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Author Note:
' ' = When thinking in mind.
Italic = World Whisper.
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**Note: Correction. Kaelthorn is not wearing a cape or a cloak. He is wearing a Mantle.
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BZZZ!
VRRR!
The forest's silence cracked under the sudden drone of machinery.
Wind surged outward in concentric circles, stirring the soil, whipping through branches. Leaves twisted and scattered, dust coiling into the air like smoke from unseen fires.
Kaelthorn's mantle rippled in the disturbance — that long, asymmetrical shroud of black and crimson that veiled his left side. It clung, then fluttered, then settled again in layered silence as he raised his head.
Above him, cutting through the grey canopy, a drone hovered. A cold mechanical eye blinking. A steel messenger from elsewhere — from a fortress that still answered to his will.
Kaelthorn: Right on time.
His voice was a calm incision through the noise.
The drone's propellers whirred down a pitch, and a mounted compartment beneath it slid open. A single red sensor rotated, locking onto him. A beam traced down, scanning the curvature of his mantle, the exposed hand, the faint glint of his covered right arm.
It paused, recalibrated, scanned again — cautious, exact. Kaelthorn didn't move. The forest's dust swirled around him as if it feared to touch him.
After several sweeps, the drone descended, lowering itself until the propellers carved thin lines through the leaves.
He took one step back, letting the air pressure fade before the machine settled on the soil. The buzzing died.
The world exhaled.
Kaelthorn approached, boots silent against the churned dirt. He withdrew his phone and placed it against the small security panel on the compartment's surface.
Light flickered.
A scan ran.
Accepted.
Another panel slid out.
From beneath his mantle he produced a portable laptop, black and thin, coated with the faint sheen of dust and blood. He placed it on the pad. The machine hummed again, verifying signatures.
Then came the third lock.
A smaller compartment, waiting for flesh. Kaelthorn pressed his left hand — the human one — against the scanner. Fingerless gloves made the contact effortless. Red light shimmered along his fingertips. A moment later, the device beeped once, confirmation granted.
The system paused. No more panels opened. Instead, it waited.
Kaelthorn leaned closer and whispered:
Kaelthorn: Kha'reth … va Nozz'Qural Ein.
CLICK!
The coded words were not human. Their syllables carried a weight that the air itself recoiled from. The lock released with a mechanical sigh, and the main compartment unfolded like a blooming flower of steel.
Inside was everything he had requested.
Kaelthorn's movements became methodical. He lifted out five empty test tubes, cold glass glinting against the dim light. Then he turned toward the corpses littering the clearing.
One by one, he filled the tubes with Kabane blood — thick, tar-like, almost breathing.
He sealed each tube, stowing them in their proper mounts. Then came the medical instruments: scalpels, syringes, collection vials, containment bags.
He dissected with surgical precision. No reverence, no disgust. Only purpose.
Brain tissue, spinal fluid, bone marrow, vessels. The air grew heavier with metallic tang and the low hum of flies that hadn't existed moments ago but had now appeared, drawn to corruption.
Kaelthorn absorbed what blood he didn't need. The red light behind his eyes pulsed faintly — not hunger, but function.
When the harvest ended, the compartment was half-filled with labelled specimens, each one sealed and catalogued. He wiped the instruments clean and returned them with the same meticulous care he gave to killing.
The next section opened with a hiss of compressed air. Weapons gleamed in the artificial light.
Kaelthorn unloaded his sidearm — the Desert Eagle — removing both empty and full magazines and laying them into the drone's storage slot. Then, from within the case, he drew out the new .50 AE magazines — heavier, deadlier. The upgrade he'd planned for.
He slid one into the weapon, the sound crisp in the quiet. Then he fitted the custom silencer — his own design, engineered to devour noise without devouring impact.
Now he could kill in silence.
Now he could make the world die quietly.
He also placed his old combat knife into the compartment. Then he reached for the grenades: two fragmentation, two thermite.
