There was silence.
A heavy kind of silence that filled the air like smoke after a storm. The wooden door creaked softly as the wind pressed against it. Inside, the room was lined with shelves stacked high with books of all kinds. A single chair sat behind a desk, its wood scratched and scarred by time. Trail was sitting there, calm but deep in thought, the glow from a dim lantern tracing the sharp lines of his face.
Footsteps echoed through the hall outside—slow, steady, powerful. The knock came: two light taps, followed by one firm strike.
Trail rose from his chair and opened the door.
"Long time no see," he said quietly, his tone almost nostalgic. "How are you, Zord?"
A faint smile crossed Zord's face as he stepped in. He was tall and broad-shouldered, his coat carrying the scent of old rain. Though Zord was the strongest warrior after Luxorious, his meetings with Trail had been rare—years apart, always short, always serious.
Zord sat down across from him. "How are you, old friend?" he asked, setting his gloves on the table.
"I'm fine," Trail replied, leaning back. "I just invited you for something… important."
Zord raised a brow, his expression curious but cautious. He reached for the jug on the table, poured himself a glass of water, and drank. "What is it?"
Trail reached inside his coat and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He placed it on the desk gently, almost reverently.
Zord leaned forward. The word written on it caught his eye immediately — Mikana.
"Hmm… End of time?" Zord muttered, his eyes narrowing. "It's a warning, isn't it? Something dangerous is coming."
Trail nodded. "Exactly. The recent murders of Lockhead and Hikauchi — two retired higher-ups. Someone's hunting them. I invited you because I need a favor. You're the second most powerful, and the only detective I can truly count on."
Zord's fingers tightened around the glass. "I heard Luxorious was active again. Didn't he take down the Golem and the Black Death by himself?"
Trail exhaled slowly. "He did. But his nature… his ego is beyond human understanding. That's why I sent him toward the successor of the Black Sword."
Zord's eyes widened slightly, though his face remained calm. "The Black Sword?" he said quietly. "That sword protects its wielder, doesn't it?"
"Even if it does," Trail replied, "he's still just a boy. A boy who needs someone to protect him."
There was a long silence. The only sound was the quiet tick of the clock on the wall.
Zord looked up. "Still remember our battle against the army?" he asked with a faint grin. "Never thought I'd see you back on the side of humanity."
Trail's gaze darkened. "I don't fight for fame, or even for humanity. I was promised something long ago. Once that promise is fulfilled… I'll leave everything behind."
Zord stood, straightened his coat, and adjusted his glasses. "Then leave this to me. In the end, it's always about consequences, isn't it, Trail?"
Trail looked down at the desk, the paper still sitting there between them. "You're right," he murmured. "It's all about the consequences."
The door closed softly behind Zord, leaving the old room in silence once again.
Elsewhere…
A cold night wrapped the land in frost. The stars shone clearly above, painting the sky with silver streaks of the Milky Way.
A wooden cart came to a stop outside Mr. Wood's house. Inside the cart sat Aron, silent and heavy-hearted. Carlos was with him, his expression stern.
Carlos turned to him. "Tomorrow, the first thing you'll tell me is that everything's okay, understood?" His tone was sharp, but beneath it was worry.
Aron nodded, guilt written across his face.
Carlos sighed, flicked the reins, and rode off into the dark. The sound of hooves faded, leaving only the whisper of wind brushing across the frozen land.
Aron stood still, his breath turning to mist. "Thanks to that guy," he muttered, "we escaped."
Nearby, a massive rock jutted out from the snowy ground, almost twice his height. Aron sat on it, staring at the distant horizon. His heart was heavy—memories weighing him down. He looked up at the stars.
The world around him was silent, but inside him there was chaos.
"What should I do?" he whispered. "Damn it…" He punched the rock, the echo breaking through the still night. "I can't choose! I can't fight… and I can't live in peace!" He hit his chest again, harder. "What is it that I'm supposed to be?!"
His knuckles bled. He struck himself again, but before he could continue, a hand caught his arm.
It was Mr. Wood.
The old man's face was calm but full of concern. He had come outside when he heard the sound.
"What is it, son?" Wood asked softly. "Something troubling you?"
Aron's breath shuddered. "Wood… Mr. Wood…" His voice broke. "I… I want to be a kind person," he said, his eyes wet with guilt and pain.
"Kind?" Wood smiled sadly. "But son, aren't you already kind? Were you guilty or cruel before?"
Aron didn't answer. He just stared at the ground, his chest rising and falling with deep breaths. The stars reflected in his eyes.
Wood sat beside him. "Remember, son," he said gently, "you planted a seed once, and life grew from it. That means you're not a destroyer. You're a maker. Someone who helps, who revives. From the moment you were born, you were kind."
Aron lifted his head slowly, his voice trembling. "A maker… I am?"
He clenched his fists. "How long will I suffer then? I've seen bodies burned, children pierced, lives shattered. I buried every one of them… even my own."
His voice grew hoarse. "I came here for revenge, but I saw myself change—turning from a monster into something human. Why? Why do I have to suffer this way? Why can't I be the one who deserves peace? Do I only exist to witness death, to see people burn and scream? Should I kill as well?!"
He gritted his teeth. "If only that blade hadn't chosen me… maybe my destiny would've been different."
Wood listened quietly, the night breeze tugging at his cloak. "You should rest now," he said gently. "You've carried too much for too long." He stood and walked back to the house, glancing over his shoulder once before disappearing inside.
Aron stayed seated, motionless. The world around him was still. Then, quietly, he whispered, "Not maybe… definitely."
He looked down. The blade beside him began to vibrate—three slow pulses, then two shorter ones, and finally a single long vibration. The sound was low, like a heartbeat, resonating through the frozen ground.
Aron closed his eyes. The stars seemed to fade as the night deepened.
The wind whispered softly through the trees, carrying a single truth that lingered in his mind.