The sky was on fire. Not metaphorically—actual fire, screaming up into the clouds like it had a personal grudge against the stars. Smoke poured up in thick, choking towers, and the air stank like burnt wood, sweat, and everything else that used to be home. I couldn't move. Or maybe I could and just didn't want to, because all around me was chaos—people running, screaming, horses tearing through the dirt like the world owed them something.
And me? I wasn't running away from it.
I was running toward it.
Because of course I was.
Straight into the smoke, the noise, the screaming mess of it all. Toward them.
I remembered the way my parents had shoved me into the cellar, the panic in their eyes like they'd already seen the end. "Stay down here and don't come out," Dad said, voice all tight and shaky, before slamming the door shut like that would somehow fix everything.
I didn't stay down there. Obviously.
I bolted up the steps the second something exploded. The air was hot—thick with the kind of wrong that made your skin crawl. Somewhere behind me, I heard my mother calling my name, her voice cracked with panic, distant like it was being dragged underwater.
But when I burst outside—onto the warped street where the smoke was thick enough to chew—they weren't there.
They were supposed to be there.
And then I saw them.
Just standing at the far end of the road. Calm. Still. As if it were any other day and the world wasn't crumbling around them.
"Mom! Dad!" I shouted, legs buckling as I stumbled over the cracked ground, heart clawing its way into my throat.
They turned.
And… no. That wasn't them.
They wore their faces, true enough—but the eyes were wrong. Glassy. Hollow. Lifeless. As if some cruel hand had propped them up, just convincing enough to pass in shadowed corners.
I stopped. Everything stopped. "Mom?" I said. Then softer, "Dad?"
No answer.
And then the whole street exploded.
Heat hit me like a giant's hand, smacking the breath from my lungs. I hit the ground hard. Something cracked. The world spun—and then, all at once, it vanished.
When I came to, the village was gone.
Ash. Rubble. Smoke. A place emptied so completely it made you wonder if it had ever existed at all.
No one left. Just me, picking my way through the bones of my old life like some half-formed ghost. No voices. No warmth. Only the echo of my own footsteps.
Then came the whispers.
Not real ones—just the old, sticky kind that clung to your ribs like mud. Thief. Rat. Waste of food. The villagers rebuilt the houses, but not me. I was still the trash swept into the corners.
So I wandered. Cold. Hungry. Alone. Trying not to vanish entirely.
And then, like some bitter joke from a god with nothing better to do, I saw them again.
My parents. Standing at the end of a road that shouldn't have been there. Pale and flickering like half-faded dreams, but somehow more real than anything else in that place.
"Mom! Dad!" I cried, voice cracking as I ran.
Faster. Harder. Everything in me straining forward like it could pull them back with sheer desperation.
The smoke, the road, my parents—everything folded in, like someone had yanked down the curtain before the final act.
No ending. No answers.
Just black.
And then—
A hand, shaking my shoulder. Gentle. Steady.
Warm, real.
And followed, naturally, by a poke.
Another poke.
No. Absolutely not.
I groaned and dragged the blanket over my head, as if cloth could shield me from whatever new madness had crept into my life this morning. It didn't. The pest at my bedside had the patience of a saint, the persistence of a curse, and the practiced timing of someone who'd done this many times before.
My attempt to slap the offending hand away was met with a well-timed dodge—followed immediately by a firmer jab to the arm.
I cracked one eye open with the weariness of someone who'd earned their sleep. Arden was crouched beside the bed, glove still hovering midair like he was considering a follow-up jab. His face, as usual, was unreadable—glasses catching the light just enough to make him look slightly more mysterious than strictly necessary. His head tilted. Waiting.
"Up," Arden said, voice dry but not quite bored. More like he'd been standing there just long enough to regret it.
"Master, maybe try being less... pointy?" Sora's voice floated in from somewhere nearby, soft as ever, like she genuinely believed he was capable of tact.
There was a pause. Thoughtful, even.
And then—another poke, with just enough deliberation to be petty.
I groaned again—half from exhaustion, half for the sake of it—and pushed myself upright with all the enthusiasm of a corpse summoned for one final task. Morning light slipped through the slats as if it had no notion of how unwelcome it was. The room felt borrowed from someone who'd never planned for company—wood-paneled walls, a chair that creaked like it held a grudge, and a desk that looked ready to collapse if I so much as breathed near it.
Comfortable, in a don't trust the furniture kind of way.
That old ache crept back into my limbs. Not from the bed, but from memory, and the fading traces of a dream I would have rather stayed lost. Specifically, from a bath-related incident I would be pretending did not happen until the day I died. I made a conscious effort not to look at Arden, in case eye contact jogged his memory and mine.
