To be honest, Yekase had no idea what flying straight to Europe was for; her purpose felt like a paper kite cut loose in a high wind.

“Achoo!”

An afternoon of cold air knifed past her as she sat on her staff, and her body reacted on reflex like grass shivering under frost.

She’d thought one trip to Siberia made mid‑latitude December a breeze; she didn’t even pop a wind shield, pride bright as a lantern against the gale—yet, still…

“A… achoo!”

“Your constitution needs work!”

Mira laughed, her voice like sleet rattling a tin roof.

Annoyance pricked first; then Yekase slapped out a Helen Disk, patching the chill like stitching a torn sail.

“We’re crossing borders in the flesh. Won’t we get nabbed?”

“What are you thinking? Cameras already caught us; the paperwork flows on its own like an underground river.”

“Huh…?”

Dread puddled in her stomach first; then she realized she’d never gone abroad the normal way, a fledgling bird flapping at a glass pane.

She scraped for civics in her head, thoughts flickering like moths to a lamp: fighters have reasons you can’t say, so borders record not review—if trouble breaks, they start the hunt.

Fine. As long as it’s not illegal entry, the sea stays calm.

Boredom had gnawed her half the trip; she’d gamed on her phone till her thumbs ached like sparrows pecking seeds. Now she just wanted to lie back on the staff like a branch under a sleeping cat.

Forget it.

“We’re almost there! Stop wobbling!”

“That fast?”

“Ha. We’re already in Belarusian skies, clouds stitched like gray felt.”

“Are we blitzing Poland next?”

“Let it live for now.”

Curiosity stirred like mist in a valley; Poland, a land that blinked in and out like a mirage, had its own spell. She pocketed her phone and leaned out, eyes skimming the earth like a hawk on a thermal.

Over rolling hills, a giant structure speared the clouds like a steel pine.

What was that?

It looked like a city, yet it didn’t fit the land, like hundreds of towers jammed together, fused and crossing, turned into one solid iron block, then dropped on a hill like a weight on a drum.

Right… Europe sprouted a few independent city‑states in modern times; was that one?

An independent city‑state was a marriage of old European fiefdoms and a modern Sinister Organization, like ivy and brick twining tight. Several honored organizations cooperate and check one another, walling off national law and co‑governing a city behind stone teeth.

Yekase remembered a few: France’s Magitech city, Mysidia; Italy’s Labyrinth City; and down in southern Germany…

“The City of Mechanisms, Ivalice,” Mira said, her words clicking like gears behind silk.

“Huh?”

“That city’s called Ivalice. Nice coincidence, right?”

“…Yeah.”

For a heartbeat, Yekase felt the one flying beside her wasn’t Mikala Aira, head of Unrecognized Consortium X, but the old self, the Magical Girl Aura, drifting back like a swan’s shadow on water.

“Who told you to slow down? Quit spacing out!”

The shadow snapped; it was only the wind.

One girl and one dragon skimmed over Ivalice. On the jumbled roofs, wires sagged like vines, clothes flapped like flags. Kids wove through alleys, then stopped in a burst of stillness to watch two dark shapes slide across the sun.

Half an hour later, Yekase and Mira dropped into Soville City’s public square, boots kissing stone like rain on old steps.

The city matched Yekase’s image of a West European small town; low stone buildings ringed the square, rough and plain as bread crust, with a wild grace like moss gripping ruins.

We really flew half the world…

The thought wavered like heat haze; she felt light, as if her soul were floating like dandelion floss.

Then the cold truth bit: she didn’t speak the language here, her tongue a fish in a dry bowl.

“Boss, do you speak Belgian?”

“What ‘Belgian’? They speak Dutch!”

“I don’t speak that either!”

“Relax. The host handed out translators.”

Mira’s huge draconic body folded into a sky‑blue pillar of flame like a comet falling; she stepped out of the fire and, cool as rain, pulled two earpieces from her pocket, tossing one to Yekase.

“Oh, that’s considerate…”

Yekase clipped it on; the crowd’s chatter shifted like leaves turning, and the voices became Chinese in her ear.

“Come on, I’ll show you Soville City’s famous foot‑bath street!”

“No way!”

That first stop? You’ve got to be kidding—looking like this, she’d be a rabbit walking into a fox den.

Yekase fought like a kite tugging its string, but Mira grabbed her arm and hauled her along, dragging her through the tide like a log pulled by a river.

They ended up in a bar, darkness and smoke swirling like fog in a ravine.

“Funds are a bit short,” Mira said, dry as gravel.

Well, talk about a ledge sprouting a vine; what a timely lifeline.

Yekase relaxed once she hit the bar. It was dim, smoky, lovers entwined like vines in corners, but if she didn’t bother them and nursed a drink at the counter, the night would pass like quiet rain.

She leaned against the stool’s cushion like a cat against a warm brick, and eyed the bartender. “What beers you got? I’ll take a pint.”

The barmaid looked up from her wiping, a smile soft as a candle flame.

