Marquis boarded the train, casting a final glance back at Leonardo. The train levitated, and time itself seemed to blur.
The cloaked figure beside him, draped in dark green, slowly removed his outer garment. Beneath it stood a man in his thirties—lean, muscular, and expressionless.
He was one of the de Lorraine family's many servants. Marquis had chosen him specifically for this journey.
"…I forgot," Marquis murmured, pausing. "You don't have a name yet." His voice was laced with frustration, softened by a hint of melancholy.
It wasn't that he couldn't name the man. It was that he refused to.
Naming him would cement the bond of master and servant—a bond Marquis detested. He'd hoped that by denying him a name, he could erase the lines drawn by duty and birthright. In some abstract way, he thought it might set the man free.
And yet, the man—unnamed, free in principle, bound in practice—now walked beside him into peril.
Marquis regretted it. He should have left him at the family estate in the Stem.
The cloaked man merely nodded.
"Alain should be here," Marquis muttered, recalling how Alain had remained unfazed during the explosion.
"Sometimes I wonder if it's all just an act," he whispered, his steps quickening. "But no... he's been like this since school."
The train's compartments stretched endlessly before him, each filled with passengers who barely acknowledged his presence. His eyes flicked from face to face, searching for the telltale flash of red that marked Alain.
The memory returned—Alain amid chaos, calm as ever, unbothered by destruction. How could he be so indifferent?
Frustration churned in Marquis's chest. Each empty compartment stoked his simmering anger.
And then there was the guide—someone from the Takashiro family, traveling with Alain. Impossible to ignore.
He knew I saw him, Marquis thought. And he didn't even try to hide.
He huffed, noting the passengers seated by the walls. Some slept, others sat hollow-eyed, bearing the scars of the explosion—the loss of family, the shock of survival.
Marquis winced. He could do nothing for them. Alain's indifference, conversing casually with his guide during the chaos, grated at him.
The explosion could have been prevented. Could it have?
"It could have been," he muttered. "Could it have been? No…"
He shook his head. He couldn't keep blaming those who had suffered alongside him.
As he passed from compartment to compartment, a new emotion stirred—dread. The train wasn't endless, and he had seen enough to know something was wrong.
His pace slowed.
"Ah," he muttered, rubbing his eyes. "Someone used a skill on me. It's not Alain. Definitely not."
The words came out flat, devoid of the earlier heat. He reached for the wall to steady himself.
Then, in a sudden burst of anger, he struck the wall. The force of his blow sent a faint tremor through the compartment. The echo rang hollow in the silence.
"That lazy bastard," he muttered.
"Yes," his guide replied.
"And that guide of his."
"Yes."
"Could you answer me properly?" Marquis snapped. His guide's monotone replies irked him. "Do you think it's someone from the Right Star?"
"I don't think it's someone from the Right Star," his guide responded calmly.
"Someone is trying to kill us?"
"Yes."
With three families aboard the Right Star, the motive for sabotage was clear. His anger flared anew.
"The meeting should start in a few hours," the guide said, snapping Marquis from his thoughts.
Three hours. That's all he had to learn something—anything—about the explosion. The district was approaching.
Marquis stopped and turned back, heading to his previous compartment.
His restless pacing irritated the passengers. They glared, annoyed by his constant movement.
"Guide," he said sharply.
"Yes?"
"How long would it take you to return to the mansion?"
"That depends."
"Do it in an hour," Marquis ordered, walking away without waiting for confirmation.
He had chosen the man to grant him freedom. Instead, he'd placed him in a far more dangerous role. But under the current circumstances, it was the best option.
I'll apologize later, he thought. I wonder what he thinks of me… a teenager with status? An heir?
His guide pulled back his cloak and slipped through the doors as they briefly opened—just long enough for him to exit, too brief for passengers to feel the rush of outside air.
This will be a long three hours, Marquis mused.
With the guide gone, the real investigation could begin.
Then, a flicker of memory: white robes, slipping out of the train.
A fleeting image, now stark and vivid.
"White robes," Marquis muttered, clutching at the only clue he had.
"White robes," he repeated.
> [Landing imminent] the conductor announced.