The train ran smoothly. Standing in the carriage, one could barely hear the sound of wheels on the tracks. As dawn broke, sunlight seeped through gaps in the tightly drawn curtains, gradually brightening the compartment.

Yue Ge had learned the train would travel nonstop for three days and nights, reaching the Organization’s headquarters only on the fourth day. It would make a single stop—briefly, on the afternoon of the second day—before continuing straight to its destination. That meant he’d spend several nights aboard.

Only one bed was provided per carriage. Even with his thick skin, Yue Ge wouldn’t share it with Bai Ya. He’d slept in the neighboring carriage at night but had naturally returned here at daybreak without a second thought.

When Yue Ge woke, full daylight hadn’t yet arrived. Peering through the corridor window, he saw the same unchanging landscape outside. Initially, he’d imagined a desolate, post-apocalyptic wasteland beyond the cities. Only after seeing it did he realize those bizarre novels and films had warped his expectations.

Places without people wouldn’t turn barren. Instead, endless grasslands, dense forests, and mountains stretched beyond the window. Ordinary animals occasionally passed by. Monsters were the minority. Bai Ya had explained that specially treated tracks and carriages, combined with carefully chosen routes, kept them safe from attacks.

In this era, most people never left their birth cities. Any transport—even planes—risked being shot down by monsters. The skies were far deadlier than land; flying monsters were rarely ordinary, often fiercely aggressive.

On the ground, however, most dangers could be avoided by steering clear of territories claimed by "High Danger Class" monsters. Yue Ge hadn’t witnessed their power firsthand, but official classifications placed monsters in this tier for one reason: they could level entire cities. The towering walls surrounding human settlements existed solely to hold back such threats.

Yue Ge struggled to imagine the strength of these creatures—let alone the rumored "Divine-class" beings above them.

But such concerns felt distant. None of it was his burden to bear.

He knocked lightly on Bai Ya’s door, pressed the handle, and pushed it open easily. She hadn’t locked it last night—whether by forgetfulness or expectation, he couldn’t tell.

"Morning," Yue Ge said, stepping inside. The room remained dim, curtains drawn on both sides. In the faint light, Bai Ya lay dead to the world on the bed, while Little Ash was curled into a tight ball at the foot.

Dawn hadn’t fully broken. Bai Ya likely wouldn’t wake for hours. Her sleep remained undisturbed even as Yue Ge entered. Only Little Ash lifted its head briefly to glance at him before settling back down.

Unhurried, Yue Ge returned to his seat from yesterday. He parted the curtains slightly, propped his chin on his hand, and gazed absently at the passing scenery. So much about this world remained unknown to him. Countless thoughts needed untangling.

The Reaper’s words could wait. Soon, he’d arrive at the Organization’s headquarters—a place undoubtedly perilous. Entering might mean never leaving. And after refusing the Reaper’s offer, there was no guarantee that strange being would lend him power again. Relying solely on the Death Aura clinging to him, Yue Ge knew he couldn’t fight as effortlessly as yesterday.

His strength hinged entirely on how much Death Aura he could command. Put simply: the more deaths occurring near him in a short time, the stronger he became. Otherwise, he could only wield the aura already bound to him—and only deaths he personally caused would permanently attach to his being.

It was a vicious cycle. As long as he refused the Reaper’s methods, he’d remain trapped. No matter how he wrestled with it, no solution emerged.

Not for any grand reason. Simply because he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

Having crossed death’s threshold, he understood the crushing weight of the word "Death." Losing fear wasn’t the same as shedding all human ethics. What made someone human was the fundamental social consciousness that remained. If he embraced the Reaper’s path—killing without restraint—he’d cease to be himself.

Yue Ge knew he was pondering a question with no changing answer. Yet some questions demanded contemplation regardless of resolution. If he didn’t grow stronger, this world would discard him again, just as before. He could follow Bai Ya’s advice—master his Divine Factor to enhance himself—but that path had limits.

Hence the inescapable cycle. Survival demanded power, the only true safeguard whether facing humans or monsters. That was the truth the Reaper had shown him.

Only when power rested in one’s own hands could fate be controlled—even the fate of others.

For now, he had time. The moment for choice hadn’t yet come.

So he watched the landscape blur past the window, forgetting even why he’d entered the room. The early light was soft, but as the sun fully cleared the horizon, its glare grew sharp.

Bai Ya usually slept later. Perhaps the train’s motion disrupted her rest, for she woke earlier than usual. Blinking groggily, her vision swam in the dimness. Only a sliver of light from Yue Ge’s parted curtain pierced the gloom.

Rubbing her eyes, she spotted Yue Ge. Her thoughts slowly sharpened. She wasn’t home. She was on the train’s bed, alone last night. Yue Ge must have come straight here after waking.

She’d meant to greet him, but as she sat up, she noticed his distant stare. His gaze wasn’t truly on the scenery; his mind was elsewhere, wrapped in an icy aura that discouraged interruption.

Bai Ya recognized this state. When lost in thought, she too became oblivious to the world, persisting until clarity came. But what could Yue Ge be wrestling with?

In her memory, he was always approachable—except during Factor activation. She recalled his smiles most vividly. He never seemed discouraged, let alone wore this chilling expression. It was as if a stranger sat before her.

Yet she still trusted him.

Her intuition insisted he was trustworthy. Her Divine Factor didn’t just strengthen her body; it let her sense malice, guiding her judgment of others. That instinct had made her hand him her umbrella on their first meeting.

True trust required time—a balance where two could rely on each other without hesitation. But simple belief? That needed no such complexity.

"Yue Ge," she said softly, scratching Little Ash behind the ears. "Good morning."

The cold aura around him melted away like ice. He turned, his usual warmth returning. "Morning. What would you like for breakfast? I’ll bring it."

"I’m not picky. You choose." Bai Ya stretched, smoothing down her hair. "I’ll brush my teeth first."

"By the way," Yue Ge paused at the door, as if remembering something. "We stop this afternoon, right?"

"I think so. Why?" Bai Ya tilted her head.

"Nothing important." He smiled, the same easy smile as always, and said no more.