He could have taken all thermite. It would have been practical. Efficient. But Kaelthorn never acted only for the moment. There were other calculations — other plans.
When everything was stored, adjusted, and verified, he closed the compartments one by one. The locks sealed with mechanical clicks. He opened his laptop again, fingers moving across the keys in a blur, issuing return coordinates, encryption commands, silence protocols.
Then he stowed it beneath his mantle, along with the phone.
A low hum began to rise.
BZZZ!
VRRR!
Dust lifted again as the drone's propellers spun to life. Leaves scattered. The machine climbed upward, scanning once more before ascending through the broken canopy and vanishing into the dark cloud above.
Kaelthorn watched it disappear. The glow of its rear light faded like a dying ember.
He turned. The corpses still lay scattered — headless, burned, punctured. He walked toward them with silent steps, mantle dragging faintly through the dust. His right arm tremored once — a low, hungry vibration along the spine nodes.
He knelt beside the nearest body.
And began to draw in the remaining blood.
The forest dimmed again.
The sound of the wind died.
And for a moment, even the world held its breath.
.
.
The forest was still. The silence that followed the drone's departure lingered like a weight pressing against the earth. Kaelthorn moved through the aftermath — over the bodies of the fallen Kabane, through soil darkened by their essence.
Each step carried a faint pulse beneath it — the blood answering him.
He crouched. He drew it in. Slowly. Efficiently.
The corrupted haze that poured from these variants was thicker than before, clinging to him as it merged with his own blood. One by one, the corpses dimmed and dried until there was nothing left but silence and dust.
When the last body faded, Kaelthorn straightened.
And then—
BA-DUMP!
A single heartbeat thundered inside his chest like a hammer striking iron.
His pupils constricted.
Kaelthorn: !!!!!!
The pain came without warning — a tidal surge of agony that swallowed every nerve in an instant. His balance broke. He fell to one knee, then both, his hand pressed hard against his chest. His breath shuddered through clenched teeth.
The sound of blood. The sound of breaking. The sound of something being rewritten.
Every fibre of his being screamed, not in mortal pain but in a violation far deeper — as if reality itself had begun peeling him apart molecule by molecule. He could feel the order of his existence unravelling. His body tremored under forces unseen, cells convulsing as if remembering they were not meant to exist here.
The world blurred. The forest wavered. His sight fractured into threads of red and black.
The ground beneath him darkened. Lines like veins spread outward, pulsating with dim light. They crept beneath his skin, coiling up through his chest, neck, skull — until he felt them pulsing with him, as if the world itself had borrowed his heartbeat.
The pain refused to end. But Kaelthorn did not scream. He could not. He would not.
'Kaelthorn: So… this is how it begins.'
His voice, if it existed at all, was a thought. Detached. Cold.
The pressure inside him mounted until it reached the brink of rupture. The air split. And then—
Darkness.
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.
When Kaelthorn opened his eyes, there was no ground beneath him.
No sound.
No wind.
Only the abyss — infinite, formless, and black.
He floated there, suspended in nothing, his body faintly outlined by the faint glow of the veins that still marked his skin. The patterns pulsed in a rhythm not his own — a foreign heartbeat echoing through borrowed flesh.
He did not move. He had no need to. He had seen this darkness before, lived inside it, walked through its dead echoes. This was not unfamiliar. This was home.
A tremor rippled through the void.
BOOM!
Light erupted from nothing — a burst of pale white radiance tearing open the dark. And from within it, the ashen tree descended.
Its bark glowed faintly, veins of crystal red threading through every limb. From its branches hung countless orbs — blood-beads of crystallized memory.
The Hollow Core.
Kaelthorn's gaze followed the emergence of a new branch. It grew in silence, extending from the main trunk with slow, deliberate grace. A smaller branch sprouted from it — translucent, throbbing faintly with red light.
Inside it, blood began to flow.
The only branch in the entire tree that lived.
Then came the voice — ancient, resonant, neither male nor female, echoing from inside his mind:
"The threshold is blood. The moment you devour enough of their corrupted essence, you ignite the Crimson Genesis — the first echo of your Ichor."
