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 I heard something explode. The air was hot, heavy, wrong. I heard my mom calling my name, desperate and distant. But when I finally made it 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 end of the road. Calm. Unbothered. Like it was any other day and the world wasn't currently disintegrating.
"Mom! Dad!" I shouted, legs barely cooperating as I stumbled over the uneven ground, heart crawling up into my throat.
They turned around.
And… yeah. It wasn't them.
They had their faces, sure, but the eyes were wrong. Glassy. Hollow. Dead. Like someone had propped them up just well enough to pass in bad lighting.
I stopped. Everything stopped. "Mom?" I said, and then again, smaller, "Dad?"
No answer.
And then the whole street exploded.
Heat slammed into me like a giant hand had just slapped the air out of my lungs. I hit the ground, everything spinning, and the world just… cut out.
When I came to, the village was gone. Ash. Rubble. A ghost of what it had been. The kind of thing that makes you wonder if it ever existed at all.
No one was left. Just me, walking through the bones of my old life like some sad little shadow. No houses, no noise, no people—only smoke and the sound of my own footsteps.
And then came the whispers.
Not real ones—just the old, familiar kind that clung to you like mud. Thief. Rat. Waste of food. The villagers had rebuilt the place, sure. But me? I was still the trash they swept into the corners.
So I wandered. Cold. Hungry. Alone. Just trying not to disappear completely.
Then, like some cruel joke from a god with too much free time, I saw them again. My parents. Standing at the end of a road that shouldn't have been there. Pale and ghostly, but somehow more real than anything else in that place.
"Mom! Dad!" I called, voice cracking as I ran.
Faster. Harder. Everything inside me clawing to get to them.
The road, the smoke, my parents—the whole world just collapsed into black, like someone had yanked the curtain down before the final act. No ending. No answers. Just nothing.
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 pulled the blanket over my head like that would protect me from whatever fresh nonsense had entered my life this morning. Spoiler: it didn't. The pest at my bedside had patience, persistence, and the precision of someone who'd done this 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 dramatic effect—and pushed myself upright with all the enthusiasm of a corpse reanimated for one last chore. Morning sunlight slipped through the slats like it had no idea how unwelcome it was. The room itself felt like a rental from someone who didn't expect guests—wood-paneled walls, a chair that squeaked in protest, and a desk that might crumble if you breathed wrong.
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. 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 casually, arms still crossed like he had all the time in the world to watch something apocalyptic stroll past. "A Magi-Train," he said, like the name explained anything.
"The Dalthun Empire's greatest invention," Sora added softly, her voice wrapped in that polite tone people used when quoting something from a textbook or a prayer.
I blinked at them. "Wait. Dalthun? The desert one? With all the… strange machinery?"
They nodded.
I turned back to the window, heart crawling up into my throat. "So you're telling me they built a… moving fortress? That builds its own road?"
"Yes," Arden said, without a shred of urgency. Just matter-of-fact doom.
"They don't usually deploy it unless there's a war," he added, like he was commenting on the weather.
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.
Dozens of rune-etched barrels lined its sides, each one glowing faintly with that ominous blue shimmer—familiar enough to scream magic, but alien enough to feel wrong. Some were long, rifle-like. Others were thick and squat, like miniaturized siege cannons. All of them had that same thrumming energy, like they were waiting for an excuse.
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 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 sharp blast of pressure ripped through the air as the machine came to a stop just outside the gates. The hiss trailed off into an awful, echoing silence.
Then the doors opened.
Cold, filtered air rolled out, sterile and metallic, laced with that distinct electrical tang—burnt ozone and something sharper beneath it. Every instinct in my body told me to run.
Instead, I watched.
Two figures stepped out. Guards. Both in dark armor, Magi-Guns in hand. They moved in sync—too smooth, too controlled. Their eyes scanned the area with methodical precision, and it was clear they weren't here for crowd control. These weren't the grunts. These were the ones you send in first.
Then came the third figure.
A man.
Tall. Relaxed. Confident in that terrifying, effortless way only powerful people manage. His white shirt hung open at the chest, casual and completely inappropriate for literally any kind of imperial visit. A gold necklace rested against his skin, gleaming like it knew it was expensive. His hair was a mess of wild red—too wild to be unintentional, like he styled it by getting struck by lightning on purpose.
He walked like the town belonged to him already.
And honestly? It probably did.
With a dramatic yawn, he stretched like he'd just woken up from the best nap of his life. He rolled his shoulders, popped his neck, and looked around like he was admiring the scenery—not the fear.
