Chapter 35 ~ Train?


    The wooden hallway of Ragandarok Academy stretched elegantly ahead, its polished floors reflecting the soft glow of the afternoon sun. Though the lanterns lining the walls remained unlit, beams of golden light pierced through the large windows, filtering in and out as passing clouds moved lazily across the autumn sky. The crisp air carried the faint scent of aged wood, a reminder of the academy''s long history.


    Makoto walked behind his students, his footsteps light and steady as they made their way toward the classroom. The air was calm, filled only with the quiet shuffle of boots against the wooden floor and the occasional rustling of fabric. But then, at a distance of twenty-five meters from the classroom door, something caught his eye.


    Two figures stood in front of the entrance.


    The first was the headmaster, his light brown hair neatly styled, his sharp eyes carrying the same color. He wore his usual brown suit, exuding an air of calm authority.


    The second was a young man, his presence unfamiliar. His hair was a blend of dark and light gray, a color that extended to his mismatched eyes—his right eye a deep shade of gray, his left a lighter hue. His uniform was identical to that of the other students, but one thing made him stand out.


    A samurai sword rested at his waist.


    Its scabbard was decorated in the same dual shades of gray as his hair and eyes, its craftsmanship too refined to be anything ordinary. The handle was jet black, its surface smooth, absorbing the faint light that touched it. A single loose strand of his hair curved slightly backward, barely shifting as he stood still.


    In that moment, Makoto finally realized what he had forgotten.


    During the Ability Showcase, one student had been missing.


    It wasn''t unusual—he hadn''t recognized the student''s name due to the strange, scribbled writing on his admission paper. But now, seeing this young man standing beside the headmaster, the missing piece clicked into place.


    As the students reached the doorway, they passed one by one, their footsteps quiet and controlled, entering the classroom without a word.


    Yet, despite their silence, curiosity filled the air like an unspoken whisper.


    The students were careful, not rude enough to stare openly, but each one stole a brief glance at the unfamiliar young man. His features were striking, his aura wrapped in mystery, yet he did not return their gazes.


    He never once looked at them.


    Mizayani, the pink-haired girl with the crimson headband, passed by like the others. Her bright blue eyes flickered briefly toward him before she stepped inside, showing no further interest.


    But there was something that none of them could ignore—


    The sword at his waist.


    Their fleeting glances always led to it, their eyes lingering just a second longer before they forced themselves to look away. A student carrying a weapon openly wasn''t unheard of, but something about his sword—its presence, its weight—made it feel different.


    The same quiet exchange repeated with each passing student.


    Except for two exceptions.


    Fayrouz and Fulan, the last in line.


    Fayrouz walked past the young man without sparing him a glance.


    He did not acknowledge her presence either.


    Neither of them looked at the other, as if they existed in separate realities.


    But when Fulan took his step forward, moving into the exact space the young man stood in—


    Something changed.


    The gray-eyed student''s gaze shifted, ever so slightly, toward Fulan.


    His right eye, dark gray, and his left, light gray, moved with slow precision, locking onto Fulan''s face.


    Fulan, unaware at first, almost entered the classroom without noticing.


    But then—


    "Black hair..."


    A faint whisper. A single breath of words.


    Fulan had already placed one foot inside the classroom, but the soft remark made him pause.


    Something about the way it was said—low, almost contemplative—made it impossible to ignore.


    The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.


    Instead of taking another step, he stilled.


    His golden eyes shifted, moving toward the gray-eyed student, only to find that the young man was already looking at him.


    Their gazes met.


    A brief, yet silent exchange.


    In front of them, Fayrouz continued walking, oblivious to what had just happened.


    Only two people took note of Fulan''s hesitation—the headmaster and Makoto.


    More than three seconds had passed. It was enough to be noticed.


    Makoto''s calm voice cut through the quiet air.


    "Is there something wrong, Fulan?"


    A few students, already seated inside, turned their heads in curiosity.


    But before the moment could grow too strange, Fulan did something unexpected—


    He smiled.


    It was an easy, natural expression as he turned toward the young man beside him and replied:


    "No, I was just about to keep moving."


    Then, with a slight tilt of his head, he added—


    "Though, I suppose my black hair is nothing compared to your fascinating, dual-colored one."


    After Fulan stepped into the classroom, Instructor Makoto turned his gaze toward the gray-haired young man standing at the door and asked,


    "You were in class before we left. Where did you go?"


    Before the young man could answer, the headmaster lifted a hand slightly, signaling that he would explain the situation.


    "It seems he left the classroom too late, and by the time he did, the students were already gone. This boy can''t read the signs around the academy, so he got lost and somehow ended up in my office."


    The headmaster spoke naturally, his words flowing with a tone of certainty.


