Zay followed the broken stone pathway that trailed away from the train station, each of his footsteps were silent. The further he went, the thicker the mist grew, curling around the stones like grasping fingers. The trees bent low, their branches heavy with moisture, and the air carried the scent of wet earth and decayed leaves.
After several minutes of quiet walking, he found it—tucked between a ruined watchtower and a moss-covered well—a small village of eight buildings swallowed by fog. The buildings were low, made from dark, rotting wood and slate shingles. Some windows glowed faintly with candlelight. A weathered sign creaked in the wind, its paint faded but just legible:
Draxen's Last.
The bar stood at the center of the village like a forgotten relic. Its walls sagged with age, and the door hung slightly ajar. Zay stepped inside without a sound.
Warmth met him first—then the clinking of glass, the low hum of conversation, and the soft crackle of a fire in a hearth made of black stone. He counted seven people inside, none of whom he'd seen aboard the train.
'Locals?' Zay thought, narrowing his eyes as he leaned against the wall, his presence went unnoticed.
A sudden voice pulled his attention.
At a round table tucked into the far corner—just beside a tall, dusty shelf of books—sat two men.
The older man had sun-burnt skin and a face like cracked leather. His beard was gray and wiry, and a long coat lined with brass buttons clung to his hunched frame. His left arm, mechanical and steam-powered, hissed softly every time he lifted a glass to his lips.
Across from him sat a younger man, no older than fourteen. His eyes were sharp and restless, hair buzzed short except for a streak of dyed blue, and he wore a thick coat with a gear pierced by a blade stitched to his shoulder.
The old man leaned in, his voice just loud enough for Zay's ears to catch.
"You rush it, you die. 'Steam Death' ain't just about heat. It's pressure, focus, and nerve. You hold the heat too long, your organs'll burst before your enemy drops. Understand?"
The younger man frowned, nodding.
"So it's internal build-up… like igniting aura steam inside your own body and then projecting it outward? I read it only works on enemies with weaker constitutions…"
"That's the common view," the old man scoffed, tapping the side of his head. "But it ain't about strength. It's about control. The moment you flood your veins with steam-infused aura, you are the weapon. Most can't take the strain. That's why you train your breath. You pulse it… three seconds, hold, release."
Zay's eyes narrowed as he listened intently from his shadowed perch.
'Is this a teacher explaining a technique to a student?' he thought. 'Steam-infused aura that bursts from the body… sounds like a high-risk, internal combustion style.'
Zay's gaze flicked to the old man's mechanical arm, noting the fine tubing along the wrist—clearly designed to regulate heat and pressure. There was experience in his build, and wisdom in his warnings.
The younger man leaned forward, his brow furrowed with focus, eyes locked onto the older man's mechanical arm as it gave another quiet hiss.
"But… how do you stop it once it starts?" he asked, voice low but intense. "I mean… if I ignite the steam inside my body and start the flow—how do I keep from… detonating?"
The old man gave a half-smile, half-grimace—like someone remembering a scar more than a story. He swirled the liquid in his glass before answering.
"That's the art of it, boy. You don't stop it. You shape it."
He tapped two fingers against his chest, just over his heart.
"Steam Death ain't like most techniques. It's not made to last. You're supposed to burn hot, burn fast, and end the fight in a single breath. One misstep, and you'll scald your nerves, burst your veins, or worse—boil your aura pathways from the inside out."
The younger man swallowed hard.
"So it's… a suicide technique?"
The old man met his eyes, then slowly nodded.
"It's a last-resort, or a first strike if you're too stubborn to die quietly. It made me a legend once… and it took payment."
He lifted his mechanical arm with a metallic creak, letting the firelight reflect off its scorched plating.
'An interesting technique... but why teach it to someone so young?' Zay thought, his gaze flicking from the older man's mechanical arm to the eager face of the student. The tension between power and fragility hung in the air—an invisible thread coiled tight around both their lives.
Then, a shift in tone caught his ear—another conversation, this time from the bar.
Two figures sat hunched over on high stools, their voices hushed but tinged with urgency. One was a broad-shouldered woman with short auburn hair and a thick leather coat that glistened faintly with dampness. The other was a wiry man with sunken cheeks and one eye covered by a rusted brass lens attached to a headband of thin wire.
The woman took a sip from her mug and muttered, "...I'm tellin' you, it's not just some killer. There's a damn pattern."
The man scoffed. "You think a pattern means anything more than just random killings? I don't buy that. People disappear all the time—especially criminals."
She leaned closer, voice lower. "Not like this. No theft. No mess. Just… bodies. Sliced open like paper dolls. Every last one of 'em had a bounty on their head. Every one. You heard what they did to Duke Raymond. Nobody touches a noble unless they're damn sure about it."
A memory stirred—Zay had heard whispers of the Duke in a previous life. A man rumored for trafficking children, offering body parts to other nobles, and more. A deranged and dangerous man to say the least.
The man at the bar gave a skeptical grunt. "A bounty hunter, then? With morals?"
The woman shook her head. "That's the part no one knows. Maybe it's vengeance. Maybe it's cleansing. Or maybe it's just efficiency. Either way… no one's caught even a whisper of their name."
Zay leaned back against the wall again, mind racing.
'A hunter who kills only the guilty… without a face, without a name. Gyro has always been interesting.'
An hour passed slowly, and Zay finally pushed himself off the wall, slipping through the door of Draxen's Last and vanishing once more into the fog with the same silence that had brought him there. The mist clung to him like a second skin as he returned to the broken stone pathway, his boots crunching softly against damp gravel and crumbling earth.
The walk back to the station felt heavier somehow—each step echoing slightly as he had cancelled [Shadow Hide]. When he emerged from the tree line, the aged structure of Draxen Station loomed through the haze, its cold metal and weathered stone partially swallowed by fog. The train still waited, unmoved, humming gently with light and life, its golden glow stretching long and thin across the wet, uneven ground.
He glanced up. The moon still hung in the sky, pale and bruised behind drifting veils of cloud. It was as if time itself had held its breath.
Zay stepped onto the platform, each footfall a hollow tap against the old tiles. He cast one last glance into the thick mist—toward the direction Rivena had vanished, walking toward the half-sunken bell tower… and toward the forest where Monroe vanished into without a word.
With a quiet exhale, Zay boarded the train once more. Zay settled into the same seat he had occupied earlier, just as the doors hissed shut behind him. The familiar scent of iron, oil, and old leather filled the corridor once more. The bench creaked under the sudden weight of a man sitting beside him—a massive figure, easily seven feet tall. He wore a dark crimson trench coat that draped to his boots, its edges damp with dew, and a tall top hat shadowing most of his face. In his gloved hand, he held a worn leather-bound journal, its spine cracked and edges curled from use.
Zay glanced at him briefly, but quickly turned his gaze away. He had no interest in idle conversation, especially not with a man who looked like he could crush a skull in one hand. Besides, something about the man's stillness—his sheer presence—set off alarms in Zay's instincts.
A sharp burst of steam hissed from beneath the floor as the train lurched forward, its engines releasing a low, mechanical groan. The world outside began to crawl past the windows, blurred by fog and motion.
Then, Zay's eyes widened.
Through the thin veil of mist, he spotted two figures standing just beyond the platform—on the very edge of the treeline. Rivena. Monroe. Both were facing the train in complete stillness.
Zay blinked and opened his eyes to find them gone.
His breath caught for a moment as the train picked up speed, the rhythm of wheels against the rails rising to a steady hum. Within moments, they were gliding at 90 miles per hour, the forest outside nothing more than a wall of motion.
'What the hell…' he thought, narrowing his eyes.