"Ahhh," he exhaled, grinning like a man on vacation. "The air here's not bad. Way better than that dry, desert crap."
No one laughed. No one breathed.
Then his gaze flicked toward us.
And his smile widened.
"Arden!" he called out, arms spreading wide. "It's been too long!"
Arden didn't blink. Didn't move. The statue act was in full force.
But the redhead didn't seem to mind. He strolled forward, his guards trailing behind like shadows, not even pretending to relax.
Stopping just a few feet away, he let his eyes wander over us with the kind of smug charm that probably got him slapped in less diplomatic settings.
"And these must be the lovely ladies keeping you company," he said, smirking. "Honestly, Arden, with your face, you could afford a few more."
I blinked. Sora shifted uncomfortably beside me.
Arden, predictably, remained silent.
The man chuckled. "Still no reaction? You're as dull as ever."
I finally spoke up carefully. "And you are…?"
He clutched his chest in mock betrayal. "Oh? Don't recognize me?" He flashed a grin like a stage magician pulling off a trick. "Radames Antoun, Emperor of the Dalthun Empire. But really—just call me Radames. Titles are such a bore."
I stared.
The Radames. The man behind the empire. The one who built its machines, its weapons, its reputation.
And here he was. Grinning like we were old pals meeting for brunch.
"Anyway," he said, clapping his hands. "Let's talk somewhere quieter."
He turned, already walking back toward the Magi-Train. "Come on. I don't bite. If I wanted to level the place, I wouldn't bother chatting first, right?" He tossed the comment over his shoulder with a wink.
I didn't trust him. At all. But there was no mistaking it—this wasn't a request.
With a slow breath, I stepped forward. Sora fell in beside me, unsure but obedient.
Arden followed, silent as ever.
As the train doors loomed closer, I felt it again—that crawling unease. The quiet dread curling up beneath my ribs.
The inside of the train was… not what I expected. Then again, I wasn't exactly sure what I had expected. Maybe rows of stiff benches bolted into steel floors and soldiers stomping around barking orders. Something rigid and efficient and full of people who didn't look twice at someone like me.
But this?
This was something else entirely.
The room we stepped into wasn't made for troops. It wasn't even made for transport. It was made for one person. And that person clearly had an ego the size of a capital city.
Thick velvet drapes—dark crimson with silver thread—lined the reinforced walls, and the seal of the Dalthun Empire showed up every few feet like it needed to remind the room it was important. There were display cases nestled in between the crests, filled with old war medals, ceremonial weapons, and one particularly smug-looking helmet that had been polished until it gleamed. Everything was bolted down, of course. Even extravagance had to obey gravity when the train hit a bump.
And still, the undercurrent of violence was impossible to miss. There were magi-guns—at least I thought they were magi-guns—mounted near the doors, their smooth barrels glinting under low golden lights. Smaller, nastier-looking contraptions were tucked into corners like they were just waiting for an excuse to unfold and cause problems. It wasn't a lounge. It was a throne room with paranoia.
Radames sat in the middle of it all like a cat in the sun. Sprawled across a curved bench, one arm thrown casually across the backrest, he looked perfectly at home in a place that smelled faintly of oil, ozone, and absurd wealth. His coat flared just enough to show off the gold clasps along the inside, and the ruby at his neck practically winked at me when it caught the light.
"Come in, come in," he said, voice like syrup left too long in the sun. "We're not savages. Not here, anyway."
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 came in last, of course, moving with the same kind of unbothered calm you'd expect from someone who'd already memorized every exit, every bolt in the walls, and probably the best way to bring the whole vehicle down if it came to that. He didn't say a word—he never did when he didn't have to—and just dropped into the seat across from Radames like this was all a formality and he had somewhere better to be.
"I need your help," Radames said, once we were all more or less settled.
Just that. No preamble, no fake warmth, no attempt at buttering us up first. Just a neat little verbal slap tossed into the middle of the room like we were supposed to catch it and thank him for the bruise.
I blinked at him. Sora shifted awkwardly beside me. Arden didn't blink at all.
"It's the rebels," Radames continued, flicking his hand lazily as if dismissing the entire concept of rebellion as an annoying household chore. "Normally they're just noisy, desperate, and full of bad ideas, but these ones… something's different. They're not just rebels. They might be Cultists."
The word dropped like a rusted nail onto stone—sharp, heavy, and clearly meant to hurt.
