The cushions were warmer than he'd expected, a soft heat that countered the winter clawing at the windows.
Frost webbed across the glass in pale lines. A stray flake struck the pane and withered into nothing.
Beneath the floorboards, the engines hummed—a steady mechanical beat—while conversation flew through the cabin in low, restless flights.
For Cirino, it was unfamiliar.
The trains he knew were cramped, their air sharp with cold. The only warmth he'd find was whatever rags or extra clothing he could scavenge.
This… this felt almost like a blessing. Perhaps there was a silver lining to his situation after all.
He caught his reflection in the frost-streaked glass: crimson hair sharp as flame, eyes like blue crystal mirroring the snow beyond.
Dark bags sagged under his gaze—he hadn't slept at all since boarding.
Too damned loud…
He shifted, tuning half-heartedly into the voices around him.
"The Cultist Rebellion in the colonies was crushed—should remind those demon-worshippers who they're dealing with."
"What did you expect? They sent a Shardbearer to put down a single rebellious region. They never stood a chance."
"Heh. What use is a Shardbearer in some backwater? Better to send him to the Demon Realms, let him kill a few Exarchs."
"Hah! If it were that easy, we wouldn't need Shardbearers in the first place."
Cirino's brows folded together. The talk pressed too close to wounds—both new and old—and he turned toward a nearer pair instead.
"You hear? There's a rising prodigy at the Academy in Dunsleight."
"Huh. Think the Choir'll sink their claws into him?"
"Hmph. Not after Antigonus. They won't make the same mistake twice."
"Careful. That name alone can get you killed…"
"It's been centuries. I doubt the Choir's holy Inquisition would burn you for a word."
"True. They'd just shoot you in the back instead."
Laughter echoed between them. Cirino leaned in despite himself, curiosity tugging, but their chatter shifted to the city they were headed to.
To Dunsleight.
A sigh escaped him. There, in that so-called Academy City, was to be his new station. His dishonorable discharge had been smoothed over with a transfer, his punishment buried beneath bureaucratic mercy.
Still…
What use was a seventeen-year-old soldier in a city of scholars, students, and aristocrats?
What, they expect me to fight rowdy students and spoiled noble brats?
The thought stung. Strange, since any other day, he would've seen this as a vacation. A peaceful imperial city like Dunsleight? Far from any danger that could risk his life?
Should've been paradise.
It was likely the manner in which he received the assignment that caused such a stir in him.
All that because I disobeyed one order? So much for being the perfect little soldier.
Cirino sighed, sinking deeper into the seat as he pulled the blanket tighter around him.
Even in the heated cabin, the chill pressed through, needling his skin. The others barely seemed to notice it, but he always had.
That place was nothing more than a faint memory. But he could still feel it—the pricking cold, the stabbing frost that pierced into his veins. All he had nowadays was the feel; all memories were nothing more than faint echoes.
Maybe it's better this way. He'd rather keep his childhood memories fixed on the nice, warm seaside orphanage he stayed in.
His eyes closed, the weight of sleep pulling at him—until something shifted. A subtle awareness tugged him back. He opened them slowly.
Across from him sat a man he hadn't noticed before. Not much older than Cirino, but strange. His hair was pure white, the kind that belonged to ghosts, not the elderly.
His eyes—emerald, shining in a way that almost seemed to glow.
He was dressed plainly enough: a brown coat, a vest, a dress shirt, a little worn at the edges. Yet the small emerald pin on his lapel drew the eye, a stark contrast to the rest of his clothes.
He sat absorbed in a book, its pages turning slowly under pale fingers.
Cirino blinked, unsure. Should he say something? Pretend he hadn't noticed? The man gave no sign he'd seen him at all.
On one hand, he sort of just sat here randomly—on the other, it'd be rude…
He cleared his throat.
The man's eyes lifted from the page, meeting his. The emerald glow was sharper now, unsettling in its calm.
"Can I help you?" the stranger asked.
Cirino's brows knit together.
'Can I help you?' You're the one who sat here! What are you doing at my table?
"...Shouldn't I be the one asking you that question?" His voice came out uncertain, halfway between a protest and an apology.
The white-haired man blinked, then looked behind him. Then ahead. Then, directly back at Cirino, his expression caught somewhere between confusion and dawning realization. He tapped a hand against his own chest as though to steady himself.
