Shura looked at his hand.
Clean.
He closed his fist.
Weak resistance.
Unproven.
"…All right," he whispered.
The air didn't respond.
"After this…"
A pause.
"…I face it alone."
He looked up.
The Beacon burned above.
His eyes narrowed slightly.
Thinking. Mapping.
"Knight HQ… then Hospital… then Lower District…"
A breath.
"…then Industrial Edge."
A pause.
"Train Station… on the way."
His fingers tapped lightly against his chin.
Mind moving.
Fast.
Precise.
The trains…
Too large. Too slow.
They connect the city—
but leave the inside empty.
"…Needs something smaller."
His eyes sharpened.
"A street rail…"
"A moving line inside the veins…"
A faint smile.
"…That works."
A beat.
"…Business idea."
Silence.
Then—
he shook his head.
"No."
A breath.
"Learning first."
"Build later."
But the thought didn't leave.
It stayed. Quiet. Growing.
He walked.
Deeper.
Across the Great Canal.
Dark water moved below.
"…Water?"
He stopped.
Looked down.
"Where does it come from…?"
No answer. Only motion.
His mind chased it.
"How does it move?"
"How does it stay warm?"
Questions layered.
Stacking.
He didn't notice—
the city changing.
Stone lost polish.
Edges softened.
Stains appeared.
Old. Used. Worn.
He had already passed Knight HQ.
Without knowing.
The smell changed.
Sharp.
Metallic.
Wet chemicals.
"…Hospital."
The air felt heavier.
Not pressure—
Then sound—
Hiss.
Thump.
Hiss.
"…Systems."
He watched.
Workers. Different. Specialized.
Flow control.
"…Life support."
His voice dropped.
"…So this is it."
Benches lined the wall.
Old people.
Still.
Waiting.
A girl moved between them.
Smiling.
Talking.
Trying.
Light in a heavy place.
Nearby—
flowers.
Thick petals.
Translucent.
Faint glow.
Alive—
in a place that wasn't.
Further—
workers at a valve.
Steam leaking.
Shura froze slightly.
A realization.
"I studied everything…"
His voice cracked—just a little.
"Surface history."
"Advanced grades."
"I fought for those books…"
A breath.
"…but not this."
He looked around.
Machines.
Pipes.
Systems.
"I don't understand any of it."
Silence.
Then—
he smiled.
Real. Bright.
"Good."
A pause.
"…Then I can learn."
A scream cut the air.
Metal. Sharp. Vibrating.
He turned.
"…Train Station."
A faint smile.
Dark.
"Built near a hospital…"
A pause.
"…cruel."
He walked again.
Eyes moving.
Recording everything.
Workers lifting iron.
Chains dragging sparks.
Voices clashing—
not in anger.
In precision.
Correction.
Rhythm.
They were tired—
but not empty.
"…They're tired of work."
A breath.
He looked at his hands again.
"…Yeah."
Then forward.
The structure stood ahead.
Half-built.
Iron ribs exposed.
A machine without skin.
Workers arguing.
Loud. Sharp.
Unresolved.
Shura stepped closer.
Tapped a man's shoulder.
"Is there work for me?"
The man glanced at him.
Dismissive.
"Kid. Busy."
Shura didn't move.
"Why the noise?"
A sigh.
Grease wiped across skin.
"Two blueprints."
"Left load. Center load."
"We stop."
Shura tilted his head.
"…Check inside?"
Silence.
The worker turned fully.
Looked at him.
Then laughed once—
short. Not amused.
"See that gap?"
Narrow. Sharp.
Barely space.
"No one fits."
"Heat kills machines."
A pause.
"So tell me—"
His shadow fell over Shura.
"…are you blind?"
Shura looked at himself.
Then at the gap.
Then back.
"…Or small."
Silence.
Then—
"…Feels like you're insulting me."
The worker burst out laughing.
Loud. Real.
"Good."
"Not scared either."
He grinned.
"Small body."
"Straight voice."
"I like that."
Shura looked at his coat.
Too clean.
Too expensive.
Wrong place.
"…Target."
A thought.
Then—
he looked back at the man.
Eyes steady now.
"I want to earn."
A pause.
He stepped closer to the gap.
Carefully.
His eyes traced the jagged metal—
the rhythm of the steam.
"I can help."
The laughter spread instantly.
Not one man—
all of them.
"You?" one shouted.