I didn't say anything, too busy trying to figure out why the Emperor's favorite golden boy needed help from us of all people. Sora's posture tightened, her fingers curling slightly against her skirt, and in the corner of my eye I caught Arden lean forward by just a fraction—not much, but enough to suggest he'd already rearranged the next ten steps of this conversation in his head.
"They're trying to bring back the Demon Lord," Radames said, as if he were talking about the weather.
And that's when my brain short-circuited.
I opened my mouth and let out the first thing that managed to escape the wreckage. "What."
Not bold. Not angry. Just confused, mildly horrified, and very aware that I was several leagues out of my depth.
Radames turned that smug, gleaming smile on me like I'd said something terribly charming. "Our dear Arden," he said, voice practically dripping with amusement, "is the one who killed the last Demon Lord."
The words didn't land so much as crash straight through the floor of reality and keep falling. I just stared, trying to process the fact that apparently, he—the same guy who'd said a grand total of maybe ten words to me since we met—was responsible for taking down the Demon Lord. The actual one. Not a rumor. Not a metaphor. The real thing.
I looked at him, half expecting some kind of smirk or at least a little self-satisfaction. Nothing. Just Arden, motionless, expression unreadable, gaze fixed slightly off to the side like he'd suddenly remembered something very interesting on the wall.
And for a moment, that silence said more than any dramatic confession ever could.
Then Radames, the smug bastard, gave a low, delighted chuckle. "Oh? He never told you?" He glanced at me like I was the last person to get a joke at a party. "Of course he didn't. Too modest, isn't he?"
Of course he didn't. Because why would he? Why share life-altering information when you can stare into the middle distance and let someone else drop the bomb for you?
I wanted to punch something, but unfortunately everything around me was either royal property or capable of stabbing back.
"Well, that's why I came to you," Radames went on, as if none of this was the mental equivalent of setting a house on fire. "If anyone can stop this mess before it gets out of hand, it's Arden. Again."
He reached to the side and unrolled a map onto the low table next to him. Except it wasn't parchment. It wasn't even anything close to paper. It was a smooth metallic sheet, etched with faint glowing lines and tiny shifting markers that moved when the angle of your gaze changed—like someone had asked a sorcerer and an engineer to make a map together, and both of them got drunk halfway through.
He tapped a red point nestled in what looked like jagged mountains. "Here. The Western Ruins. Remote. Isolated. Plenty of places to hide old magic and worse intentions. If they're planning anything, that's where it's starting."
Sora's voice came, soft and unsure, but with that edge of practical curiosity she couldn't quite hide. "Why not send your army?"
Radames gave her a look like she'd just asked why he didn't use a sledgehammer to swat a fly. "Because if I send the army, they'll see it coming and scatter like rats. If I send a smaller force, they'll be outnumbered and picked off. But you—" he gestured lazily at Arden and Sora, then flicked his fingers vaguely toward me as an afterthought, "—you're perfect. Strong enough to handle it, small enough to sneak in unnoticed."
I wasn't sure whether to be insulted or relieved.
Then, Arden spoke. His voice was low, even, and completely unbothered. "She's coming with us."
It took me a second to realize he meant me.
Radames arched an eyebrow and turned that grin on me again, this time more amused than anything else. "Oh? The tagalong's joining the main act?"
I bristled—quietly—but he didn't seem malicious about it. Just... entertained. Like he was watching a child pretend to be a knight.
Arden was already on his feet. "We leave at dawn."
No hesitation, no debate. Just a casual declaration tossed over his shoulder like he'd been planning it for days. Like this wasn't the first time someone had casually dropped "resurrected Demon Lord" into his lap and expected him to do something about it.
I blinked. "Wait—seriously?" The words came out more like a hiccup than a real question, and I wasn't even sure who I was addressing—Arden, Radames, the ceiling, maybe all three.
But predictably, Arden didn't bother with a response. He was already halfway to the exit, coat catching the light like it had somewhere better to be.
Radames just laughed, leaning back again like this was all some mildly amusing play he'd paid to watch. "Still cold as ever," he said, voice dripping with fond mockery.
And that was it. No ceremony, no dramatic pause for reflection. Just a casual agreement to go wade into the ruins and maybe stop the end of the world. You know—Tuesday.
Cultists. Demon Lords. Ancient maps that glowed when you breathed too hard.
And Arden—quiet, unreadable Arden—turning out to be some living legend hiding in plain sight, with all the fanfare of a man ordering soup.
And me?
I was still here. Still following him. Still pretending I had any idea what the hell I'd signed up for.
Which was fine.
Totally fine.
Because apparently, when Arden decided something, the rest of the world just had to catch up.