Not that he was paying attention to me anyway. He stood by the window, arms folded in that casual way that somehow said nothing while still feeling vaguely foreboding. Not relaxed. Not stiff. Just unreadable—like a closed book held shut by someone who knew you were trying to peek.
Then he gave the window a little nod. Just that. Not a word, not a gesture, just a tiny tilt of his chin that somehow said, "Look."
So I did.
Outside, the town was already waking up—shopkeepers setting up, kids yelling, someone shouting about overpriced carrots. Same old morning chaos. But beyond the rooftops... something wrong was crawling over the horizon.
And I mean wrong.
It was massive. Bigger than any cart or carriage had any right to be. A monstrous slab of metal and armor, gliding forward like it owned the world. Not pulled. Not pushed. It moved on its own, and the ground didn't seem to mind—it just shifted out of the way, like the land itself was too scared to argue.
"…What is that?" I asked, voice quieter than I meant it to be. Like speaking too loud might attract its attention.
Arden leaned back against the wall, one boot braced lazily, arms still crossed like he had all the time in the world to watch the end of the world wander by. "A Magi-Train," he said, like that was supposed to clear things up.
"The Dalthun Empire's grandest invention," Sora added softly, her voice taking on that careful tone people used when reciting something half-remembered from a prayer or a dusty old scroll.
I blinked at them. "Wait. Dalthun? The desert one? With all the… odd contraptions?"
They nodded.
I turned back to the window, heart creeping up into my throat. "So you're telling me they built a… moving fortress? One that lays down its own road as it goes?"
"Yes," Arden said, not a hint of urgency in his voice. Just calm, inevitable doom.
"They don't send it out unless there's a war," he added, like he was commenting on the wind.
Which. Great.
My stomach did a slow, unpleasant turn as the thing rolled into clearer view. Sleek metal, glinting like a knife in the sun. Too clean. Too deliberate. Like it had never been stopped, and didn't know it could be.
A Magi-Train. A war machine on rails that didn't even need rails.
And it was coming this way.
I pulled the blanket tighter around me, as if that would help. My mouth was dry. My thoughts were louder than my voice, and none of them were helpful.
If they only brought that thing out when they meant to crush something…
…then what, exactly, had we just stepped into?
it out unless they were starting a war… then what the hell was it doing here?
The closer the massive construct got, the weirder it felt. Not just impressive—wrong. Now that I could see the whole thing clearly, a slow, crawling unease wrapped itself around my ribs and stayed there.
It wasn't just big. It was monstrous.
Rows of segmented compartments stretched back like the armored body of some mechanical serpent, each one plated in thick, sunlit steel. The whole thing gleamed too cleanly—like it had been scrubbed of any hint of the natural world. No dirt. No wear. Just polished menace rolling forward on wheels that didn't even kick up dust.
But the size wasn't the worst part.
It was the weapons.
Rows of strange tubes lined its sides, each carved with glowing runes that pulsed with a cold, blue light—like magic, but not the kind you'd want near you. Some were long and thin, like the hunting spears the men use, while others were short and wide, almost like tiny war machines. All of them hummed softly, like they were ready to spring to life at any moment.
I swallowed, hard. "Are those...?"
"Magi-Guns," Arden said flatly. Not even a glance. Like he was commenting on the weather.
Sora nodded, her voice soft. "They use compressed magical energy in liquid form. It's stored in cartridges—like potion vials, but way less friendly."
"More accurate than firearms. Stronger than a longbow. Engineered for war," Arden added, like he was reciting a textbook.
A cold pressure built in my stomach.
I'd heard stories from passing traders about Dalthun's magical tech—crazy inventions that blurred the line between spellcraft and science. But this thing wasn't a story. It was real. And it was here.
I turned toward the gates. A crowd had already gathered—locals, merchants, even a few travelers who should've known better. No one looked curious. No one was whispering excitedly.
They were afraid.
Even the guards looked rattled. They stood stiff at their posts, hands clenched around weapons that suddenly looked like toys. Their eyes flicked from each other to the machine, waiting for someone to do something.
But no one moved.
And then—
HISSSS.
A sudden rush of wind tore through the air as the strange machine ground to a halt just beyond the gates. The sound faded away, leaving only a heavy, dreadful stillness.
Then, the doors creaked open.
A chill, sharp as steel, spilled out—clean and biting, mixed with the scent of sparks and something harsher underneath. Every part of me wanted to flee.
But I stayed and watched.
Two shapes emerged from the shadows—guards clad in dark, heavy armor. In their hands, strange weapons hummed softly, pulsing with a cold, magical light. Their movements were sharp and careful, as if every step was measured. Their eyes swept the area, searching with a sharpness that meant they were no ordinary soldiers. These were the ones sent before the rest, the sharp edge of any fight.
Then came the third figure.
A man.
