After meeting Mr. Than, Mike and Kuro returned to Noctis, each carrying a question that refused to settle. They both understood this journey was no longer a schoolboy's dare. It was a step across a line that might never lead back.
Mike, who always held tight to logic like an anchor, now tasted the futility of analysis when faced with the so-called "hollows." There just wasn't enough data to grasp what lay beyond the fragments of measured frequency.
Mike lived near the city center, while Kuro stayed in a hillside dorm. After class, Mike swung by Kuro's place, not for any particular reason, but because ever since that red circle appeared on the old map, and since Kuro's smile gave away more than his words, both boys knew, there would be a journey.
Just not yet. They needed supplies. A route. And the courage to ask questions neither had spoken aloud.
That night, while Kuro boiled water on a compact electric stove, Mike sat hunched at the foldable table, flipping the map over and over as if repetition might summon a revelation.
"I was wondering... should we bring someone else along?"
Kuro looked up. "You mean, invite someone?"
Mike nodded, eyes still fixed on the paper.
"Not for backup. Not someone to dive into the pit with us. Just... someone who can offer another angle. So we don't tunnel into just one line of thought."
"Anyone come to mind?"
Mike didn't answer. He stared through the window, where the night passed in a blend of streetlamp glow and distant starlight.
"No one specific. But they need to be quiet enough to listen. And alert enough not to believe too fast."
Nothing was decided that evening. But the next morning, over tea, both instinctively opened their class schedules, one last nod to an orderly life. Only two mandatory sessions remained next week; the rest were virtual discussions. Neither said it aloud, but both knew: if they disappeared for a while, no one would really notice.
They stopped by school. Not to borrow anything. Just to walk those familiar hallways one more time before leaving them behind.
On the ride home, Kuro pedaled. Mike rode on the back, gripping a map and a scrap of cloth inked with a haphazard supply list.
"First, the tech market. We'll need soldering tools and some sensor wire. Then the residential district, batteries, a thermal bottle, and a handheld light with no glare."
Kuro grinned. "We setting up camp or building a mobile lab?"
Mike didn't smile. But his eyes gleamed.
"Better to be ready for both."
They stopped at an old shop on a slope, Mike's go-to spot since eighth grade, where he once scavenged for mini-robot parts. The shelves were still dusty, but the owner remembered him instantly.
"What are you building this time?"
Mike didn't explain. He placed the list on the counter.
"Whatever's in stock, I'll take. I'll craft the rest."
Loaded with spare wires, base batteries, and hand-picked circuits, they veered behind the market to a weathered bookstore. Its sign had faded, and the green-painted door was flaking.
Mike said he'd go ahead to organize the gear. Kuro went in, carrying only a note listing strange subjects: pre-war history, records on mana, and non-official texts, the ones textbooks conveniently left out.
He searched slowly, asking for forgotten titles. In the end, he picked three: a history book missing its appendix, a handwritten copy from Archive R-7, and an anthology of unverified legends. The spines were worn. Pages yellow. But the scent of old ink offered a curious sense of trust.
Kuro didn't expect to grasp it all. But if the strange feeling that tugged at him was more than chance, then it deserved to be read, at least once, with eyes that no longer saw the world innocently.
As he flipped through brittle pages, one name surfaced: Cerin.
Not by logic. Just instinct.
Cerin, 15, studied at Noctis too. He used to be close with Kuro in middle school, back when they biked to school, debated wild theories, and joked about the stars. He was quick-witted, calm, and startlingly sharp. Cerin could assemble a sensor array while composing verse in his head.
Now, though, he had a girlfriend, the daughter of a senior academic overseer. Everyone had high hopes for him. His schedule was packed. His time spoken for.
"If it were Cerin, he'd understand," Kuro thought, closing the book. "But... could he leave?"
For two days, Kuro wrestled with the thought. He drafted a message. Deleted it. Tried again. Deleted it again.
He never sent it. Not out of fear Cerin would say no. But because if Cerin said yes, Kuro would have to accept the risk of bringing someone he cared about into something dangerous.
"Not worth it," he muttered.
After their final class that week, a quiet seminar, Mike and Kuro left the academy without looking back.
On the way home, Kuro brought up Cerin.
Mike just replied, "Two's enough."
The way back felt shorter that day. The sky clearer. Like the world was holding its breath.
Mike checked his gear again. Green symbols blinked on a tiny screen. Kuro leaned at the doorway, holding his collapsible baton, cool, solid.
"Should pack the action cam," Kuro said.
"Probably," Mike murmured.
"I tweaked the sensors," he added. "If the ambient frequency deviates past 2.5, the device sends the coordinates to both our family inboxes."
Kuro was silent for a moment.
"What if the zone blocks signals?"
Mike didn't reply. He slid the cam into his bag, connected the short charger cable.
"Then the logs stay local. Someone'll find them... someday."
Kuro didn't push. He sat at the bed's edge, pulling out a rough cloth pouch. From it, he retrieved a tiny spray can, its cap worn from use.
Mike raised an eyebrow. "You kept that?"
"Homemade," Kuro said with a faint grin. "Chili extract. Alcohol. Camphor oil. Won't blind anything, but it'll make stuff back off."
Mike studied him for a second. Then returned to calibrating his device.
Kuro's thoughts lingered on Mr. Than's eyes, clouded, gray, and silent like a snowfield.
He snapped the baton closed and clipped it to his back.
"We're not kids interviewing lonely retirees anymore," he said, voice rasping.
Mike chuckled. "Nope. But at least we're walking into this trap by choice."
They met under the old Noctis overpass, where they once dreamed of building a vegetable-picking robot. Back then, it took weeks of sweat to achieve nothing.
Now the dream stared back as silence. As risk. As a challenge asking whether they'd grown up enough to face it.
"I won't blame you if you quit," Mike said.
"And I won't blame you if you run ahead," Kuro replied, smiling.
No more excuses. No one else to ask.
So they left.