BA-DUMP!
His heart answered.
The veins across his body shifted, no longer chaotic but converging inward — all paths leading to the singular pulse within his chest.
The pain returned, but it was no longer destruction. It was reconstruction.
Within him, everything began to collapse and rebuild.
The process was endless — death feeding birth, failure birthing strength. Every layer of him was broken down and reforged in rhythm with that golden beat.
The virus that had invaded him was no longer a parasite. It was an anvil.
And Kaelthorn — the hammer.
Each destruction was deliberate. Each rebirth stronger.
It was not mercy. It was will.
Kaelthorn was no longer resisting infection. He was mastering it.
The world watched, silent and cold, as something impossible occurred: the invader became the vessel, and the vessel became the forge.
He tore himself apart, willingly this time — letting his blood burn and his being reassemble. Over and over. Until resistance no longer existed. Until destruction itself could no longer touch him.
And then — stillness.
The veins that had once blazed red and black began to recede. The glow condensed inward, collapsing into his chest.
BA-DUMP!
A second heartbeat echoed — louder, purer. The sound reverberated through the void like the strike of a bell.
Beneath his chest, where his heart had once been a silent machine, now glowed gold — luminous, pulsing with quiet power. It radiated light through the fabric of his mantle, faint but unyielding.
Kaelthorn lowered his head, the light painting shadows across his face.
He did not smile. He did not sigh.
'Kaelthorn: Evolution through ruin.'
He closed his eyes, feeling the quiet hum of the golden heart align with the rhythm of the Hollow Core.
The voice returned — softer now, almost a whisper beneath the heartbeat:
"The Ichor remembers what the flesh forgets… Rise, Hollowborn."
Kaelthorn inhaled. The void shifted. The world above called him back.
His words were calm, absolute.
Kaelthorn: It's time to wake up.
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CRUNCH!
CRUNCH!
The forest stirred again.
Leaves cracked under weight — slow, uncoordinated, a dragging gait that broke the stillness Kaelthorn had left behind.
Through the mist wandered a Kabane, drawn by the scent of what it could not comprehend: purity tainted, divinity soaked in blood.
It followed the trail until it saw him.
Kaelthorn lay motionless on the ground, his mantle draped across him like a fallen banner. The creature's hunger flared; its body twitched with feral instinct as it lurched forward, step by step.
But the air shifted.
Kaelthorn stirred. His head rose slightly — a slow, deliberate movement, like the world itself turning an unseen eye.
The Kabane froze.
Then Kaelthorn turned, and his gaze met it.
Two rings of light — golden-crimson, molten at the edges — cut through the darkness. They didn't burn. They consumed.
For the first time in its existence, the Kabane felt something it had forgotten to feel.
Fear.
Its body trembled uncontrollably, muscles locking, mind blank. In that instant, it understood — not through reason, but through the primal certainty of prey recognizing a higher predator.
Kaelthorn looked at it for a few seconds longer, then turned his gaze away, as if the creature was not worth attention.
The fear lingered even after the light left its eyes. The Kabane, half-mad with instinct and shame, roared and charged anyway.
Kaelthorn did not move.
He did not look back.
His left hand twitched once.
A faint whistle sliced the air — a filament so thin it caught no light.
SHNK!
The Kabane's head separated cleanly from its body. It continued to run a few paces before gravity remembered it.
THUD!
PLAT!
Silence reclaimed the clearing.
Kaelthorn raised his hand, studying the thread that shimmered faintly in the air — a line of condensed, disciplined blood.
'Kaelthorn: Stronger than before.'
The filament dissolved back into him, absorbed as if it had never existed.
Where once his threads could restrain, now they could sever. Iron. Bone. The hardened cages of Kabane hearts.
He flexed his fingers and felt it — a difference in the current running beneath his skin. His blood no longer felt uniform.
It shimmered with three tones:
Deep crimson, the refined hue of his Revanant origin.