"Oh! My apologies. I must've sat in the wrong seat. Is this… hmm…" The Phantom Man fiddled with his pockets, pulling out a yellow slip.
Cirino recognized it as a ticket.
"15-A?"
Cirino's frown deepened. 15-A? That's in the front cabin. What's he doing all the way out here?
"No," he said slowly. "This is 15-F. Your seat's at the front."
"Ah, well… I'll be damned." The man laughed softly, a strangely mischievous grin tugging at his lips. "Forgive me, kind sir! I was too lost in this book. Entirely swallowed by it."
He scratched the back of his head with a sheepish chuckle, posture just a touch too casual. He tucked the ticket back into his pockets.
"Well, since I'm here already, and walking all the way back through the cabins would be such a dreadful hike… Do you mind terribly if I stay?"
Cirino blinked. His mind spun, still trying to decide whether to say yes or no—
"Thank you! Knew you'd understand." The man leaned back, smiling like they'd been old companions. His voice dropped just enough to make the words feel deliberate. "Truly, you're a kind soul… little sapphire-eyes."
Cirino stiffened.
Sapphire eyes?
"Right, you're welcome…"
Silence followed. Cirino shifted against the cushions, not sure whether to look at the man or the frost-laced window. The stranger didn't seem the least bit uncomfortable—his posture loose, as if he'd always belonged there.
Then his face softened. A sheepish, almost boyish smile pulled at his lips. "Oh… this must be awkward for you." He scratched the back of his head. "Sorry! I have this habit of putting people on the spot. My family says so all the time."
Cirino let out a small breath, forcing a smile of his own. "It's fine. I'm not too used to talking to people either. My caretakers said I was always a shy child."
The man tilted his head. "Caretakers? An orphan?"
Cirino gave a small nod.
"Oh—apologies again. I didn't mean to pry."
Cirino waved it off. "It's fine."
And it was.
He'd never felt much sting in the word orphan. His parents were nothing more than phantoms in his head. Whatever childhood memory he had, he couldn't even recall.
Only the frozen wastes of a mountain village really echoed—and even then, they might as well have been dreams.
His caretakers had done what they could—strict, sometimes, but decent folk. His childhood wasn't tragic, not to him. Just circumstance. Not good, not bad. Simply was.
"I don't think my life was all that different from most people's anyway," he added.
"Oh, you should try having a family sometime," the phantom man said with a laugh. "They get on your nerves, they fight you, they piss you off, and steal your things… yet you love them all the same. Strange cycle, really."
What, you expect me to just… pick one up off the street? Sure, I'll get right on that.
Cirino bit back the remark.
Polite. Be polite, Cirino.
"I'll see if I can find one," he said instead, his voice flat.
The man chuckled, a sharp little sound like a spark off flint. "See, now that's funny. I honestly can't tell if you're joking or not. We'd make a great comedic duo. Should we take this act on the road? Start a stand-up?"
"Sure. You can be the clown, I can be the guy who sells the ticket." Cirino responded, lightly this time. The man let out a chuckle.
"You're a riot, sapphire eyes. A real riot. Coming here by accident was the best non-decision of my life," the man said with a grin. He let out a long, content sigh and sank deeper into the cushion's warmth, flipping casually through the book in his hands.
Curiosity got the better of Cirino. He leaned forward just slightly, trying to catch the cover. Obscure leather, worn edges—then the letters struck him. His eyes went wide.
Hang on, is that…
Of Magics and Mystics.
Arthur Lian. The mysterious author whose very name was a joke to outsiders. His initials spell out A. Lian, Alien. Clever little author. A banned tome by decree of the Choir, its pages blacklisted as heresy. Possession alone could mean prison. Or worse.
And here this man was. Reading it like it was a Saturday morning newspaper.
"Uh…" Cirino started, but the words stuck in his throat. He wasn't supposed to be seeing this. If he told him to hide it, wasn't he complicit? Better to just turn his head, play ignorant, be a model bystander.
But his mouth betrayed him.
"Are you sure you should be reading that where everyone can see?"
Dumbass! What are you doing!?
"Hmm?" The man tilted his head at Cirino, then chuckled. "Oh? You mean this?"
He held up the book for all the cabin to see—yet no one so much as glanced his way.
"You'd be surprised how little strangers care about what other strangers do. Unless there's a Choir Inquisitor breathing down my neck, I should be fine." He paused, grin widening. "In fact… even if there was, I'd still be fine."