    It was clear that he genuinely believed the explanation he was giving.


    But Instructor Makoto…


    He didn''t.


    Something about it felt off.


    It wasn''t the perfect kind of lie—the kind he would normally accept without question.


    So, which one of them was right?


    Was it the headmaster, who saw the young man''s behavior as foolish but excusable?


    Or was it Makoto, who refused to believe the story simply because it didn''t convince him?


    With a slow movement, Makoto ran a hand through his silver-gray hair before sighing and stepping inside the classroom.


    "Class is over for today, but before we leave, come in and introduce yourself to the students."


    The young man took slow, steady steps behind Makoto, making his way toward the blackboard.


    The wooden flooring of the classroom creaked faintly under his weight, its polished surface reflecting the afternoon glow. The rows of seats, arranged in perfect order, gave the classroom a structured yet welcoming feel.


    But the moment he stepped to the front, all eyes were already on him.


    And just like that—


    A look of tension crossed his face.


    As if struck by sudden pressure, he turned away from the class, facing the blackboard instead, his fingers lightly tracing the surface as he whispered something in a language unfamiliar to them—Japanese.


    He was preparing his words.


    Muttering to himself in a hushed, anxious tone, like someone who had just received a certificate and was about to face a nerve-wracking job interview at a world-renowned company.


    Seconds passed.


    The silence stretched.


    Some students exchanged glances, slowly losing faith in him.


    His presence had felt so imposing at first—his striking features, his mysterious aura—yet now, he stood frozen, unable to even introduce himself.


    The contrast was almost disappointing.


    Makoto let out a quiet sigh before murmuring under his breath,


    "I think I finally understand what the headmaster was trying to say."


    Then, stepping forward, he placed a firm yet reassuring hand on the young man''s shoulder and said in a calm voice,


    "You don''t need to be this nervous. Everyone here is still in the introduction phase. The train hasn''t left the station yet, so at the very least, tell them your name."


    The young man''s shoulders tensed slightly at first.


    But after hearing those words, he slowly turned around to face the students again.


    His eyes, however, remained low—focused on the floor—as he reached up to lightly twist a loose strand of his hair between his fingers.


    Then, with a quiet voice, he muttered—


    "Kazuki Ryoka..."


    There was no reaction.


    His surname held no weight.


    It wasn''t a name from a noble house or one with historical significance.


    And the students'' lack of response reflected that.


    To them, he was just another ordinary student—despite his striking appearance.


    Makoto gave Kazuki a light tap on the back before saying,


    "Make sure not to lag behind your classmates next time."


    Kazuki took slow steps toward his seat.


    His expression didn''t shift into a smile, but deep inside, he felt something unexpected—a faint sense of relief.


    The instructor hadn''t been harsh with him.


    And that, at least, made him feel a little more at ease.


    Even as some students stole quick glances at the sword at his waist, Mizayani, the pink-haired girl with the crimson headband, turned toward Makoto just as the headmaster exited the room.


    Her brilliant blue eyes sparkled with curiosity as she asked,


    "Makoto, what do you mean by ''the train''?"


    By then, Makoto had already begun walking toward his desk, collecting books to mark the end of the lesson.


    He responded casually as he sorted through the pages,


    "You mean Teacher Makoto. The train… It''s just a relic from the Age of Advancement. It''s mentioned in three historical books. At first, I thought it was nothing but a fictional tool, but some adventurers managed to find the remains of a broken train. Very few believed their story."


    He paused for a moment before continuing,


    "Some books contained illustrations of trains and railway tracks, and unlike the beauty of those drawings, the train the adventurers found was in terrible shape—so decayed that grass was growing inside it."


    Then, with a small sigh, he added,


    "Well, there''s no point in describing it since I''ve never seen one myself. But from my research, the purpose of that thing called a ''train'' was to transport people across vast distances in a short time."


    And with that—


    The first day of class came to an end.


    But the students were left in a state of disbelief.


    A machine that could transport people across long distances?


    The very concept felt impossible.


    For some, the idea sounded so ridiculous that they simply dismissed it.


    Others tried to imagine it, picturing a train being pulled by horses like a carriage.


    But the real question wasn''t just about the train itself.


    It was—


    What was the true reason behind humanity''s massive decline in technological advancement?


    Why did this generation—along with their parents—treat history books as if they were mere fantasy novels?


    Why did they believe that the world their ancestors described had never truly existed—


    That it was just a fictional dream of a past generation?


    These were deep, unanswered mysteries.


    But for Fulan—


    None of it mattered.


    With cold, unwavering eyes, he ignored the weight of history, his mind focused on one thing alone—


    His ultimate goal.


    ------


    You Can Always Read More while Supporting Your Author Here-on-Patreon</a>