It was fog. The moment the three of them set foot on the port of the Old Continent, white mist enveloped their bodies. After the light of transfer faded, all that remained was the cold touch of stone pavement and the confirmation that their feet were on solid ground. There was no sign of the high-density atmospheric mana they'd grown accustomed to on the Demon Continent. The sensation of lightness spreading through his body was proof that he had returned. Raid stepped onto the stone pavement of the port and looked around. Fog. Dense. Visibility didn't extend more than ten meters. The smell of salt stung his nostrils. The sound of waves reached him from a distance. It was different from the ports in the eastern empire—somewhere further west, probably one of the Old Continent's major ports. The fact that the transfer device's exit was set here meant—— "Maybe I should think of a greeting for coming back," Raid thought to himself. The moment that thought crossed his mind, what came out of his mouth was the Imperial tongue. Over the past few days, the language of the Demon Continent had mixed in so much that he'd hesitated for just an instant about which language to speak. His head switched over with a half-beat delay, and he muttered to himself in a voice no one else could hear: "...Uh, yeah, Imperial tongue, that's right." Lilia gave him a look that said "Huh, what's wrong?" but Raid responded with a low "It's nothing." Aira took in the scene for just a moment. She said nothing. Only her green eyes narrowed slightly—and Raid couldn't read what that expression meant. And then. From within the fog, without a sound, shadows appeared. One, two, three. Then more. Figures in complete armor arranged in orderly formation. The emblem of the Armor Heron Knights—the empire's elite mixed unit of cavalry and infantry—glowed dully even through the fog. With hands on sword hilts, they formed a semicircle around the three of them. Their escape route was completely cut off. Raid, standing on the stone pavement, read the formation in a single second. No wasted movement. They'd surrounded them preemptively. They'd known the location of the transfer exit beforehand. This was a planned operation, not improvisation. It had been calculated in advance. (I see. No welcome, then.) Thinking that to himself, Raid kept his expression unchanged. Beside him, Aira's stance shifted slightly. Her hand moving toward her sword hilt stopped, froze for an instant, then quietly returned to her side. A trained judgment. There was no point in moving now. She'd made that decision in less than a second. Only Lilia looked bewildered, staring at the line of knights floating in the fog. "Um, did someone come to pick us up?" Lilia asked. "...Not that kind of pick-up," Raid answered in a low, controlled voice. One figure stepped forward from the formation. He appeared to be in his mid-forties. Short white-streaked hair cut close to the scalp, a commander's cloak worn over his armor. His face was expressionless. He had the eyes of a bureaucrat reading documents—completely devoid of emotion. The squad leader unrolled a piece of parchment. His voice was swallowed by the fog but came through clearly. "Under Imperial Code, Article Forty-Seven, Foreign National Management Regulations—the immediate custody clause for those bearing the blood of the demon race," the squad leader recited in a monotone. The words continued, emotionless. A reading of legal text. Flowing like a ritual. Lilia's name never appeared in the words that fell into the fog. Only the phrase "those bearing the blood of the demon race" repeated again and again in the mist. Lilia didn't realize at first that they were talking about her. Two knights approached Lilia. The moment she understood, her expression changed. Her smile vanished. But she wasn't frightened—her face showed comprehension. The face of someone trying to understand what was happening. One of the knights grabbed Lilia's slender wrist. Lilia turned around. "Raid," she said. Just that one word. As she did, the front of her cloak came loose. The cold air of the winter port exposed the white line of her neck and collarbone to the fog for an instant. The high body temperature characteristic of the demon race scattered as white breath into the air. As the knight pulled her wrist, Lilia's odd eyes—pale violet and light amber—looked straight at Raid. Raid felt the image burn into his vision. There was anger. There was. But it wasn't just that. The white skin, the breath, the voice calling his name. They mixed together, and something other than anger—a residue of something else—fell into the depths of his chest. The moment he became aware of it, Raid felt momentarily overwhelmed by his own interior. Before he could analyze it, he pushed it to the edge of his consciousness. This wasn't the time for that. "Continue," the squad leader said. The squad leader's voice went on. This time, another section of the parchment was read, directed at Aira. "Armor Heron Knights advance unit vice-commander, Aira. Unauthorized border crossing outside mission authority, prolonged association with hostile species, violation of mandatory prior reporting to imperial military headquarters. Based on these charges, you are ordered to be escorted to the imperial capital, Verga," the squad leader recited. Aira didn't move. After the reading ended, silence continued for one second, two seconds. During that time, Aira's right hand slowly moved toward her sword hilt—and stopped just before touching it. One second of silence. Raid could sense her clenching her teeth from where he stood. Then her hand fell away. She chose not to draw her