He flipped the cover toward Cirino.
Of Magic and Mystics, Fifth Edition
[Officially Approved by the Choir's Inquisition]
Cirino blinked.
What?
"It's a joke of a book, really. Look." The man turned a few pages, stopping at one marked with ornate lettering.
Illuminating the Stars: How to Converse with Celestial Beings
The text was painfully earnest, outlining the so-called ritual. Step one: Stand beneath the night sky. Step two: bare everything. Step three: Perform the Sacred Celestial Dance.
The accompanying illustration was a crude sketch of a man mooning an audience, limbs twisted in what looked like a drunken jig.
Cirino's jaw nearly dropped.
They banned this?
The man laughed, tapping the ridiculous page. "The Choir's attempt at discouraging people from poking into mysticism without their watchful little eyes. They probably forged half these pages just to make Mr. Lian look like a complete lunatic."
For a moment, his smile softened into something quieter.
"Well… given Lian's reputation, maybe he actually was."
The phantom man stretched his arms, a long yawn escaping him before he sank into the cushions as though they were swallowing him whole. His emerald eyes slid toward Cirino, half-lidded, heavy with feigned drowsiness.
"I never understood why this book was banned," he murmured. "It's not as though mysticism or sorcery are outlawed in the Reich. Regulated, yes. Watched. But not banned." He sighed, fingers drumming against the book's spine. "From these scraps, though… I'd wager the real edition dabbled in darker things. Demonology, perhaps. Magic dredged from the Demon Realms. That, of course, is forbidden."
The mystery man placed a finger under his hand.
"I'm surprised. They teach children to shoot fire out of their hands and erase existences—but demon summoning is somehow outlawed. It's funny, don't you think?" He turned to Cirino—his amused smile was both fascinating and infuriating.
Why are you telling me all this?
Cirino shifted in his seat, unease prickling at his skin. He wasn't a sorcerer, nor a mage, nor some cloaked mystic whispering to stars. He wasn't a knight, and he sure as hell wasn't a Shardbearer. He was just a soldier. A boy with a rifle and a bayonet who'd been better than most at following orders—until he hadn't.
Yet his mind lingered. He remembered flashes: the impossible wards erected on the battlefield, the radiant flares of spellfire, the unexplainable visions that some swore were divine. Every time, he'd felt the tug. A fascination buried deep.
And now this man was pressing the wound with a smile.
Way to make me feel inadequate…
They always said it was the soldiers, not the Shardbearers, not the Knights, not even the venerable Shardhost, who bore the true weight of war. The soldiers were the vanguard, the backline, the reserves. They fought on every front—against hostile nations, against the endless tides spilling from the accursed realms.
And yet…
Cirino had never once met a rifleman who could conjure fire in his palm. Never seen a common infantryman rip a tree from its roots with a lazy flick of his fingers. No, that kind of power belonged to the gifted. The chosen. The extraordinary.
The only thing I'm gifted with is misfortune!
He grumbled inwardly, tugging the blanket tighter around his shoulders.
The phantom man chuckled, the sound low and easy.
"Ah, did I step on an old wound? My apologies. I'm hardly one to boast—I can barely carry a stack of books without breaking a sweat, let alone bend reality like those Shardbearers."
He ran a pale finger through his white hair, the corners of his mouth quirking.
"But… Some say I make up for it in charm. And that's something no demigod can steal from me."
What charm? My dead pet fish had more charm than you.
He thought about it, but didn't say it. The man could talk about being ordinary all he wanted, yet Cirino knew better. Shardbearers weren't just strong—they carried something else, something impossible to imitate. Charisma, presence, that radiant gravity that pulled eyes and hearts alike.
The pamphlets called it propaganda. Cirino would've scoffed, too—until he saw one of them in person. The truth was worse than the stories: the songs undersold it. They were the Chosen of the Immortal High-Crown, wielders of fragments torn from dead gods themselves. They fought where armies faltered, stood where cities broke.
Powerful, magnificent, hope made flesh.
It wasn't just their weapons or their victories that made the Empire mighty—it was them. Their existence alone lit the Brastonne Empire brighter than any smokestack, any factory, any ship of trade or steel.
Truly, the nobles weren't lying this time. Shardbearers were the light of civilization.
