At an undisclosed location, at an indeterminate time, the world was shrouded in the unforgiving grip of a frigid night. It was cloaked in a darkness that seemed almost tangible. The only breaks in the inky blackness were the ethereal light of a bright full moon hanging like a sentinel in the sky, the distant twinkling of countless stars, and the flickering, restless glow of a bonfire casting wavering shadows on the cold ground.

Henry sat close to the bonfire, its warmth a welcome relief against the biting chill that pervaded the air. He clutched his hat tightly to his chest, holding it as if it were the most precious thing in the world—a fragile anchor in a sea of turmoil. His eyes were transfixed on the dancing flames, their hypnotic movements weaving a spell over him. They seemed to dance in a chaotic, mesmerizing ballet, drawing him deeper into a trance.

In the recesses of his mind, the cacophony of loud gunshots, screaming, and roaring explosions reverberated incessantly. These echoes of violence and chaos were relentless, a haunting symphony that refused to be silenced. Each crack of a gunshot, each anguished scream, each thunderous explosion played over and over—a bitter reminder of a past soaked in turmoil.

The fire flickered and crackled, its sporadic sparks flying into the cold night air. Yet, for Henry, the warmth it radiated did little to thaw the icy grip of his memories. The shadows cast by the flames seemed to take on forms of their own, morphing into specters of his haunted past. Even in the comforting glow of the bonfire, an invisible weight pressed down on him, an incessant reminder that he had been the only one who survived.

"Hey, you there?" a concerned voice broke through his trance.

Henry glanced up to identify the speaker and found not one but two figures, both seated by the bonfire. They were shrouded in the shadows, their features hidden by the night. Yet, he could sense the dark magic radiating from them, distinguishing them from mere hallucinations.

Acknowledgment from Henry prompted the first figure to scrutinize him silently, searching for something long lost. When the figure couldn’t find it, they sighed, a hint of guilt in their voice. "Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked."

"Then why did you ask in the first place?" the second individual questioned in bafflement.

"Drit og dra, Youya! At least I'm trying to help!" the first individual retorted sharply at Youya.

Although Henry couldn’t see their faces, he had a feeling Youya rolled his eyes. "By asking a question that his face already answers? If that's your definition of being considerate, Ooinn, I dread what the opposite would be!"

The first voice sighed with irritation and turned back to Henry, attempting a tone of understanding. "Hey, sorry you had to witness this. We’re both still grasping this whole empathy thing."

"Says you! I’ve done nothing wrong!” Youya protested, refusing Ooinn's insinuation.

Ooinn shook his head and sighed, trying to steer the conversation back on track. "ANYWAY... we’ve all lost people we cared about—acquaintances, friends, family... and in some cases..." He glanced at Youya. "Something more." The mention caused Youya’s silhouette to glare at Ooinn before looking away.

Ooinn turned his focus back to Henry. "The point is... for better or for worse..." He pointed at Henry, revealing a metallic finger, part of a gauntlet, close to the firelight. "You’re not alone. Talking might not solve everything or make you feel better, but it might help in not making it worse. Speaking from someone who had to learn the hard way." Ooinn looked down at the flames, lost in thoughts only he could see.

Youya tossed a couple of sticks onto the bonfire, reigniting its flames.

After what felt like an eternity, Henry finally spoke. "Thanks." His voice was barely above a mutter as he turned his attention back to the fire.

"No problem," Ooinn replied softly, his gaze returning to Henry.

A silence enveloped them before Henry broke it again. "Will it ever go away? This... whatever this is?"

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Ooinn took a moment to recognize what Henry meant. "Oh. Probably not," he admitted, shaking his head. "At least, it hasn’t for us so far." He chuckled dryly. "It’s kind of weird in a way."

"How so?" Henry raised an eyebrow in confusion.

Ooinn scratched his head, pondering how to explain. "We don’t usually feel much of anything and can regenerate limbs and organs in seconds. So this... emotional pain feels strange."

Henry nodded slowly. "I see..." After a pause, he asked, "How much longer do you think this will go on?"

"Come again?" Ooinn asked, needing clarification.

"This war. It won't end here. The Grand Master said I couldn't meet the next sorceress, so there will be..." Henry looked down, clutching his hat tighter. "More like us. That’s why I’m asking."

Ooinn sighed, sensing the necessity of honesty. "I don’t know. I wouldn’t be surprised if, after a couple of centuries, our group doubled in size."