sword. Aira had processed the judgment that if she moved now, all three of them would be finished—she'd processed it before emotion could take hold. Two knights took positions on either side, forming an escort formation. Aira accepted it without changing her expression. But to maintain that composure, she was pushing something down inside—and only that weight showed through in her profile. Then the squad leader looked at the final parchment. "Raid Allbert," the squad leader said. Raid turned his gaze toward the squad leader. "The empire grants special exemption," the squad leader continued. A pause. "Release him," the squad leader ordered. The knights, in orderly fashion, withdrew from Raid. Quietly. Without sound. Like the tide receding, the formation opened around Raid alone. An escort column formed, and Lilia and Aira were led away into the fog. Footsteps faded into the distance. The presence of people disappeared. Raid stood alone on the stone pavement of the wharf. For several seconds, he remained frozen with his mouth half-open. A single dock worker passed by in the distance, carrying cargo on his shoulders. He glanced briefly at Raid standing motionless, then quickened his pace and left. His look was suspicious. The look of someone wondering "What is this person doing?" "...Just me, then," Raid muttered. The words were swallowed by the fog. Only after speaking did the absurdity of the situation sink into his body. They'd come back together as three, and the empire's welcome was "You alone are released, the other two are being taken away." And the reason was "special exemption." There was no explanation here about who had issued it or why. The face of Groas came to mind—the imperial military brigade commander who had once served in the same mage unit as Raid. This smells like his work, Raid thought. Bitter, cunning, motivated by pragmatism rather than malice. The kind of judgment that would keep Raid as a "useful piece" within reach. It wasn't without frustration. But this wasn't the time to be frustrated. The fog stirred. There was no sound. No presence. At some point, a figure in a black hood had appeared before Raid in the fog. They were tall. Whether man or woman, the depths of the hood were invisible. No eyes visible. No voice. But there was no hesitation in the way they took one step, then another, moving closer. Raid reflexively turned his consciousness toward his mana circuits—but the figure bore no hostile aura. The figure extended a hand. Something was pressed into Raid's palm. An old, black short blade. Heavy. About twenty centimeters long. The patterns carved into the blade were of a type he'd never seen in the empire. What transmitted through his skin—something like soil and night mixed together, a heavy wave distinctly different from the imperial mana of the Old Continent—was the mana of the Demon Continent. Raid looked up, but the figure had already vanished into the fog. No footsteps. No presence. Like smoke dissolving, they were simply gone. Raid examined the short blade in his hand. Its weight. Its texture. The coldness of the blade. The shape of the patterns. He didn't know who had given it to him or why. He understood nothing. But he was certain this was no coincidence. For a while, he stared at the blade. Then he quietly tucked it inside his cloak. *** As the escort column disappeared into the fog, Aira turned back once. It was just before they started walking. She said nothing. There was no sign she was searching for words. She simply looked at Raid with her green eyes. One second. That was all. In that one second, many things were contained. Raid tried to read all of it and couldn't. It wasn't anger. Not dissatisfaction. Not resignation. Something less organized—trust, and bitterness toward herself, and something else—all compressed into Aira's perfectly straight posture. Aira turned forward. Her spine didn't bend a single millimeter. Raid watched her back as it disappeared into the white of the fog. He didn't look away until her form dissolved into the mist. (Her stubbornness really is forged steel through and through.) He thought that to himself. He noticed a small heat lingering in the depths of that thought. The moment he tried to analyze what it was, the weight of the short blade in his palm returned. Raid confirmed the weight of the blade. He was completely alone on the wharf. Only the sound of waves remained in the fog. The smell of salt. The cold of stone pavement. The direction of the imperial capital, Verga—a map of the Old Continent spread in his mind. Several days' journey by horse from here. Which route to take. Who to rely on. There might be no one left to rely on. Once, Raid had walked the stone pavement of the imperial capital as the empire's foremost mage. He had strode through the halls of the National Magical Academy, the Luminous Mark Institute, with strength and achievement. More than fifteen years had passed since those days, and now he had to retrace that same path in reverse, nearly as a fugitive. It was laughable. Or perhaps not laughable at all. Raid confirmed the sensation of the blue-white scar beneath the sleeve of his left arm. The traces of mana circuits damaged by fusion. They were in a state that could be called rusted. They might not be usable on the way to the capital. Even if they were, there would be a price. But still. The voice of Lilia calling "Raid" still echoed in his ears. The sight of Aira turning back for just one second still remained behind his eyes. His feet moved of their own accord. Into the fog, toward the direction of the capital, a quiet fire ignited in the rusted mana circuits of the aging mage.