The office door closed behind him with a dull metallic sound.
For a moment, Shura remained still beneath the corridor lights.
The strange mask rested beneath his coat beside the folded train ticket.
Cold metal.
Thin paper.
Both carrying him somewhere unfamiliar.
Then he started walking toward the exit while the distant machinery of the Iron House continued breathing behind him.
Shura stepped out into the street, air of Ossuarium brushing against his face as the Beacon glow shifted overhead.
For a moment, he just stood there.
Then his hand moved unconsciously toward the sleeve of his coat.
The silver-threaded fabric was beginning to wear near the cuffs now. Small tears had started forming along the inner lining. Dust clung stubbornly to the darker folds.
He looked down at himself quietly.
"…I should change clothes."
The thought felt strangely important now that he actually had money.
His fingers brushed lightly against the Copp coins in his pocket.
Ten.
Still unfamiliar.
Shura began walking.
"I'm in Ward Two…" he murmured to himself. "And I live near Ward Four. That's not very far."
His eyes drifted upward toward the maze of elevated bridges crossing between the massive buildings overhead.
"The library is in Ward Five… near the front sectors of Ward One."
He paused briefly at an intersection.
"…I need to figure out which path is shorter."
A faint sigh escaped him.
"I don't think there's a canal route nearby."
People moved around him in steady streams. Workers returning from night-cycle shifts. Vendors setting up iron-framed stalls beneath the warming Beacon glow. The distant hum of machinery echoed endlessly through the layered streets.
Shura walked absentmindedly while thinking.
Several minutes passed before he suddenly slowed.
His eyes lifted.
Shura slowed slightly.
The layered streets ahead slowly opened toward the distant roads leading to the Free Area again.
He blinked once.
"…I took this wrong path?"
For a moment, he simply stared at it from afar.
Not close enough to enter.
Not close enough to hear the voices inside.
Just near enough to recognize it immediately.
A faint breath escaped him.
Then, unexpectedly, a small smile crossed his face.
Without realizing it, his feet had chosen the route leading toward the Free Area on their own.
Toward somewhere he had no reason to return to—
and still wanted to.
Toward something that had started feeling strangely familiar.
"…That's troublesome," he muttered quietly.
Shura adjusted his direction slightly and continued walking past it instead.
He turned away before entering and continued down another street instead.
Shura glanced around.
"…But where can I even buy clothes?"
He stopped near the edge of a canal route running beneath a metal bridge. Dark water moved slowly below, reflecting fractured Beacon light like liquid glass.
"There's a canal here," he murmured. "I could probably cross through this route faster…"
His hand slipped into his pocket again.
Ten Copp.
Enough to matter.
Nearby, a worker sat alone on a bench beneath a flickering street lamp, drinking from a dented metal container before starting his next shift.
Shura approached him quietly.
"Do you know where I can buy clothes?"
The man glanced up once.
Then again.
Slower this time.
His eyes moved carefully across Shura's coat—the silver threading, the fitted structure, the clean craftsmanship buried beneath wear and exhaustion.
The worker frowned slightly.
"…There's nothing around here for someone like you."
Shura tilted his head.
"Someone like me?"
"People wearing coats like that don't usually shop in the lower districts."
The man leaned back against the bench.
"Where'd you even come from?"
Shura answered immediately.
"I don't want to answer that."
The worker snorted softly.
"…Rude. As expected."
But he pointed lazily down another street anyway.
"Most clothing shops are in the Fifth Ward. Eighth Ward too, if you want cheaper stuff."
His eyes lingered on the coat one last time.
"…Still strange seeing someone dressed like that walking around here alone."
Shura gave a small nod.
"Thank you."
Then he continued walking.
"…Library," he murmured to himself. "Then clothes."
The city slowly changed around him as he moved farther from the industrial sectors.
The air became clearer.
Not clean.
Just… less heavy.
The buildings rose taller here, their soot-dark stone stretching upward like jagged cliffs beneath the artificial sky. Ornate railings curled along balconies high above the streets while narrow Beacon lamps extended endlessly into the distance like glowing veins through the city.
Ward Five felt different.
The layered streets gradually widened as he moved farther from the industrial districts.
The constant hammering of machinery faded behind him little by little, replaced by conversation, music, and the restless movement of crowded avenues.
People weren't only working here.
They existed here.
Some sat outside cafes built into the stone walls, talking quietly over steaming metal cups. Others argued near storefronts while children chased each other between iron pillars beneath the morning glow. A group of musicians played soft mechanical instruments near a bridge crossing overhead.
The noise wasn't chaotic.
It flowed.
Shura slowed slightly as he walked through the crowded avenue.
His eyes moved carefully between faces.
Conversations.
Laughter.
Arguments.
Families.
Something about it all felt distant to him.
Not unfamiliar.
Almost the opposite.
Like he was remembering a feeling without remembering the memory attached to it.
Then—
A scent drifted through the air.
Warm. Bitter. Groundy.
Shura stopped.
Steam curled upward from a nearby stall where a woman poured dark liquid into small metal cups beneath the Beacon light.
"…Tea?" he murmured.
The scent felt impossible somehow.
Too natural.
Too soft for Ossuarium.
He stared at the steam quietly.
The smell felt strange.
Not because he didn't recognize it.
Because some part of him did.
His brows slowly furrowed.
"…What is it even made from…"
The moment the thought surfaced—
Pain struck.
Sharp. Sudden.
Shura's breath caught violently in his throat.
"Agh—"
He stumbled sideways and grabbed the nearest street lamp for support.
Metal vibrated softly beneath his grip.
The world around him blurred for half a second.
Voices stretched strangely.
The steam from the tea twisted upward—
And for the briefest instant—
He felt like he had seen leaves before.
Not machines.
Not metal.
Something softer.
Alive.
The sensation vanished immediately.
Pain surged harder through the side of his skull.
Shura lowered his head sharply, gripping the lamp tighter as his breathing became uneven.
"…That pain again…" he whispered quietly.