"With what? You want to suffocate in there?"
Shura didn't answer right away.
He looked at the structure—
then at himself.
Thin. Small. Enough.
"I can fit inside," he said quietly.
"I can check the alignment. I can tell you which blueprint matches the actual structure."
The head worker stopped laughing.
He walked over.
Heavy steps. Slow.
Measured.
"No," he said.
"You won't last in there. The soot's thick. The heat doesn't drop. We're not sending a kid to die inside iron."
Shura met his eyes.
Calm.
"But you don't have another option."
Silence.
The distant scream of a train cut through it.
The worker exhaled.
"…Damn it."
He turned slightly.
"If he goes in, he follows rules."
Then back to Shura.
"If you can't breathe—hit the wall twice. Don't freeze. Don't get stuck."
The seniors nearby reacted immediately.
"Are you insane?"
"He's a child!"
"If something happens, the Empress won't even ask questions—she'll erase this unit!"
Arguments rose.
Fell.
Rose again.
Then—
reluctant agreement.
Shura removed his coat.
Carefully.
Placed it aside.
"I'm a writer," he whispered, stepping forward.
"…and the first page is always the hardest to reach."
The heat wasn't a sensation.
It was a barrier.
A wall.
As he slipped through the narrow gap, the air thickened instantly—
heavy, choking, alive.
His lungs resisted.
His skin tightened.
Like entering the throat of something that could close at any moment.
"Keep your head low!" the worker shouted from outside.
"Steam vents every thirty seconds! You'll get about five seconds of pressure—hold through it!"
Shura didn't respond.
He couldn't.
Breathing itself was work now.
He crawled deeper.
Light faded.
Shapes warped.
Metal ribs stretched around him.
The hospital skeleton.
He reached the junction.
Two structures.
Left—support pillar.
Right—steam arch.
Conflict.
He closed his eyes.
Let the machine speak.
The vibration traveled through his palms.
Through bone.
Through thought.
"…Center," he whispered.
"The load isn't left. It's moving."
He pulled out a thin measuring string.
Stretched it.
The line trembled violently.
Shura's eyes sharpened.
"…The ground shifted."
The workers thought the blueprints were wrong.
They weren't.
Time was.
"One is from before," he rasped.
"…the other is for a structure that hasn't settled yet."
WHOOSH—
Steam exploded almost beside his face.
He pressed himself flat against the metal.
Breath collapsing.
"Kid!" the worker shouted. "Answer!"
Shura opened his mouth—
A broken sound came out.
Half scream.
Half breath.
Then silence.
Outside—
panic.
"He's gone—"
"Wait—look at the gauge!"
"The floor pressure's dropping—he's right!"
Shura didn't wait.
He turned.
Crawled back.
Every movement slower.
Heavier.
His hands black now.
Skin coated.
Breath tearing.
He pushed through the gap—
and dropped.
Hard.
The stone hit his body with a dull thud.
Air rushed into him.
Too fast.
Too much.
He choked on it.
Coughed.
Gasped.
The head worker stepped forward.
Shura forced himself up slightly.
"…See?" he rasped.
"…It works."
The worker looked down.
The boy was unrecognizable.
Hair stuck to his face.
Skin darkened with soot.
Eyes—
still sharp.
"…Which one?" the worker asked quietly.
Shura pointed weakly.
"First one… current load…"
A breath.
"…second one's outdated."
Silence.
Then—
"…Impressive."
The worker reached into his pouch.
Coins. Heavy. Dull.
Placed into Shura's palm.
"You did a surveyor's job," he said.
"And a scrapper's."
A pause.
"That's twenty copp."
Shura stared at them.
Dirty. Rough. Real.
More valuable than anything he'd held before.
"Not charity," the worker added, handing back his coat.
"That's a wage."
A beat.
"You earned your breath."
Shura stood.
Barely steady.
His legs trembled.
His grip didn't.
"Twenty… copp…"
He whispered it like a discovery.
Behind him—
one group of workers nodded.
The others argued over the wrong blueprint.
The world moving again.
Without pause.
He tucked the coins away.
Right beside the Knight's token.
Two weights.
Different meanings.
Same truth.
"…Next line," he murmured.
A faint smile cut through the soot.
"A writer who can't write…"
A breath.
"…just bought his first ink."
He turned.
And walked toward the Industrial heart.
His shadow stretched long behind him—
uneven.
But his steps—
steady.