The wind on the outskirts of Belobog didn't just blow; it carved. It was a relentless, jagged thing that sought out gaps in armor and tears in fabric with surgical precision.
Kenta sat perched on a calcified snowdrift, the collar of his cloak pulled high against his neck. He looked every bit the brooding wanderer—ink-black hair dusted with frost, sharp features partially eclipsed by shadows, and dark red eyes that held a weary, clinical detachment. Between his fingers, a flick of black flame danced, hungry and void-like, instantly reducing a stray pine branch to a memory of ash.
He let out a long, foggy sigh that vanished into the gale. With a practiced snap of his wrist, the black void flickered out, replaced by a mundane, crimson spark to light the small woodpile at his feet.
Survival was a chore.
He still hadn't fully processed the cosmic joke that was his "transmigration." One moment, he was navigating the mundane headaches of Earth; the next, he was dropped into the deep freeze of Jarilo-VI. The silver lining? He was in the world of Honkai: Star Rail. The catch? He'd never actually played the damn game.
His entire tactical database consisted of half-remembered meme edits and 15-second clips. Something about a sentient train, a baseball bat, and a group of "Trailblazers" playing space-cops.
"Should've watched a lore summary," Kenta muttered, poking the fire with a charred stick. " 'Learn the meta,' they said. 'It'll be fun,' they said."
He wasn't here to save the world or chart the stars. He was here to make sure his stomach didn't collapse in on itself. Being a hero required a budget he simply didn't have. He was an Outlander with a talent for pyrotechnics and an even greater talent for being broke.
The cold gnawed at his bones, prompting him to stand and shake the accumulating slush from his cloak. He reached into a hidden pocket and pulled out a crumpled, damp piece of parchment—the "map" he'd bought from a certain blue-haired opportunist.
His mind flashed back to the transaction in the Underworld.
"Are you certain this isn't a restaurant placemat, Sampo?" Kenta had asked, eyeing the flamboyant man with lethal suspicion.
"Pal, old Sampo worked his fingers to the bone for this! It's an authentic topographical rendering!"
"Then explain why the 'Overworld' is just a giant white square with a doodle of a screaming face in the corner."
"Artistic license, brother! The snow is white, isn't it?"
"Scammer," Kenta hissed under his breath now, squinting at the crooked lines. If he ever saw those leather boots again, they were going to meet the business end of his own foot. According to the "doodle," if he crossed the next ridge, he should encounter—what looked like a refrigerator in SpongeBob trunks?
"The map is a lie, and I am a fool," he whispered to the wind, trudging forward into the whiteout.
At the base of a jagged peak, Lynx Landau was a study in professional preparation. Buried under a mountain of high-tech insulation and a fur-lined hat that made her look like a very focused puffball, she tightened the straps on her climbing rig. Her cheeks were flushed a soft rose-pink from the biting air, but her expression remained as stoic as the Pillars of Creation.
Hours later, the payoff arrived.
Inside a cavern carved into the mountainside, Lynx held her lantern high. The light danced off ancient stone carvings—remnants of a Belobog before the freeze. "Over a century old," she murmured, her breath hitching slightly from the climb.
Then, she saw it. A heavy, brass-toothed mechanical gear resting in the permafrost like a discarded crown.
"No way," a voice echoed from the cave mouth. "The map actually worked? I might have to kick Sampo two fewer times for this."
Lynx stiffened. Kenta sauntered into the cavern, his red eyes immediately locking onto the prize. Their gazes met, flicked to the gear, and snapped back to each other.
In a blur of parkour and desperation, they both lunged. Lynx, fueled by the sheer stubbornness of the Landau bloodline, dove first. She wrapped her arms around the heavy metal component, hugging it to her chest like a prized teddy bear.
Kenta slid to a halt, his hand hovering inches from her shoulder. He cleared his throat, leaning back with a forced, roguish nonchalance.
"Ahem. Fancy meeting you here, Lynx. Just out for a casual subterranean stroll?"
Lynx stared at him, her eyes wide and unblinking. The silence was deafening.
"Look, kid," Kenta said, dropping the charm for a pained grimace. "Be a pal. Hand it over. My margins are razor-thin this month. I'm practically a charity case."
"Liar," Lynx said, her voice small but piercingly clear. "The loot you 'borrowed' last week was enough to fund a Lynx-base for a year."
Kenta winced. "I hate sharp kids. Fine. No more Mr. Nice Guy."
He stepped forward, fingers wiggling in a threatening gesture. "Resistance is futile! Prepare for the tickle-torture protocol!"
He lunged for her waist, expecting the usual frantic giggling that would force her to drop the gear. Instead, he met a wall of stiff, unresponsive fabric. He grovelled at her sides for a solid minute, looking increasingly bewildered.
"It's no use," Lynx said, a tiny, almost imperceptible smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. "After last time, I wore three extra base layers. I am immune to your tactics."
Kenta froze. The defeat stung, but his survival instinct was faster. He silently drifted behind her.
"?" Lynx tilted her head.
Before she could process the movement, Kenta channeled a brief, concentrated burst of the Frozen Outskirts' own chill into his palm. He reached down the back of her collar—straight past the insulation—and pressed his freezing hand against her skin.
"Eek!"
The shock sent a jolt through her system. Her muscles went limp for a split second, and the heavy gear slipped from her grasp.
"What are you—!" She spun around, face turning a spectacular shade of crimson, but the cave entrance was already empty.
"NIGERUNDAYO!" Kenta's voice echoed from the distance, followed by the crunch of sprinting boots.
Ten minutes later, Kenta was a safe distance away, the weight of the gear in his pack providing a comforting anchor against the wind.
"Right," he muttered, ticking off a mental checklist. "Hook's birthday gift is sorted. This gear for Clara's project... and then there's that 'gift' for Seele."
He chuckled, remembering the way the Wildfire leader had looked at a stuffed toy with the intensity of someone staring down a Fragmentum monster, all while claiming she "didn't care for such childish things." If he didn't bring it back, he'd likely be sliced into ribbons, regardless of what she said.
As he approached the main trail leading back toward the city, the sound of voices drifted through the snow—high-pitched, energetic, and strangely rhythmic.
"It's truly icy and snowy!" "It's truly icy and snowy!" "You're a repeater!"
Kenta paused, squinting through the haze. Ahead, three silhouettes stood out against the white: a dash of gray, a shock of bright pink, and a somber black.
The main cast. The "Trailblazers."
Kenta adjusted his cloak, his grip tightening on his pack. His debt-ridden past was one thing, but the future was walking straight toward him.