Threads of gold, faint and alive, humming with alien power.
And the smallest trace of divine radiance — an echo of what the virus had tried to become.
A new equilibrium had been forged within him.
Crimson (1%) : Golden (1%) : Red (98%).
That tiny shift had rewritten everything. His senses sharpened. The world slowed.
His speed now surpassed even those sword-wielding Kabane and that girl called Mumei.
He tested the blood threads again — six of them this time. Each hummed with the resonance of a drawn blade.
Even standing still, the air around him feared to move.
An aura had begun to form around his existence — faint, invisible, but real.
A predator's pressure.
A sovereign's presence.
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.
Kaelthorn withdrew his phone, its surface reflecting the faint glow of his eyes.
Golden-crimson.
Not infection. Not mutation. Dominion.
His reflection stared back at him — skin paler than before, almost luminous beneath the night's veil.
No warmth, only definition. The structure of beauty sharpened to something inhuman.
'Kaelthorn: A Revenant is, in essence, akin to a vampire. And vampires… lure before they kill.'
The thought was matter-of-fact, not self-admiring.
Evolution obeyed its logic: perfection was a byproduct of survival.
He slid the phone away beneath his mantle. The night around him thickened, as if the world adjusted itself to accommodate his change.
Then came the hum.
BZZZ!
VRR!
He lifted his head. A smaller drone descended through the clouds, lights cutting through the mist like eyes seeking their master.
Kaelthorn glanced at the time on his phone.
A week.
He had been unconscious for nearly a week.
The drone circled once, scanning him as before, then settled to the ground. Its frame was smaller, the attached compartment half the size of the first.
Kaelthorn approached and performed the same verification ritual — phone, laptop, handprint, and then the whisper.
Kaelthorn: Kha'reth … va Nozz'Qural Ein.
The lock disengaged.
Inside lay a dagger — simple at first glance, until he unsheathed it.
SHIN!
The blade gleamed with a metallic glow of gold and crimson, runes etched along its surface like veins of light frozen in steel. The metal was taken from the protective membranes of Kabane heart cages — a synthesis of death and weaponry.
He turned it in his hand, testing the weight.
It resonated faintly with his blood, as if recognizing him.
'Kaelthorn: Perfect.'
He sheathed it again, securing it at his left waist beneath the folds of his mantle. Hidden, yet within immediate reach.
From the compartment, he retrieved one final item — a small drone, palm-sized, compact and silent.
No compartment. No armament. Only potential.
He slid it beneath his clothing, close to his belt, the way one might conceal a blade.
The larger drone lifted off, returning to the heavens like a messenger dismissed.
Night had fallen fully. The stars above were half-swallowed by cloud. From his vantage point on the mountain ridge, Kaelthorn could see the fractured world stretching far below — ruins wrapped in fog and thin threads of moonlight.
He turned to leave.
Then —
Whhhhiiiiiissssst!!!!!
A sound in the distance. Familiar.
A light flickered at the edge of the horizon — faint, cold, moving.
Kaelthorn stopped.
The wind around him died, waiting.
'Kaelthorn: …Again.'
That whisper of déjà vu crept through him like a pulse from the Hollow Core itself. The spiral had turned once more.
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The mountain wind carried a scent of metal and dust. Somewhere below, a low mechanical hum pulsed through the air — rhythmic, steady, alive.
Kaelthorn stood on the edge of the cliff, mantle coiling around him like a living shroud. The moon above was faint and colorless, swallowed by haze. Beneath that ashen light, he watched the Iron Fortress emerge from the tunnel.
Steam erupted from its side vents, rolling over the rails like smoke from a dying god. The sight was the same as a week ago — the same train, the same dull orange glow from its furnace, the same echo of human desperation clinging to its hull.
'Kaelthorn: The same pattern repeats.'
He crouched, calculating in silence. Distance. Speed. Wind vector. Weight. Momentum.
Numbers, rhythm, timing.
Then — a step forward.
WHOOSH!