The thought of countless others feeling what he felt sent chills through Henry, despite the fire’s warmth. "Is there any way to stop this? Is it hopeless?"

Ooinn’s silence was a louder answer than words.

"Maybe... there might be a way." Henry and Ooinn turned to look at Youya.

Ooinn stared for a moment before tilting his head. "Care to elaborate?"

"Well, before I say it," Youya addressed Henry, "I need to confirm something. Why did the magic girl you fought want to kill your sorceress?"

Henry concentrated, suppressing negative memories. "I think... one of the sorceress’s summons killed someone she knew. She said she wouldn’t forgive us for it."

"I see. Thank you," Youya said, bowing slightly in gratitude.

"Wait, wouldn’t that make..." Ooinn trailed off, realizing Youya’s point.

Youya nodded. "Yes, it would."

Henry felt left out. "Uh, what are you talking about?"

Ooinn widened his eyes. "Oh, dritt, sorry. If the magical girl wanted revenge for the death of someone she cared about, that would be the third time it's happened."

"Back then, we thought our magical girls seeking revenge was a coincidence, but now..." Youya continued.

He drew three circles on the ground, labeling them America, Norway, and China, with "revenge" in the middle.

Henry squinted at the drawing. "Okay, I understand why you asked, but how does this help us?"

"It might be a stretch, but what if it’s what the Grand Master wants?" Youya speculated.

"Let’s say you're right," Henry challenged. "If the Grand Master wants revenge cycles causing our sorceresses' deaths to achieve his goals, what do we do with this information?"

Youya scratched his chin, then gave up. "Okay, I might not have thought far enough."

Henry stared at the fire, his disappointment evident. "I see..."

"What if we tried to stop it?" Ooinn suggested, unsurely.

Henry and Youya turned their attention to Ooinn, stunned. "WHAT?!"

"Are you still on board with the Grand Master's plan, even if more of us suffer?" Ooinn asked.

Henry and Youya took a moment before shaking their heads. "No... not anymore," Youya admitted.

"Same," Henry agreed.

Ooinn sighed with relief. "Since we agree this jævla cycle needs to stop, hear my idea..."

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Just as Ooinn was about to explain, Henry snapped out of his daydream, finding himself back in the vast desert, mounted on a horse with his crew, en route to intercept their target on a train.

"Hey! Have you gone deaf? Say yes if you did!" an irritated voice shouted into Henry's ear. Startled, he turned to see one of his crew members, Tom.

"Sorry, sorry, this job has me nervous. What did you want to ask?" Henry smiled calmly.

Tom rolled his eyes. "I was trying to ask how we would approach it this time." Tom frowned at Henry. "Emphasis on trying."

"Okay, okay, I get it," Henry focused on the train. "The usual approach."

The man nodded and relayed the orders through their mental link.

Henry remained focused on the train. 'Let's hope this plan works.'

In the gathering tension of the moment, they were mere heartbeats away from intercepting the train. Henry's palms felt slick with phantom sweat, an unsettling illusion since he physically couldn’t perspire. The sun, usually a distant observer in the sky, now bore down with oppressive heat, making him feel as though he were being scorched alive. The wind, once a gusty herald of freedom and adventure, now howled ominous warnings, urging him to turn back before it was too late.

Despite the sensory overload, Henry steeled himself, pushing through the anxiety that clawed at his insides. "Now!" he shouted, his voice cutting through the tension.

In a synchronized assault, five windows shattered, the sound resonating like gunshots in the crisp air as his men vaulted into the train. They landed with practiced precision, their movements were fluid and deadly, reminiscent of predators in their prime.

Henry swiftly scanned his surroundings, his eyes sharp and calculating. To his left, the passengers’ faces were masks of terror, their eyes wide and pleading. He relished their fear for a fleeting moment. "Ladies..." he drawled, his voice dripping with menace. He pivoted to his right, catching sight of a train staff member desperately fleeing the scene. He savored the moment, then called out, "Gentlemen..."

In one fluid motion, Henry drew his revolvers, the cold metal comforting in his hands. His crew followed suit, the collective sound of firearms being drawn echoing ominously through the carriage. They raised their weapons with practiced synchronicity, ensuring every passenger was at gunpoint.

"Hands in the air, and no one gets hurt," Henry commanded, his voice steady and authoritative. "You're now at the mercy of the Rustlers!"