Tall. At ease. Bearing the kind of quiet power that made the ground seem smaller beneath him. His white shirt hung loose, open at the chest—too casual for any proper imperial visit. A gold chain caught the light against his skin, proud and expensive. His hair was wild red—so wild it looked like he'd tangled with a storm just to get that look.
He moved as if the town already bowed to him.
And truth be told? It likely did.
With a long, lazy yawn, he stretched like he'd just awoken from the best rest of his life. Shoulders rolled, neck popped, eyes scanning the place with the air of a man taking in fine art—not fearing a thing.
"Ahhh," he sighed, grinning like a traveler fresh from sweet relief. "This air's not half bad. Better than that choking desert dust."
No one stirred. No breath was drawn.
Then his eyes landed on us.
And his grin grew wider.
"Arden!" he called, arms wide open. "Been too long!"
Arden didn't flinch. Didn't even blink. The statue act was ironclad.
But the redhead clearly didn't mind. He stepped forward, his guards flowing behind like shadows, every inch the master of the scene.
Stopping just a few paces away, he let his gaze sweep over us with the kind of cocky charm that probably earned him more than a few scowls elsewhere.
"And these must be the fine ladies keeping you company," he said, smirking. "Honestly, Arden, with your looks, you could do better."
I blinked. Sora shifted beside me, uneasy.
Arden stayed silent, as always.
The man laughed. "Still no bite? You're as dull as ever."
Careful, I finally asked, "And you are...?"
He clutched his chest with mock offense. "Oh? Don't know me?" He flashed a grin, sharp and playful. "Radames Antoun, Emperor of the Dalthun Empire. But really—just Radames. Titles are dull."
I stared.
Radames. The man who shaped the empire, forged its weapons and machines, built its name.
And here he was, grinning like we were old friends sharing a meal.
"Anyway," he said, snapping his fingers. "Let's find somewhere quieter to talk."
He turned and started back toward the rumbling iron serpent waiting nearby. "Come along. I'm not one to sink my teeth in without a word. If I meant to tear this place down, you'd know by now." He glanced back with a sly grin, as if daring me to believe him.
I didn't trust him. Not even a little. But there was no mistaking it—this was no invitation.
Steeling myself, I took a slow breath and stepped forward. Sora slipped beside me, hesitant but loyal.
Arden brought up the rear, silent as a shadow.
The train's great doors towered ahead, and that same cold shiver crept under my skin—the quiet dread twisting low in my chest.
The inside of the train was… nothing like I'd pictured. Then again, I wasn't really sure what I expected. Maybe rows of stiff benches hammered into cold steel floors, soldiers stomping about, barking orders. Something strict and efficient, filled with faces that wouldn't spare a glance for someone like me.
But this?
This was something else altogether.
The chamber we stepped into wasn't meant for soldiers. Not even for carrying folk. It was made for one person. And that one person's ego? Big enough to fill an entire city.
Thick velvet drapes—deep crimson threaded with silver—hung heavy along the sturdy walls, and the seal of the Dalthun Empire appeared again and again, as if the room needed constant reminders of its own weight. Between each crest, glass cases held worn war medals, polished ceremonial weapons, and a helmet shining with a proud, almost smug gleam. Everything was secured tightly, of course—no luxury could stop things from tumbling when the train lurched.
Still, the quiet threat in the air was impossible to ignore. Near the doors, strange weapons—magic-powered, I guessed—were fixed in place, their dark barrels catching the low golden light. Smaller, crueler tools lurked in shadowed corners, as if waiting for a chance to spring to life and bring trouble. This wasn't a place for comfort. It was a throne room wrapped tight in suspicion.
Radames lounged in the center of it all like a cat basking in sunlight. Reclining on a curved bench, one arm draped lazily over the backrest, he seemed perfectly at ease in this room that smelled faintly of oil, charged air, and excess beyond reason. His coat flared just so, revealing gold clasps stitched within, and the ruby at his throat caught the light like a secret smile aimed right at me.
He beckoned with a slow, smooth gesture, voice dripping like honey left out under the scorching sun. "Come in, come in. We're no savages here—not in this place, at least."
I stepped in without comment, mostly because I had no idea what the right comment would be. The seat beneath me was surprisingly cushioned, though the way it forced me to sit straight made it feel less like comfort and more like posture enforcement. Sora followed a beat later, her usual nervous fidget returning—hands smoothing over her skirt, eyes scanning the space like she wasn't entirely convinced the room wouldn't start talking back.
Arden was the last to enter, as always, moving with that quiet ease of someone who knew every corner of this place—every door, every bolt in the walls, and just how to bring the whole thing down if needed. He said nothing—never did unless necessary—and simply sank into the seat across from Radames, like this was nothing more than a routine, and he had far better things waiting elsewhere.
"I need your help," Radames said, once we were all more or less settled.
