Before dawn—before the Suns created by the ancient Mystica—could pierce the thick mists, two voices were lost to the swirling wind currents of Ouroboros. Even those who heard the cries could do nothing, for a minute and a half was not enough time to quench their curiosity in this ominous setting.
Among those who believed themselves closest to the source, only Nostaw, a renowned no-revision author, felt a rush of excitement.
"What a ghastly scream at such a ghastly hour," he whispered, clutching a Whisper Leaf in one hand. The enchanted leaf recorded the scream in a series of shifting letters, while his other hand gripped a Mystica known as the 'Scruner.'
Shaped like a book, this Mystica contained the first—and last—draft of his current work-in-progress, abandoned when pure mental exhaustion forced him to clock out for the day.
That didn't mean he went to bed. Or fell unconscious.
No, sir.
Ouroboros flooded its inhabitants with too much energy for that. Instead, Nostaw crawled into his cloud sheets and stared up at the arch over his bed. The structure thrummed with power, implanting thoughts and diversions every other minute.
This wasn't sleep—far from it. But in a realm where sleep meant death, where exhaustion could never overpower the relentless currents of energy, certain Ornyx were essential to keep the mind from splintering into oblivion.
His arch was crafted from the Ornyxes of three Mystics—Resonix, Quenara, and Flutter—and powered by 'Veyrunite -- Ore,' which mimicked motion in a stationary object, allowing a still body to siphon away excess energy. The Resonix's hum soothed the soul, the ever-shifting colors of a Quenara feather provided a mesmerizing feast for the eyes and mind, while the Flutter's magical dust transported its user into a multidimensional state, effectively shielding them from the powerful 'Lure' of Ouroboros.
All this, just to keep a person from going insane.
There was no way Nostaw would risk an investigation, no matter how enticing the mystery. Even if it was the scoop of the century.
One has to be sane to enjoy the rewards, thank you very much.
Far away, around the same time, the Halloway Master of Zone N147 tapped his foot against the pavement, nervously awaiting the arrival of his first Arborcentis carrier-Mystical.
The Arborcentis was a colossal, elongated creature, its massive, spindly legs stretching outward like the limbs of an ancient forest tree. There was no way he could miss its approach.
At least, that's what Garry—the Halloway Master—told himself.
Based on travel distance, the amount of Quincil a passenger was willing to spend, Halloway benefits, and a plethora of other factors, the Station Master had to prepare the Mystica and fine-tune individual carriages to match each traveler's requests.
Garry Coach hated statistics more than he hated his luck.
Among the few who had lived through the Third Era, Garry's luck had blocked him from obtaining the riches most naturally acquired while transitioning into the next. Ever since, anything remotely related to basic statistics stumped him.
There were many without a 'Guru'—a basic teacher to guide them through their journey—but for Garry, his luck made learning math a moot point—let alone 'Mystic Math.'
During the dire times, when the government handed out surplus stars and high-ranking positions to advance careers, he found himself unknowingly breaking laws, unaware that, apparently, rules changed during situations of crisis.
Just as earning stars had become easier, losing them had too.
Garry bounced from one job to another, the fluctuating star system and ever-changing societal rules carving deep wrinkles into his once-young, elastic face. He remembered being in his twenties when he first forgot his birthday; after that, many more slipped by, leaving him unable to recall his own age.
His luck, however, finally shifted when he became the Halloway Master of Zone N-147.
Some high-ranking official in the Arcane Force had misread his experience as a mere 'Carriage Boy'—combined with his old age—as a sign of excellence in mythical transportation and offered him the position. Not wanting to pass up the luxuries of his final days, Garry accepted.
From day one, he lied to himself—and to his crew.
He bribed his subordinates with promises of his soon-to-be-vacated position, convincing them to do his job for him. He learned more by watching them work than by doing it himself, all the while fearing that his bad luck would soon catch on. He could already imagine it lurking in the shadows, waiting to wipe the unusual smile off his face and restore his lifelong misfortune.