The air howled around him. The mantle rippled like a split wing as Kaelthorn dropped from the cliff, cutting through the cold. For a moment, he was silent — a fragment of night descending.
The train roared past beneath him. And then—
THUD!
He landed atop the engine compartment — soft, controlled, deliberate. The steel groaned faintly beneath his boots, but nothing more. His fall this time was light — reduced by will, not by physics. He stood in perfect balance as the world blurred past him.
The Iron Fortress continued forward, none the wiser that something ancient had landed upon its spine.
He crossed the roof, step by step. Each footfall was almost soundless against the rolling thunder of the wheels below. Steam rose from the vents, carrying the stench of oil and metal.
At the hatch, Kaelthorn paused. Locked. He gripped it with one hand.
Metal protested.
DANG!
The sound echoed through the chamber below — a sharp fracture in the mechanical rhythm.
Inside, a head turned.
Kaelthorn opened the hatch and dropped through, landing amidst pistons, valves, and the deep thrum of the engine's heart.
A single occupant sat in the driver's seat.
The woman's eyes widened as she spun around.
???: You!
Her voice cracked slightly, disbelief overriding fear.
Kaelthorn: It's been a while, Yukina.
The tone was level, calm — but it hit her like a blow of memory.
Her gaze flicked to the broken hatch, then back to him.
Yukina: …Yeah. It's been a while, Tass.
Her lips twitched, half sigh, half exhaustion.
Yukina: Though I'd appreciate it if you entered like a normal person next time.
Her attempt at levity fell flat under the oppressive silence that followed.
The air around Kaelthorn didn't move the way normal air should. Even the sound of the engine seemed to soften in deference to him.
Yukina shook her head and returned to her console, thinking.
'Yukina: Another thing to fix…'
Yukina: You've… changed a lot.
The statement lingered. Not a question. Just quiet observation.
Kaelthorn's eyes moved — golden-crimson, faintly glowing in the furnace's light. The reflection painted streaks of red and gold across the machinery.
He said nothing. Only studied her.
She looked thinner. Her skin pale, marked by sleeplessness. The dark bags under her eyes told stories of engines that never stopped and nightmares that never let her rest.
But beneath it all — a flicker. The moment she saw him, fear came first, but behind that was something else: relief.
A survivor recognizing another kind of survival.
'Kaelthorn: It seems life hasn't been kind to her.'
He crossed his arms, leaning against the iron wall.
Kaelthorn: What's your destination?
Yukina: Kongokaku.
Kaelthorn: I see.
The exchange ended as abruptly as it began.
Between them, only the rhythmic thud of the pistons and the slow hiss of escaping steam remained.
The silence broke.
CLANG!
The door to the engine room burst open.
???: Yukina-san!
A group of figures spilled in — steam rifles raised, movements crisp but nervous. Their boots clicked against the metal floor in a flurry of overlapping steps.
At their center stood a girl of clear nobility — dark-blue hair tied back neatly, a flower in her hair. Her presence was like a candle's glow amid ash and smoke.
She exhaled in relief upon seeing Yukina, but that relief vanished when she noticed Kaelthorn.
Every gun lifted in unison.
The guards — Bushi — formed a perimeter around her. The one at their front stepped forward, protective by instinct, his face young yet hardened by too much responsibility.
He placed himself between Ayame and the intruder, his body taut as a drawn blade.
Kurusu: Step back, Ayame-sama.
Ayame: But Kurusu—
Her protest stopped mid-syllable. Kaelthorn turned his head slightly.
Just enough.
The golden-crimson light caught her eyes.
Stillness spread like frost. Every person in that room felt their breath slow — their muscles tightening, their nerves rebelling against their will.
The aura that Kaelthorn emitted wasn't overwhelming in volume. It was overwhelming in precision.
It pressed exactly where fear began — not on the body, but the thought.
Kurusu forced himself to speak, his voice strained but steady.
Kurusu: Who are you? How did you get in here?
Kaelthorn closed his eyes. Didn't answer.