No pretense. No sugarcoating. Just a sharp jab thrown right into the room, as if we were meant to catch it and be grateful for the sting.
I blinked at him. Sora shifted awkwardly beside me. Arden didn't blink at all.
"It's the cultists," Radames said, waving his hand with a bored air, as if the very thought was a trivial nuisance. "Usually, they're just loud, desperate fools chasing shadows, but these… there's something else about them. They're not mere troublemakers. They might truly be servants of darker things."
The words hit me like a rusty nail pounding into stone—sharp, heavy, and meant to sting.
I said nothing, too caught up trying to understand why the Emperor's favored son would need help from folk like us. Sora stiffened, her fingers twitching against her skirt, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw Arden lean in just a little—barely noticeable, but enough to show he was already thinking through what to say next.
"They're trying to bring back the Demon Lord," Radames said, like it was no more than talk about the weather.
And that's when my mind went completely blank.
I parted my lips and the first thing that slipped out was just, "What."
Not brave. Not angry. Just plain confused, a little horrified, and fully knowing I was far beyond anything I could handle.
Radames gave me that sly, shining smile like I'd just said something clever. "Our Arden," he said, voice thick with amusement, "is the one who felled the last Demon Lord."
Those words didn't just land—they shattered the ground beneath me and kept falling down into some strange new world. I just stood there, blinking, trying to grasp that this man—the one who'd barely spoken more than a handful of words since we'd met—was the one who'd slain the Demon Lord. The true Demon Lord. Not some tale told by fireside. The very real, dreadful thing.
I looked at him, half expecting some kind of smirk or at least a twitch like he was pleased with himself. But no. Just Arden, still as stone, face like a mask, eyes fixed just past me like he'd spotted some interesting mark on the wall.
And for a spell, that silence said more than any loud boast ever could.
Then Radames, that smug devil, let out a low, pleased chuckle. "Oh? He never told you?" He looked at me like I was the last one to catch on to a jest. "Of course not. Too proud, he is."
Of course not. Why would he spill something so heavy when he could just stare off into the distance and have someone else do it for him?
I wanted to smash something, but every bit around me was either royal property or sharp enough to fight back.
"Well, that's why I came to you," Radames said, like it wasn't a big deal—like setting fire to your own barn was just part of the day. "If anyone can fix this before it's too late, it's Arden. Again."
He reached over and spread out a map on the low table. But it wasn't made of parchment or cloth. It was a smooth metal plate, with faint glowing lines and little marks that shifted when you looked from different sides—like some wizard and smith had teamed up, but got a bit tipsy halfway through.
He pointed to a red mark stuck in jagged hills. "Here. The Western Ruins. Far off, quiet. A good place to hide old spells and darker things. If trouble's brewing, that's where it's stirring."
Sora's voice came, soft and unsure, but curious all the same. "Why not send your soldiers?"
Radames looked at her like she'd asked why he didn't smash a fly with a hammer. "If I send the whole army, they'll catch wind and scatter like field mice. Send a small band, and they'll be cut down before they know what hit 'em. But you—" he waved a hand at Arden and Sora, then flicked it at me like I was an afterthought, "—you're just right. Strong enough to hold your own, small enough to slip in quiet."
I didn't know whether to feel proud or put out.
Then Arden spoke, calm and steady. "She's coming with us."
It took me a moment to understand he meant me.
Radames raised an eyebrow and gave me that grin again—this time more like he was entertained than anything. "Oh? The tagalong wants in on the main show?"
I bristled, but it wasn't cruel—more like watching a child playing at being a knight.
Arden was already rising. "We will leave in the morning."
No fuss, no argument. Just a quiet sort of telling, like he'd been thinking it over for days. Like it wasn't the first time someone had dropped "resurrected Demon Lord" at his feet and expected him to deal with it.
I blinked. "Wait—really?" The words came out all clumsy, more like a breath caught wrong than a proper question. I wasn't even sure who I was talking to—Arden, Radames, or maybe the ceiling.
Of course, Arden didn't answer. He was already halfway to the door, his cloak catching the light like it had somewhere better to be.
Radames just laughed, leaning back like this was some play he'd come to watch for fun. "Still as cold as ice," he said, voice thick with teasing.
And that was it. No grand speech, no moment to think it over. Just a simple nod to go wade into ruins and maybe stop the end of the world. Like it was no more than fetching water.
Cultists. Demon Lords. Ancient maps that seemed to glow when you breathed near them.
And Arden—quiet, unreadable Arden—turning out to be some legend living in plain sight, as calm as a man asking for stew.
And me?
I was still here. Still trailing after him. Still pretending I had the slightest clue what I'd got myself into.
Which was fine.
Really fine.
Because when Arden made up his mind, the rest of the world just had to follow.