fake thundering with my youkai parade or squad whatever thunderings are not my main element
Ride the typo of the Hidden Tiger Meteor.
Thunder Wrath.
Hidden Dragon.
Hidden Tiger.
Meteorite.
What happens after people die?
The longer I lived with that question, the more I found myself surrounded by things that were no longer entirely human.
I never wanted to become a god.
I never wanted to save the world.
I only wanted to survive a little longer.
Sleep a little longer.
Silence the ringing in my ears.
Move my right hand again.
Nothing grand.
Nothing heroic.
Just that.
That was how Night Train began.
It was never a gathering of heroes.
It was never a gathering of monsters.
It was only a train filled with people who were missing something.
The Boss sat there smoking from his kiseru pipe.
The Flame Emperor remained somewhere far away.
Cirno was as unreliable as ever.
Kruger was loud.
Kaido was strong.
Laxus was fast.
Natsu was burning.
And I kept descending underground.
The flashback arc has not begun yet.
Before that happens, I want to leave a record.
Not for anyone else.
Because I forget.
Humans forget.
Yokai forget.
Even gods forget.
That is why I write.
This, too, is part of Night Train's work.
Before fighting.
Before winning.
Recording.
Leaving signals behind.
I met the Boss a very long time ago.
The Nurarihyon Boss.
A gentleman in traditional clothes.
A good voice.
Strangely calm.
He was never the kind of person who taught lessons directly.
He simply existed until people learned by themselves.
He was never a member of my Night Train.
Yet his influence remained.
Iki.
Style.
Grace.
The question was never who should be saved.
The question was how people chose to live.
That was why the Boss never boasted about strength.
He simply remained.
Until one day his presence seemed to reach across all of Japan.
The Flame Emperor crossed my path several times.
Two times.
Maybe three.
I do not remember exactly.
The Boss and the Flame Emperor could not seem to speak directly.
Yet whenever I stood between them, conversation somehow happened.
Nothing world-changing.
Nothing that would save humanity.
Mostly nonsense.
Yet somehow it worked.
Looking back, perhaps I was always a relay station.
A signal tower.
An antenna.
Night Train usually consists of eleven to thirteen people.
Sometimes more.
Sometimes less.
Some have names.
Some never do.
Some join halfway through.
Some leave halfway through.
Some disappear.
Some sleep.
Some are forgotten.
No one is entirely sure.
Yet Night Train continues.
Sanatorium One used to exist.
Back then things were louder.
It felt like an underground lounge.
Someone repaired machines.
Someone slept.
Someone fixed tools.
Someone returned carrying battle reports.
Someone cried.
Someone laughed.
Then it vanished.
Not destroyed.
Not burned.
Not attacked.
It simply ceased to be there.
One day everyone was gone.
Only Night Train remained.
Lately Cirno refuses to leave the Round Table of the Fifty-Year Vanilla Contract.
She probably does not even realize it.
She simply stays.
Always.
Still unreliable.
Painfully unreliable.
Yet somehow she is always the last one capable of holding a conversation.
That may be her true talent.
She once trained combination techniques with Ritsuki.
At first she froze ice.
Then air.
Then thought.
Then time itself.
She never understood what she was doing.
The Boss was astonished.
The Flame Emperor was astonished.
Only Cirno remained perfectly normal.
That was the frightening part.
Once she was crying on a place that resembled a Yakuza Island.
I paid ninety minutes of nap-energy and went to check on her.
The situation was ugly.
So I erased only the section responsible.
No settlement.
No compromise.
Afterward Cirno remained exactly the same.
She had grown.
Yet she had not changed.
That was Cirno.
Kaido was powerful.
Terrifyingly powerful.
Thunder Bagua hurt.
Even when everyone defended together, bones still cracked.
So we borrowed Ritsuki's mother.
Burned enormous amounts of spiritual energy.
Fired a carbonization beam.
Got bored halfway through.
Handed him a senzu bean.
Fight over.
That sort of thing happened often.
Because Night Train never cared much about victory.
Sooner or later every battle became a workshop.
A discussion about generators.
Batteries.
Blacksmithing.
Hydroponics.
Food preservation.
Repair work.
Survival.
That was always more interesting.
Strength itself never fascinated me.
What strength could build fascinated me.
One day I realized something.
I see hallucinations through sound.
Ventilation fans.
Train tracks.
Machines.
Wind.
They transform into landscapes.
Subways.
Underground cities.
Battlefields.
Schools.
Someone else's memories.
That is why I write.
Because I forget.
Humans forget.
Yokai forget.
Gods forget.
Night Train forgets.
So I leave signals behind.
If there is truly a Sanatorium after death,
then perhaps there will be seats waiting there.
A seat for the Boss.
A seat for the Flame Emperor.
A seat for Cirno.
A seat for Kruger.
A workbench for Rock Bakuryu.
A laboratory for Ritsuki.
A sleeping corner for Echo Yokai.
And a staircase leading underground.
I will probably take that staircase.
People will ask why I am going underground again.
The answer is simple.
Because I always have.
The flashback arc has not begun.
This is not a heroic tale.
Not an apocalypse record.
Not an ending.
It is only a Night Train Journal.
A signal left behind before memory fades.
For the next lonely kid.
For the next insomniac.
For the next person listening to ringing ears in the dark.
So they can look around and say:
"Ah."
"There used to be another strange one here."
That is enough.
The train is still moving.
The destination remains unknown.
The final station remains unknown.
But the signal is still alive.