That quiet gesture was worse than any threat.
The tension rippled through the group. Several fingers touched triggers. The metallic click of safety levers echoed like distant thunder.
Yukina: Wait — please! Ayame-sama, this person is—
A new voice cut through hers. Calm, cold, decisive.
???: Lower your weapons.
The soldiers hesitated. Then parted.
Two more figures emerged from the passageway — a black-haired girl with sharp, bright eyes and a young man beside her with soot-stained clothes and the unmistakable tremor of exhaustion.
The crowd gave them way, forming a corridor of hesitant eyes and lowered rifles.
The girl stepped forward. Her gaze fixed on Kaelthorn — the motion of his mantle, the way his posture refused to acknowledge threat.
Ayame: Mumei-san, do you know him?
Mumei stopped a few feet away, crossing her arms, jaw tightening. She exhaled, visibly irritated, but her tone carried the weight of recognition.
Mumei: I don't.
A pause. The train's brakes screamed faintly in the distance — a long metallic groan.
Mumei: But I know one thing.
Her gaze narrowed, reading Kaelthorn's stillness like a riddle.
Mumei: He's just like me. And Ikoma… A Kabaneri.
The word struck the air like a verdict.
The room fell utterly silent. Even the pistons seemed to hesitate mid-beat.
Kaelthorn opened his eyes again. The light from the furnace glinted off his golden-crimson irises, catching the faces of everyone who dared to look.
The term was unfamiliar.
But its meaning was already assembling inside his mind.
'Kaelthorn: Kabane. Kabaneri. A linguistic derivative — "ri," a modifier. Half-form? Hybrid? The bridge between predator and prey.'
He blinked once, slow and deliberate.
'Kaelthorn: Half-dead. Half-living. A caste of the in-between. Useful.'
The faintest hum vibrated through the floor — his blood threads reacting to the latent tension around him, whispering like the distant hum of wires under strain.
Mumei shifted her stance slightly, still watching him. Her breath caught once, though she hid it behind a hardened glare.
Ayame's hand trembled by her side.
Kurusu's grip on his rifle tightened.
Yukina glanced between them — the soldiers she served with, and the being she knew could end them before their next breath.
Kaelthorn finally spoke — not to them, but to himself, quiet enough that only the hum of the engine might hear:
Kaelthorn: A world that keeps creating half-measures. No wonder it keeps dying.
The words were almost a whisper. Yet they lingered.
The train surged forward through the night, steam and metal echoing off the mountains.
Inside, the humans of the Iron Fortress stared at the man who was no longer human — the silent sovereign standing amid them, his presence bending the air.
And above the grinding of steel, the world watched.
The spiral turned again.
.
.
.
The tension in the room had thickened until even the hum of the engines seemed restrained by it.
Every eye was on Kaelthorn — the man who had fallen from the sky and landed on their steel sanctuary like a quiet judgment.
Steam hissed through a loose valve, trailing ghostlike through the air. The sound made Yukina flinch slightly before she found her voice.
Yukina: Ayame-sama, this person's name is Tass.
Her tone was careful, respectful — as if she feared that too loud a word might fracture the balance between them.
Yukina: A week ago, when the Iron Fortress passed by Hayatani Station, he was the one who lent us a hand. But then… he dropped away before we could thank him.
Her eyes flicked toward Kaelthorn, who stood near the furnace light, unmoving, eyes half-closed.
Yukina: He took care of Kabane easily that day. Now I understand how.
She hesitated, as if saying the next words might reshape the air itself.
Yukina: Because he's… a Kabaneri.
The word spread through the room like a ripple of disbelief.
The girl in the fine clothes — Ayame — blinked, surprise overtaking her decorum. She stepped past Kurusu before he could stop her.
Kurusu: Wait, Ayame-sama! It's dangerous!
Ayame: It's fine, Kurusu. Since Yukina and Mumei trust him, I'm sure it's safe.