After that, silence reclaimed the space. The Phantom Man sank back into his book, muttering the occasional comment, but nothing that demanded Cirino's attention. It wasn't unpleasant—certainly better than the gossip and bravado that had filled the cabin before. Still, it didn't look like the stranger planned to leave anytime soon.
Cirino let out a quiet sigh, his shoulders slumping as he settled deeper into the cushions. He turned his head, cheek pressed against the fabric, and let the steady chug of the train rock him. The warmth cocooned him, his body heavy and slow, every blink longer than the last.
He hadn't slept in hours. He deserved this much.
When he awoke, it was already deep into the night. Black covered the endless landscape before them. The chill air was the only indication that it had even snowed at all. He let out a yawn. How long until they arrive? He looked to his front, where he expected to see the White-haired man.
Yet Cirino was only met with an empty seat and a page torn and weighed down by an emerald pin. Quite the sizable emerald on that pin, too. The young man blinked, and his hand reached out. The emerald felt cold to the touch, and he couldn't help but stare at the crystal with wide eyes.
Huh. Thank you, Magical Mystical Emerald Man.
He thought he was clever for that name, and then felt a hint of shame in his head. Cirino was never really good at handing people nicknames.
Even he was aware that, opting to throw his thoughts into the deepest recesses of his mind, where he hoped they wouldn't resurface.
He inspected the emerald for a bit, staring deep into the crystal. He was mesmerized—he had never held something so expensive in his life. If he pawned it off, he should be looking at around a few months' worth of rent.
A smile crept up his face. Rent Money was never a bad thing.
Then, he turned to the note. It was a page from Of Magic and Mystics—a Demon Summoning Ritual. Apparently, all you had to do for this one was to head to the bathroom and dunk your head into a dirty toilet.
Who even makes this stuff up?
At least be a little more creative with it. Then again, the Choir wasn't really known for its imagination.
He continued to read the page, but his eyes caught a little note by the end.
'Turn the page around, prat.'
Who even uses prat anymore?
A sigh escaped Cirino. He turned the page around. Lo and behold, a note from the mysterious passenger. The man's handwriting was quite elegant, Cirino could tell, because he couldn't read it.
How do people even read cursive?
Through heavy squinting, some context clues, and a lot of misread first attempts, Cirino was able to make out the full message.
[Dear Sapphire Eyes,
Terribly sorry for leaving so quickly. After you fell asleep, I was hit with a terrible case of spontaneous diarrhea. Unfortunately, the lavatories were deep within the first cabin.
Since I'll be there anyway, I decided to simply sit where I was originally seated.
So I leave you with this, a hastily written note and page of a Demon Summoning Ritual you can give to one of your friends as a jest—and a gem from my family.
A sentimental heirloom, as thanks for the nice little chat and your hand at friendship. I must warn you, however. It's quite an important piece of information, actually.
Do not sell the gem.
Otherwise! You're free to use it as a lucky charm!
Signed, your new friend.]
Cirino blinked. He read the letter again to see if he had read that right. Who still writes in cursive? Did he have to be so fancy with it? Only the nobles and upper class wrote in cursive, and he swore to the High-Crown that they only ever did it to confuse the commoners.
What kind of sadist invented this incomprehensible language?
Does that make him a noble, then? That mysterious man who just decided to harass him while he tried to get some shut-eye?
Weird… and, wait—hold on. If you had diarrhea, how the hell did you write this?!
Cirino blinked, pondering whether or not it was worth spending even another of his brain cells on this.
He looked at the message and the demon summoning ritual. He looked to the left, and to the right, and then pocketed it—couldn't hurt to have.
Then he looked at the Gem—green, large, shiny. He wasn't a geologist, geographer—whatever they're called—but those features screamed Expensive to him.
He remembered the words the man wrote.
Do not sell the gem.
Maybe he shouldn't. The conversation from earlier wasn't that unpleasant, just a little strange. A strange kinship with a random stranger he met on the train. Does that make him a weirdo, too?
I'll keep it, then. At least until I need to pay rent money.
Cirino stretched, taking a look around. The cabin crew stepped out, rolling carts and food to those who wished to dine. He felt a grumble in his stomach, and he reached into his pockets to see if he had any notes or coins on him. He froze, grasping at a few pieces of coin.
Three Sun coins, two Crownmarks.
…Shit…
He was broke.
Looks like he might be selling that gem sooner than he thought.