"A frown had been written, and a frown shall remain until reincarnation," a Shaman had once told him.
And today, his bad luck had finally made its move.
It had delivered a 'Wonder' straight to his doorstep.
Not even a week into his new position, the infamous Ouroboros had traversed the vast planes, only to stop at his workplace--before its designated time.
He had no land to claim damages. No means to set out on a quest to the mysterious mountain in search of better luck.
Instead, he was stuck managing the one lucky break he had cheated his misfortune into giving him.
Every one of Garry's underlings was now off enjoying their wild rooster chase inside Ouroboros, while he was left to man the station—alongside his soon-to-return bad luck.
The constant back-and-forth traffic led to a flood of complaints, but as the station manager—and the sole recipient of said complaints—Garry had found a clever use for them. He used the 'Whisper Leaves' to keep the fireplace in his cabin running.
Up until now, this trick had worked.
But soon, an official from the Arcane Force was set to arrive.
There was no way he could simply toss that complaint into the fire.
So, for the first time in a while, Garry worked more diligently than before.
He paced around the station, checked on the 'Centi Mystica'—which would replace the incoming 'Arborcentis'—and ran through the station's checklist. He also inspected the multipurpose 'Ekanze,' a mystica responsible for keeping both his pants and the carriage doors in place.
Practicing a few chants over the 'Ekanze,' he somehow managed to entangle himself in the very vines that made up the platform's floor.
Locked within several layers of 'Ekanze,' he sighed.
"I wish someone would fire me already."
Lucky for him, the only transports allowed to break a schedule were those that ran into a terrifying Mystica or those that had encountered a 'Wonder of Wanderlust.'
Wonders had a unique trait: they distorted physical laws, attracted Mystica, and could mystically erase objects, people, Mystica, or even entire regions from Wanderlust itself.
Garry wished the Arborcentis would roll right off the massive Oak branch and into Ouroboros. That way, he'd only lose his job—not his sanity.
Anything short of that would lead to endless inquiries, forced community service, another excruciating math involved investigation to determine his true age, and stars owned—something even he didn't want to know.
"I'm still close to Ouroboros," Garry assured himself, croaking out a chant to free himself from the 'Ekanze's' grip. "I can still access the market and buy some luck... right?"
But all his hopes were shattered with the low, unmistakable rumble of bark smashing against bark.
The Arborcentis was making its way back to the station.
Garry groaned, drawing out a sleek, wooden skateboard. Kicking off, he glided across the platform, hopping from one massive vein to another until he reached the station's Sylvarin.
Unlike the Pyxen race, whose powers lay in movement and survival upon Ouroboros, Sylvarin's were wanderers who had found a way to forge a 'mystic-connection' with a nature-attuned mystica.
Some even served as hosts, transforming their Wanderer bodies into living nests where Fairies slumbered.
Sylvarin's had an earthly complexion and were the only ones capable of communicating with nature—or more precisely, the mystica within it.
Garry only resented his lack of education when it came to Sylvarin's for one particularly beautiful reason.
D'Las, a female Sylvarin tasked with maintaining the ancient 'Mazeler Oak' trees near the N-147 Halloway station, felt the faint scraping of vines and shivered.
"Reglen!" she chanted, brushing her thick, bushy hair off her forehead.
At once, both her ivory-colored, vine-like hair and the tangled network of tree veins upon the platform straightened themselves. Overhead branches wove together, forming an arched canopy of leaves for shelter.
"Thanks!" D'Las beamed, running her fingers through her hair.
It chimed back, purring in response.
The sudden shift in the environment didn't faze Garry. He simply flipped his 'Ornyx Board' over his shoulder and landed on his feet with practiced ease.
"The Arborcentis is about to arrive," he blurted out before his thoughts could betray him—before he could get lost in D'Las's beauty.
After experiencing one too many awkward silences, Garry had learned to spit out important information before going completely speechless in her presence.
It was still weird.
But at least now, D'Las understood what he was trying to say before it was too late for her to act.