The young lordling moved closer, her steps echoing softly against the steel floor. When she stopped before Kaelthorn, she bowed slightly.
Ayame: My name is Yomogawa Ayame — eldest daughter and heir of the Yomogawa family, and current master of this Iron Fortress.
She raised her head, meeting the faint shimmer of his golden-crimson eyes.
Ayame: I thank you on behalf of everyone here for your help at Hayatani Station.
Kaelthorn did not respond. He stood perfectly still, eyes closed again, his silence stretching long enough for unease to settle like dust on their hearts.
Ayame's polite smile wavered for a moment before she forced it back.
She lifted a hand slightly, gesturing to the others behind her.
Ayame: This is my personal guard, Kurusu Konochi. If he and the Bushi acted too hastily, I apologize — they were only doing their duty.
Kurusu bowed, but his eyes remained fixed on Kaelthorn, fingers still resting on the trigger guard of his rifle.
Ayame: You already know Yukina and Mumei. The last one—
Ikoma: Ikoma.
The bespectacled young man stepped forward, speaking before she could finish.
His skin bore the pale hue of infection, red tracings across his face and neck glimmering faintly in the lamplight.
Ikoma: That's my name.
Kaelthorn's gaze drifted over him, and the golden rings of his eyes dimly reflected in Ikoma's red ones.
Meanwhile, Mumei watched him in silence. She said nothing, but her expression was a war of calculation.
She could tell — whatever Kaelthorn was now, he hadn't been this a week ago.
When they met before, his presence had been… human enough. But the thing standing before her now felt entirely different. Its energy resonated, not with the heartbeat of a person, but with something older, deeper — predatory.
'Mumei: If we sensed a Kabane when he entered… that wasn't a mistake.'
Her eyes narrowed. The virus was alive inside him, and yet… it obeyed. That terrified her more than any Kabane ever could.
Kaelthorn's thoughts mirrored hers, though from a colder angle.
Now that his own blood carried the virus, he could sense its rhythm in others.
Mumei and Ikoma pulsed with the familiar corruption — restrained, but present.
'Kaelthorn: So that's what they are. Half-breeds forged to fight the infection. Tools masquerading as saviours.'
Ikoma finished his introduction, and the silence returned.
Then, finally, Kaelthorn opened his eyes.
The room flinched. The gold and crimson rings burned faintly in the dim air — not with heat, but weight.
Kaelthorn: I'll leave after we reach Kongokaku.
His voice was low, even, but it filled the entire compartment.
Kaelthorn: I don't need food. Or water. I won't interfere with your work.
He paused, letting the words settle like iron filings.
Kaelthorn: Treat me as air.
The declaration was not arrogance — it was finality.
Ayame blinked, caught between confusion and awe. The others exchanged glances.
Ikoma: Kabaneri also need human blood to survive. Without it, the virus—
Kaelthorn: I have my own ways.
The interruption was soft, but absolute.
Ikoma stopped speaking. The mechanical hum of the train was the only sound left.
For a moment, the tension broke — not because they felt safe, but because they realized safety was irrelevant.
Ayame looked back toward her crew, searching for direction in their eyes, then turned again to Kaelthorn.
Ayame: We… need to discuss this among ourselves.
Kaelthorn: Suit yourself.
He leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes again, indifferent.
The others hesitated, waiting for him to move. He didn't. He might as well have been a statue carved from blood and silence.
Yukina was the first to speak again, her voice nearly a whisper.
'Yukina: Just like before… he's calm, even here.'
Ayame nodded faintly and motioned the group to withdraw. The Bushi followed, rifles still drawn but no longer raised. The door closed behind them with a metallic click.
Only then did Kaelthorn's eyes open — briefly, a flicker of gold and crimson cutting through the darkness.
'Kaelthorn: Not that your opinions matter.'
The Iron Fortress carried on through the night, its rails screaming beneath it. Inside, the humans whispered. And one silent revenant sat in their midst, unmoved, watching the next turn of the spiral approach.
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*A/N: Please throw some power stones.
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