The very first thought that cut through Morca's panic was a chilling realization:
"The email was indeed true!"
The once-vibrant hum of conversations throughout the classic car unit had vanished into absolute nothingness. In fact, every single passenger on board had gone absent. It was as if he had been sitting alone within this hollow carriage all along.
Instinctively, Morca shut his eyes tight, then snapped them open, desperately hoping to return to the bustling transit atmosphere from moments before. Yet, reality refused to budge. Not a single living soul was present. If not for the low, rhythmic grind of the train wheels striking the rail tracks below, he would have believed he was trapped in a severe nightmare.
Desperate to verify his situation, his gaze dropped to the ever-glowing white screen of his phone, which still displayed the tracking interface.The red countdown numbers loomed back at him. He still possessed exactly seven minutes and fifteen seconds.
"But… but if they are already executing their move… the time—"
He didn't have to finish the thought. Suddenly, the countdown accelerated at a terrifying velocity, violently skipping chunks of time. It rapidly dropped to three minutes. Then two… one… and finally, 00:00:00.
'This is bad...' At that exact flashpoint, a primal urge told him to spring up and run, but a sickening realization struck his brain: his muscles refused to bulge. He couldn't even stand. Cold sweat traced a freezing path down his spine.
He tried to scream for assistance, his mouth gaping open, but no sound escaped his throat. The desperate effort left him feeling as if he were screaming in reverse, the breath being cruelly sucked straight back into his lungs.
Trapped, his logical mind frantically scrambled for an alternative escape route. Dozens of theoretical solutions flooded his brain, though he couldn't verify if a single one would function.
'Yes, I can still move my hands,' he calculated. 'I need to place an emergency call. But to who?'
The second his thumbs moved toward the screen, a new obstacle shattered his hope. The white interface refused to exit or minimize to the home screen. He desperately pressed the power button, attempting to lock and unlock the device, but to his absolute horror, the stubborn screen refused to blink even for a fraction of a second. It was completely locked by an external force.
Left with no further options, Morca could only sit frozen, waiting for the worst to descend.
"I'm doomed... What type of shoddy power is this—science or witchcraft?"
Forcing himself to breathe, he tried to look past his immediate panic, utilizing his intellect.
When it came to reading, Morca had accumulated a vast mental archive since his youth. Be it advanced science journals, dense historical textbooks, or his favorite web novels—he had devoured them all, even cross-referencing obscure passages within the ancient sacred scriptures.
He had frequently fantasized about existing inside the extraordinary worlds he read about. But never in his wildest imagination had he assumed that the bizarre anomalies found only in fiction would manifest in real life—much less collapse directly upon himself.
While his thoughts raced, the physical structure of the train car began to unwrap. One after another, the upholstered seats in the classic unit dissolved, turning into fine white dust that floated lazily into the air, vanishing until only two chairs remained: one resting at the far end of the carriage, and his own, sitting dead in the center.
Morca's eyes widened as the floor beneath him dematerialized. His seat was now floating suspended in the empty space between the ceiling and the exposed tracks below. For the first time in his life, he was witnessing the exact supernatural visual effects he usually watched on screens or read in serials. Yet, strangely enough, his internal mind failed to react the way a normal mortal should face-to-face with an anomaly. Instead of pure terror, a spark of thrill ignited within his chest.
Yes—Morca instinctively felt a surge of adrenaline.
He remembered longing for the exact supernatural capabilities he had researched in books. Now that the extraordinary was manifesting right before his face, he felt the violent sting of what it truly meant to possess such power.
Only when he remembered his vulnerable position did the initial thrill collapse back into heavy, suffocating fear.
First, he lacked any data concerning the entity behind this domain, or their ultimate motive. Nor did he understand how such a force could operate openly within Evoslon's boundaries.
'Could it be a clandestine organization operating from the shadows... or am I no longer in Evoslon?'
Judging by his extensive background as a bookworm, he couldn't rule out the possibility of a spatial displacement. However, his logical mind dismissed the theory as quickly as it surfaced. If an entity possessed such power to easily tear away chunks of space-time, they would have dominated the continents long ago. Yet, there had never been a single whisper of a unified force dominating the entirety of Evoslon.
"Maybe there are—just that I lack the clearance to know about them."
Before he could pursue the thought further, his floating seat violently spun around, forcing him to face the elongated, empty expanse of the classic unit.
The moment Morca's gaze locked onto the figure waiting at the far end, his shadow writhed unnaturally against the remaining metallic column behind him, distorting in a manner that no physical light could justify.
'This one… is incredibly dangerous,' the shadow murmured within the deepest layers of his subconscious. 'The only entities I've ever sensed who rival or surpass this presence… are "our" parents.'