Garry wasn't sure if all Sylvarins carried themselves with such grace and poise or if it was just D'Las.
She moved with an elegance that could put even the Hystorian race to shame.
Her light brown skin reminded Garry of home, and the soft, nostalgic scent that lingered around her—like rain meeting dry earth—trapped his senses in a state of quiet awe.
Sylvarins were nature with legs.
And boy, did he realize how much he had missed out on life during adolescence, blinded by the prejudices of his time.
D'Las casually ran her fingers through her hair, weaving a delicate ring of flowers into the shape of a crown. Then, without hesitation, she plucked a single blossom, placed it in Garry's mouth, and gently shut it closed.
"I know what to do, Master," she teased, her laughter intertwining with the soft hum of her hair, melding into a melodious tune.
Through her golden irises, she spotted a group of fairies rough-handling a local mystica, an 'Arachnivis,' and briefly wondered—Was this the reason Mystica, when scorned by nature, lashed out against those attuned to it?
Of course, she might've been biased.
Having only ever hosted and interacted with nature-aligned Mystica, her perspective was limited. But thanks to her ancestors, who had convinced nonbelievers of the importance of 'Nature Sprites', or the latest term 'Nature Mystica,' in shaping their world, the Sylvarins had finally earned a somewhat equal seat at the 'World Council.'
"If only they could see their beauty," D'Las mused, smiling at the fairies.
Then her expression soured.
"And their ugliness."
Her gaze shifted to the 'Arachnivis,' and her smile flipped upside-down.
"Let's go."
With a practiced ease, D'Las charmed the fairies away, guiding them toward the overhead branches with a gentle sway of her hands.
She paid no mind to the designated 'Centi' arriving at their station. Garry had mentioned it twice yesterday before freezing up, but in her defense, she never cared enough to remember the names of those ghastly creatures.
Without knowing which Centi was approaching, she had no way of gauging its length or guessing which compartment the Arcane official would exit from.
Still, she could feel it.
The Centi's massive claws pierced into the connecting branches of the ancient Oak, the vibrations traveling through the tree's vast network.
Long, whip-like antennae swept the branches ahead, sensing the path forward. Its massive pincers snapped away excess plant growth—extra mushrooms and stray branches deliberately placed along the tracks to nourish the Centis, ensuring they stayed on the designated route while carrying passengers back and forth.
D'Las recognized the ingenuity of the system.
But she hated the process.
Being the station's resident Sylvarin meant it was her responsibility to regrow the lost limbs of the mighty 'Mazeler Oak.'
The fairies scattered the moment the 'Arborcentis' came into view. D'Las had to coax them back, swaying and twirling as she hummed a soft melody.
"Just a second, stay by me... for we are in this together!"
Her voice intertwined with the chime of her hair, as she wove a flowing dress from fresh blossoms, blooming with each spin.
How could anyone not want to be a Sylvarin? Or worship one for the rest of their pathetic, little lives?
This always stumbled her very being.
"Rosera!"
D'Las chanted the spell, tracing an arc across the station's platform with her bare foot.
The fairies spiraled into motion, fluttering across the arc, leaving behind a glowing foothold made up of flowers.
But she still couldn't pinpoint which carriage would carry the Arcane official.
So, she expanded the spell.
She created a flowery foothold for every carriage along the platform, all the while grimacing at the inevitable fate of her delicate petals—soon to be trampled under the grotesque shoes of passing wanderers.
Above them, the 'Arborcentis' moved with an 'almost ethereal grace,' gliding upside down along the towering branches of the 'Mazeler Oak.' The interconnected limbs formed a twisting sky-road, guiding the creature as it traversed vast distances without pause.
With each step of its massive legs, the 'Arborcentis' moved with effortless power—never once straying from the grub-lined branches it clung to.
And stopping such a humongous beast?
That required something larger—or something far more magical—to halt its million ceaseless steps.
"Tacku--ten--tome," D'Las whispered to the ancient Oak.