“We don’t serve alcohol to minors. Want goat milk?”

“Goat milk works… wait, I’m not a kid! See this headset? Ring a bell?”

“Oh, a Sovell Conference invitee. Impressive.”

“So you know, then?”

“Here. One hot goat milk.”

“…………”

Mira cackled beside her like a flock of crows; Yekase pouted, took the warm glass, and sipped, heat unwinding through her like a hearth glow.

It tasted pretty good, warmth creeping down her throat like sunshine on snow and pooling in her stomach like a small lake.

Maybe the barmaid saw her face pale and ears reddened by wind, and offered heat like a blanket.

Yekase raised her eyes over the rim, watching the barmaid’s face, that kindly smile resting like dew on clover. She mixed Mira a moon‑blue cocktail, a moon blast, light glinting like ice under starlight.

She’d heard strong retirees become bartenders or front‑desk queens, hiding in hometown corners like old swords under dusty cloth. Was this one of them? But she couldn’t just flip on Infinite Force Perception; prying into someone’s cup is rude as smudging ink on a poem.

Hands cupping warm milk, she watched the bar like a fisherman watching ripples.

Past the entwined lovers, she spotted an old man in a neat black suit in the corner, hair gray as ash, a boot‑shaped glass brimming gold like wheat. He wasn’t drinking; he stared at a stack of blank paper, thoughts pooling dark as a well.

That’s it.

Yekase loved finding story‑rich folk in pubs and trading words like coins. She drifted over with her milk, then saw two lines already on the sheet. The man noticed her and lifted his eyes like shutters opening.

“Are you writing a poem?”

She couldn’t read the letters; she asked anyway, voice light as a leaf.

He didn’t answer at first. Silence settled like snow, and she decided to leave like a bird skimming away. Then a deep, weathered voice rose like a bell at dusk:

“Miss, tell me. Where do you think people go after death?”

…

Yekase slid into the seat opposite, curiosity blooming first like a flower in shade. “What do you think?”

“A movie theater.”

“A movie theater?”

“At the instant of death, you enter a cinema. You find a seat and sit, and you watch your entire life alone on the screen, like rain scrolling across a window.”

“That sounds nice, if a little lonely, like a lighthouse on a bare coast.”

“Death is lonely.”

Yekase let it be, took another sip; the liquid’s silk ran down her throat like a stream over pebbles, leaving only warmth where it pooled.

“My idea… is similar. I think people go to a hotpot shop.”

“A hotpot shop?”

“A street‑side joint, greasy and smoky, woks breathing like volcanoes. You find a seat, and at your table sit your closest family and friends—and your most hated enemies. The ones you barely remember are at the nearby tables like stars around the moon.”

“And then?”

“And then everyone eats hotpot, laughing. People who could never coexist in life get one chance after death to share a meal; otherwise the universe leaves a regret like a crack in porcelain.”

…

“Ha, ha, ha. That’s interesting. Very interesting.”

His white stubble quivered, and he laughed, joy rippling like rings in a pond.

Mira finished her cocktail and, hearing the stir, walked over. “Sugar‑daddy gig?”

She at least kept a shred of face and killed the earpiece translator, her whisper a blade behind a fan; Yekase rolled her eyes twice, bright as coins.

“Miss, tell me. Where do you think people go after death?” The old man asked her the same question, his voice steady like a drumbeat.

Mira blinked. “After death? After death you’re gone. Which god are you praying to?”

“Is that so? That’s an answer too.”

No, that’s the normal answer, a hammer of daylight smashing fog.

Yekase had tossed out the hotpot because her chuunibyou flared like fireworks; now Mira was the materialist iron hammer, and Yekase’s grin frayed like silk snagged on a nail.

Her goat milk was gone; craving pricked like a thorn, and her eyes stuck to the boot glass, gold shining like a harvest moon.

“I’m a bard,” the old man said, and he topped her cup as if refilling a well. “If you don’t mind, I’ll play a hometown tune, like wind through wheat.”

Yekase lit up at the free pour, like a lantern catching fire.

“Nope.”

Mira’s hand snapped to the back of Yekase’s collar, and she hoisted her like a wet kitten, hauling her toward the door, strength a rope hauled by oxen.

“Hey, hey! My drink—!”

She couldn’t fight Mira’s brute power, that steady tide; she reached out with her right hand toward the glass, fingers grasping at air like a crane pecking a reflection.

The glass I’d raise won’t be me anymore—I could almost hear it speak like a bell in a hush.

“My first drink in Europe—”

“Don’t rush, little miss. A first meeting is chance; the second is fate. Next time, I’ll buy you one.” His voice rolled from the seat like smoke from a hearth.

“Hey, I don’t even know your name!” Yekase clung to the doorframe, fingers white as chalk, and tossed the question like a rope.

“Save it for next time!”

Wood creaked like ice in spring; she thought she heard the frame crack and let go in a panic, and Mira dragged her into the street, the night swallowing them like a river taking two leaves.