A brief, calculated pause followed.'Careful now. I must not project too much spiritual resonance. If he notices the variance… he'll know. Which is not good.'
The shadow rippled once more, the movements slower, deliberate, before settling back into stillness, perfectly matching the exact silhouette Morca cast as if nothing had ever been amiss.
"An excellent guess, kid."
At the far end of the floating unit sat a lone figure, occupying the remaining seat. The man was draped in a traditional black robe woven with intricate silver silk threads. On his head rested a simple straw hat that perfectly matched his old-fashioned, yet clearly expensive straw slippers.
At the sight, Morca's eyes dilated in pure disbelief—not because of the man's physical presence, nor because of the terrifying gravity of his supernatural manipulation, but because of the archaic nature of his attire.
Given Morca's deep knowledge of this modern age, where scientific advancements and advanced technologies reigned supreme across Evoslon, he had never expected to encounter someone dressed like an ancient relic. Yet, combining the costume with the overwhelming phenomenon he had just witnessed, he quickly deduced a clinical fact: this person was likely a high-tier, reclusive freak—someone who existed entirely detached from normal civilian society.
'Is this person an operative from the legendary Mystrasia Continent? If so… I must be twice as careful with my words, not less.'
He recalled an exact passage from a historical textbook stating that among Evoslon's three continents, the Mystrasia continent remained strictly regulated, renowned for its deep-rooted, ancient traditions, Martial practices, and strictly systems.
Morca reminded himself of a specific rule of etiquette he had once uncovered during his research:
'Never allow your true expression to be deciphered—not even when a valid reason presents itself. Swift death is the primary reward of careless fear.'
With that doctrine anchoring his nerves, he forcefully subdued his rising panic, forging his expression into a mask of calm stillness.
What he didn't know was that every defense mechanism he was trying so desperately to construct was nothing more than an amusing performance to the mysterious entity before him.
"Sir... who are you? What do you want with me?" Morca demanded, his tone carefully weighted to sound composed.
"As expected of his son,"
Is he talking about father?
The mysterious figure murmured, completely ignoring the inquiry as if his speech were beneath him. "Judging by your baseline reaction, I suppose he never disclosed the details concerning your true root—or rather, his own nature. No… more accurately, about the Sherman lineage. You feel a surge of thrill in my presence, yet you harbor a deep wariness of the unknown, all while maintaining a composed expression. Admirable. Truly interesting."
The raspy voice was deeply unsettling, echoing throughout the floating void while simultaneously feeling as though it were being whispered directly into Morca's ears.
From the stranger precise terminology, Morca could tell the man was thoroughly enjoying the evaluation.
If there was one detail the stranger had miscalculated, it was that Morca hadn't felt thrilled by his physical presence, but rather by the absolute verification of the supernatural.
"However, the playtime is over. You may sleep peacefully, kid."
This time, the words carried the absolute weight of a spell, luring his consciousness toward a deep, heavy slumber. Morca felt his awareness rapidly sliding into the dark. Just before his vision completely dissolved into blankness, he caught a definitive glimpse of the man's true physical features beneath the brim of the straw hat.
The instant the details locked, his half-closed eyes widened in a final flash of disbelief.
The man's facial structure bore a striking, terrifying resemblance to his own father—save for the long, flowing dark hair and the faint stubble tracing his sharp jawline. The word 'Father' nearly escaped his lips.
Then, fragmented phrases rolled through the fading void, words he could barely comprehend before absolute darkness claimed his mind:
"The Sin Purging Ceremony will commence in a few days. Let us witness what definitive flaw the lineage head's son awakens. You had better manifest a potential befitting his bloodline… otherwise, your days within the clan's hierarchy will be far from easy. Worse, if you fail to awaken altogether—mediocrity is never tolerated." A piercing, lethal crimson light flashed across his lazy daze.
With a simple, lazy wave of his hand, Sir Emmett Lee commanded the unconscious body of Morca to rise, anchoring him seamlessly beside his floating frame.
'Fascinating… his shadow alignment is completely off,' Emmett thought, his gaze locking onto the distorted silhouette left behind on the column.
'Could his lineage order be fundamentally tied to a shadow flaw—a hidden order existing between darkness and light?'
"Maia, handle the aftermath cleanup. I am departing,"
The raspy command echoed one last time through the suspended, empty carriage. In the next instant, Sir Emmett Lee completely dissolved into a thick, creeping mist, pulling the slumbering Morca along with him into the void.
For a brief, heavy moment, Morca's shadow lingered behind on the metallic column. It writhed against the smooth steel, shifting unnaturally before whispering a soft, dark promise into the silence:
'Seems I'll have to educate him through dreams… this may be the last time we remain separate.'
With that final murmur, the silhouette melted away, leaving the classic unit wrapped in absolute, hollow silence.