At the edge of the platform, a gigantic mushroom erupted from the wood, growing fast enough to halt the Arborcentis in its tracks. Each time the 'Centi' tore off a massive bite, the mushroom regrew—larger, stronger—buying the passengers within enough time to disembark.
"Lights or not?"
D'Las hesitated. She hadn't confirmed the official's request.
Playing it safe, she beckoned the 'Lymphs' nesting in the overhead branches. In response, the tiny creatures cleared small pockets in the leaves, allowing slivers of sunlight to pierce through.
No two chambers within the 'Arborcentis' were alike—each one highly specialized based on how much quincil a passenger had thrown into their comfort. This made spotting the official's quarters easy; his was the most exclusive, just two tiers below a Queen's carriage.
A fairy fluttered near, whispering his name and chamber number into D'Las's pointed ear.
"Ah. Jefferson," she acknowledged, turning toward the very end of the train-beast.
For a man traveling in first class, Jefferson had chosen a curiously isolated chamber.
Now knowing which carriage required her charm, D'Las considered removing the rest of the welcoming flowers. The low-level wanderers neither paid for them, nor did she enjoy seeing her precious blooms trampled beneath their grotesque shoes.
But she had little time, so begrudgingly, she moved on.
She wasn't attempting to impress Jefferson just for the sake of station decorum. He was posted close to the Queen—a simple man to solicit and bend in her favor during the next council.
The Sylvarins deserved more recognition—and the right connections could make that happen.
D'Las spotted his carriage from a distance, but before she could reach it, impatient passengers rushed out, ignoring Garry as he fumbled to open the doors.
She scowled.
They blocked her path forward.
Towering over the crowd, she peered into Jefferson's dark carriage.
"No lights?!"
D'Las cursed herself. Of course! Jefferson had requested darkness, and in her distraction, she had failed to seal all the pockets of light shining into his chamber—and onto the path he'd take through the station.
A blunder.
A mistake that could cost her an imaginary standing in Jefferson's eyes—and Garry's.
D'Las forced herself to focus.
She needed to see Jefferson's face. Memorize it. He was crucial to her plans. If she could make him remember her, she could raise her ranking among the Sylvarins.
But the ungrateful Wanderers trampled both her welcome flowers and her toes, forcing her attention away at the worst possible moment.
She barely caught a glimpse of Jefferson's 'Sigil' over his shoulder before he wrapped himself in an oversized, thick blanket.
And then—
A spark.
And everyone's world turned upside down.
The fire did not roar—it shrieked. A raw, vengeful wail that tore through the air, devouring all sound but its own. What had once been a mere spark had twisted itself into a column of white-hot agony, writhing like a living thing—unchained, insatiable. It drank the air from the lungs of those who stood in its presence, leaving them gasping, unable to scream, and mortified into stunned statues.
And at its heart, buried within the searing tempest, was Jefferson.
His oversized blanket ignited first, curling inward like charred petals, disintegrating before it could fully burn. The sigil on his shoulder—the only mark of his existence that had reached D'Las's eyes—glowed for an instant, then crumbled into embers, spiraling away. His flesh, his bones, his very presence became fuel for the unnatural blaze. The fire did not allow him to thrash or claw for survival. It held him still, erasing him from the world with merciless precision.
No ash. No remains. Just nothingness.
The screams had long since died—not from mercy, but because there was no mouth left to voice them. Even the fire, once ravenous and furious, began to coil inward, folding in on itself as if... satisfied. Then, silence.
Where Jefferson had stood, there was only emptiness.
And then, the void he left behind shuddered.
A pulse of unnatural stillness spread outward, washing over the terrified crowd, sending icy tendrils into their chests, squeezing their hearts with an unspoken warning.
Something about this fire was wrong.
Something deeper than simple destruction.
D'Las clutched her arms, the scent of burnt nothingness seeping into her nostrils. Her mind whispered a truth she dared not speak:
Fire does not erase. It blackens. It leaves traces.
But here, in this forsaken moment, there was nothing left of Jefferson.
Not even his shadow...
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