoed as he approached. Slow, deliberate. His glowing eyes bore into her, stripping her defences more than any blade. She tensed, thinking this was the end.
Instead, something soft landed in her lap. Her ribbon.
Blinking in shock, she looked up. His voice came, cold and edged with authority.
Kaelthorn: Too much wasted movement. You're bleeding strength with every swing. Power without discipline is nothing.
His critique cut deeper than her bruises. Before she could form a retort, he turned his back on her, cloak swaying in the night air, and walked toward the forward carriage.
The train beneath them rattled harder now, slowing. Kaelthorn's eyes narrowed.
'Kaelthorn: Looks like that creature succeeded in a way.'
Behind him, Mumei pushed herself upright, still gasping.
Mumei: Wait… who are you?
He paused mid-step, glanced over his shoulder, and met her gaze once more. The crimson glow in his eyes burned like coals in the dark.
Kaelthorn: You can call me… Tass.
Then he turned, leaving her in silence as he advanced toward the heart of the train.
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*A/N: Please throw some power stones.
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