The balloon hissed as it landed on a wide steel launch pad, suspended high above the ground in the Upper Alley of Mytus. Steam hissed from pressure vents, and mechanical arms clicked into place, anchoring the basket as it settled.
Rows of uniformed guards stood in waiting. Their long black coats shimmered faintly beneath the glowing cog-shaped streetlamps, and on each of their hats gleamed the emblem of a golden gear—the symbol of the Mytus Kingdom.
As Shiebe stepped off the basket, a boyish-looking guard approached him with a confident stride.
Guard: Welcome to the Mytus Continent, Shiebe Zackaria. We've prepared a steam engine to transport you directly to the royal palace.
Shiebe blinked, taken aback.
Shiebe: H-How did you know who I was?
The boy gave a sharp salute.
Guard: Lord Eros sent word ahead. I've been appointed as your personal guide for the day.
You may call me Bennet.
Shiebe: I see... Nice to meet you, Bennet.
They shook hands—firm, brief, and professional.
As they waited near the launch platform, Shiebe finally took in the sight around him.
It felt like standing in the middle of a moving clock.
Towering buildings of brass and stone rose on every side, interwoven with pistons and steam pipes that pulsed like arteries. Elevated trams rattled overhead on iron tracks, and mechanical birds swooped past glowing streetlamps, trailing sparks.
The Upper Alley felt like a world suspended in ambition. People dressed in high Victorian fashion strolled past them, their gloves crisp and shoes polished. Steam-churning automatons wheeled behind vendors selling gear-wound watches and floating lanterns. The air smelled faintly of oil and lilac.
Shiebe: This place... it's so different from the others. More advanced. Almost like... another world.
Bennet smirked, as if waiting for the question.
Bennet: You've got a good eye. Mytus is the youngest of all the continents. It didn't rise through tradition or conquest. It began with a single man—a visionary, or maybe a madman, depending on who you ask.
Shiebe: A visionary?
Bennet: Yeah. He claimed to have ideas no one could understand—concepts so strange people thought he was touched by spirits. But instead of giving up, he built. And little by little, others joined him. They didn't get it at first, but they believed in his conviction. From his vision came Mytus.
Shiebe (thinking): Ideas no one understood...
Technology ahead of its time...
Could he have been reincarnated? Like me?
Shiebe's gaze wandered across the skyline. He saw floating platforms rise and fall like breath.
Bennet (proudly): It's cool, right? Everything here's alive in some way.
Shiebe: Hehe... yeah. It really is.
But beneath the awe was a knot in Shiebe's chest.
Shiebe (thinking): If a war breaks out... this place, all of it, could be reduced to rubble.
He clenched his fist gently, remembering Eros's words.
Shiebe (thinking): I can't let that happen.
Just then, a deep mechanical whistle echoed across the platform. A massive steam engine—black and brass with glowing orange runes—chugged into view, ready to take them to the palace.
The train doors hissed open as a herd of passengers spilled out—men and women in tailored suits and elaborate dresses, clutching suitcases and briefcases shaped from lacquered wood and reinforced leather. Their shoes clicked against the polished platform tiles, their voices blending into a refined murmur.
Shiebe (to himself): This... feels like my old world.
The scent of steam and perfume. The structure. The pace.
It was like the city had pulled fragments from his memories and reassembled them in brass and velvet.
Bennet: Well then, let's get going, shall we?
Shiebe gave a quiet nod and followed him aboard the waiting engine.
Inside, the cabin gleamed with polished wood and soft brass accents. Velvet seats lined the interior, each more comfortable than anything Shiebe had sat on during his entire journey. The faint scent of lavender oil lingered in the air—fresh, clean, dignified.
He took a seat by the window, watching distant towers slide past through the glass. Bennet sat beside him.
Shiebe: Just us?
Bennet: Yup. This train's been reserved for your transport.
Shiebe raised an eyebrow but said nothing. His gaze wandered across the cabin's interior, where ornate posters and framed art lined the walls like a museum on rails.
One, in particular, caught his eye.
A tall figure stood depicted at the center—draped in royal robes, staff in hand, surrounded by a radiating pattern of golden light. It was regal, mythic. The kind of portrait that made legends feel tangible.
Underneath, bold lettering ran across the bottom in a script that stirred something deep in Shiebe's mind.
He furrowed his brows. The shapes... they weren't from this world. But he knew them.
Shiebe: Hey, Bennet. What does that say?
Bennet followed his gaze and smiled.
Bennet: Ah, you're not from here, huh? That's one of our cultural proverbs. It says:
'All Praise to the King Who Lights the Cog.'
Shiebe froze.
Shiebe: What language is that?
Bennet: That's our native script here in Mytus. It's called... English.
Shiebe: —!
A chill ran down his spine.
English.
He stared at the letters again, his brain racing. Of course. The strokes, the curves—he'd seen them before. In the English comics he used to read.
Shiebe (thinking): No way... It's real. It really is English.
He leaned back slightly, his eyes drifting to Bennet.
Now that he was listening closely, there was something in Bennet's voice—a crispness.
A faint rhythm and intonation that reminded him of those British radio dramas his parents would play.
Shiebe: So someone from my world really was here before me…
He looked again at the poster. Not just a symbol of power—but a thread connecting two worlds.
And maybe... just maybe, someone else like him still lived somewhere on this continent.
Shiebe stood up from his seat and walked slowly along the narrow aisle of the steam engine, eyes scanning the walls. More posters covered the interior—some with vibrant colors, others in a monochrome industrial style. Many were written in that familiar foreign text, but others used a different alphabet entirely, curved and sharp in odd patterns.
Each design carried a message, whether clear or cryptic: bold figures with radiant cogs behind their heads, smiling citizens raising their hands, soldiers marching in perfect form beneath phrases like "Progress is Unity," and "Trust in the King's Light."
Shiebe (thinking): This entire city is like a machine. Everything's clean. Organized. Controlled.
He moved back to his seat, his eyes catching one last poster just before he sat. A family standing together—mother, father, and child—all staring toward the horizon as a great clockwork sun rose behind them. The words below it: "Tomorrow Belongs to the Faithful."
Bennet glanced at him.
Bennet: We should be arriving soon.
Shiebe turned his head toward the window. The streets outside flashed by in a blur—stone and brass buildings stacked high, clock towers and glimmering pipes weaving between them. People moved in structured flows, their clothes pristine, their footsteps matching the rhythmic hum of the city.
In the distance, steam vents hissed from rooftops like exhaling giants, and banners bearing the cog symbol swayed lightly in the wind.
Shiebe leaned his cheek against the glass.
Shiebe (thinking): A city built on order. On belief. And yet… it all feels like it's holding something back.
He closed his eyes—not to sleep, but to prepare.
The closer they got to the palace, the more he could feel the weight of his mission.
Shiebe (thinking): I'm not here to admire the city. I'm here to stop it from burning the world.
As the rhythmic clatter of the steam engine continued beneath them, the palace loomed in the distance—its spires twisting like drills into the sky, surrounded by rotating mechanisms that shimmered like mirrored blades.
The steam engine's pace began to slow, the steady rhythm of the rails turning to a drawn-out hiss as it neared its destination.
Shiebe opened his eyes. The cityscape outside had shifted—less crowded now, with wider streets, taller structures, and cleaner air. Ornate street lamps shaped like cogs lit the road ahead even in daylight, casting a golden glow through the glass.
Bennet (glancing over): You alright?
Shiebe (quietly): Yeah. Just thinking.
Bennet: You've got the look of someone carrying a world on their shoulders. Try not to let it crush you before we even reach the palace.
Shiebe gave a small, amused exhale and stood.
Shiebe: I'll try. No promises.
Bennet (grinning): That's all we can ask.
The train hissed one last time as it came to a stop. Outside the window stood a massive, ornately decorated station platform. Brass and marble columns held up a glass canopy, and guards in black coats stood in rows, their hats shadowing their eyes.
A tall gate beyond them marked the entrance to the palace district—its design a blend of elegance and machinery. A large rotating cog sat above the arch, ticking slowly with a deep metallic clunk every few seconds.
As Shiebe and Bennet stepped off the train, a warm steam vent greeted them at their feet, rising from a grille in the platform floor.
Shiebe (looking up): So this is the palace?
Bennet: Not quite. This is the outer district—Upper Gearwatch. Only those with clearance can go beyond that gate.
The guards stepped aside wordlessly as they approached. The largest among them raised his hand in a formal salute.
Guard Captain: Welcome, Shiebe Zackaria. The King awaits.
The giant cog above the gate gave another slow rotation—clunk—as the iron doors creaked open.
Beyond them lay the palace grounds, stretching like a sacred machine: curved walkways, silver-leaf trees with pipes running through their trunks, and massive towers spiraling upward, wound tight with gears that rotated silently in the breeze.
Shiebe stepped through the gate.
Shiebe (thinking): A city built on order. A kingdom running like a clock. But every machine has a weak link—one cog too worn, too eager, or too ambitious.
He adjusted the sword at his hip, straightened his back, and kept walking.
The palace doors groaned open with a low metallic echo, revealing a grand vestibule that shimmered in soft gold and silver. Shiebe stepped inside, boots clacking against polished marble veined with brass inlays. The ceiling above soared, arched like the belly of a cathedral, covered in frescoes that merged classical brushwork with schematic drawings—gods rendered beside blueprints of engines and airships.
Massive chandeliers hung from the ceiling, fashioned not from crystal, but from countless interlocking gears and glass bulbs that pulsed with etherlight. The glow gave the entire hall a warm amber hue, like the inside of a lamp.
Bennet: Welcome to the Cogheart Palace.
Shiebe looked around slowly, absorbing the surroundings. Velvet banners embroidered with the cog symbol lined the walls, each one subtly different—markings of the royal line, perhaps. Servants in high-collared waistcoats and floor-length skirts moved swiftly yet silently along the edge of the hall, their faces calm, but not warm.
A great clock dominated the far wall of the entrance chamber, its minute and hour hands forged from polished black steel. Its ticking filled the silence with an ominous precision.
Shiebe (softly): It's like stepping into a museum. One that's still alive.
Bennet: That's not too far off.
Their boots echoed as they continued down a long corridor lined with portraiture. The paintings depicted former kings, queens, and revolutionaries—each adorned in high-collared uniforms, holding staves, tools, or glowing books. One showed a bearded man holding a cog with strange symbols etched into it—likely the "founder" Bennet had mentioned before.
Shiebe (eyeing it): That's him, right? The man who built all this?
Bennet: Aye. Nobody knows his real name. Some call him The Architect, others The Stranger. But his vision runs through every pipe and every clocktower on this continent.
At the end of the corridor, twin brass doors engraved with serpentine pipes and rotating discs slowly parted as two guards pushed them open in unison. Behind them was the inner court—a massive, circular chamber where nobles, military officers, and scholars walked and conversed quietly, all adorned in layers of tailored finery, gears clipped to their lapels like medals.
At the center of the court stood a raised dais, and upon it, beneath a domed ceiling of stained glass, was the throne of the Mytus King—an obsidian chair shaped like half a clock face, with spinning brass runes embedded into its arms.
A voice rang out from above.
???: Let the child approach.
All conversation stopped. Heads turned. Silence fell over the chamber like a curtain.
Shiebe looked up slowly, squaring his shoulders.
The time had come to meet the king.