Chapter 1: “The Wrong Door, the Right Disaster”

  Scene 1: Morning Chaos

  —-: Ren Kisaragi

  Steam hissed like a struck match, rising in ghostly ribbons from the brass kettle mounted above Ren's doorframe. A sharp metallic clang followed — a spring-loaded hammer slapping the copper dome with the force of a furious conductor signaling the world's worst wake-up call.

  Ren jolted upright in bed, smacking his forehead against the wood-planked ceiling of his loft bunk.

  “Ow—steam-blasted— Grandpa!”

  He scrambled down the squeaky ladder, nearly slipping on the polished floorboards. The walls of the old staff quarters trembled as another burst of steam whooshed through the tin-lined piping system, rattling a collection of mismatched teacups on the shelf.

  Through the rising mist, Ren spotted the culprit: a cobbled-together device labeled, with etched brass lettering, ‘Morning Motivator Mk.III’ — though the “III” had been painted over several times.

  A note hung from a clothespin on the string that powered the whistle:

  "You're welcome. I fixed the clocks. (Early beats expelled.) - Grandpa."

  He turned to the antique wall clock. It read 7:20 a.m.

  His internal clock, however — the one trained by a year abroad, two missed transfer trains, and one near-miss airship connection — screamed “It’s still 6:00!”

  He groaned, dragging his hand down his face.

  "Of course he 'fixed' them. Probably added twenty minutes to everything. Again."

  With no time to argue with time itself, Ren lunged for his neatly stacked school uniform. Or at least it had been neatly stacked. Now the blazer was missing a sleeve, which had been reappropriated to wrap a leaking pressure pipe near the stove. His spare shirt? Hanging above the washbasin, still damp. Boots? One under the bed. One under the old crystal converter.

  He threw on what he could, stuffing his undershirt into the waistband of his trousers, and yanked open the front door—just in time for a puff of steam from the pipe overhead to whistle directly in his face.

  “Yep. Good morning to you too, Hinode Academy.”

  Scene 2: Dorm Mix-Up

  —-: Ren Kisaragi

  Ren’s boots thudded against stone tiles as he sprinted through the narrow back paths of Hinode Academy’s eastern wing, steam lines whispering overhead like the school itself was breathing. Morning sun filtered through fogged glass windows, catching on brass handles and copper rivets. Everything here felt antique and alive — like the buildings had grown out of iron and pressure.

  His campus map? Folded six times and useless in his pocket.

  His instinct? Flawless.

  His panic? Rising.

  Uniform half-buttoned, hair still damp, Ren darted toward the side entrance labeled in faded lacquered kanji: Sakura Hall – Bath Prep Room.

  “Perfect,” he muttered. “Locker room. Change. Homeroom. Redemption arc begins.”

  He should’ve noticed the kanji for ‘Spring’ — he didn’t.

  He should’ve registered the faint scent of lavender soap — he didn’t.

  He definitely should’ve paid more attention to the soft voices echoing down the tiled hallway — he absolutely did not.

  He shoved the sliding door open and stepped inside, towel over one shoulder.

  Steam. So much steam.

  Thick clouds rolled from the sunken stone baths in the next room. Gleaming copper fixtures. Potted mint by the entrance. Folded white towels stacked neatly on lacquered benches.

  He dropped his school bag with a heavy thunk and pulled off his shirt.

  Behind him, a locker door creaked open.

  “…Rika, did you leave your—OH MY GOD!!”

  Three voices screamed in harmony.

  Ren turned — slowly, like a man already accepting his fate.

  Towels dropped. A bar of soap hit the floor. One girl shrieked and slipped behind the curtain, yanking it nearly off its hooks. Another dove behind a barrel of bath salts. A third, wrapped in nothing but panic, pointed at him like he’d just set fire to tradition itself.

  Ren stood frozen, bare-chested, holding a crumpled towel and a face full of steam.

  “I—! I thought this was— I was told this was—!”

  His voice cracked. He backed toward the door, bowing repeatedly like a malfunctioning puppet. “SORRY-SORRY-SORRY-I’M-SO-SORRY!”

  Just as he reached the exit, a familiar, gravelly voice drifted through the vent:

  “Ohhh dear. Did I mispaint that door again?”

  “GRANDPAAAA!”

  Scene 3: The Escape

  —-: Ren Kisaragi

  Ren burst through the sliding door like a shot from a broken pressure valve, towel half-draped, half-flying off his shoulder. His boots squealed across the polished tile as he sprinted through the open-air hallway between Sakura Hall and the courtyard, steam still clinging to his skin like guilt.

  His ears were ringing with shouts — some angry, some confused, all female. His brain? A molten blur of I’m expelled. I’m definitely expelled. My first day and I’ve already committed social seppuku.

  He rounded the corner at full tilt and didn’t see the figure until it was far too late.

  Wham—

  Ren’s shoulder collided with something solid and unyielding. The impact knocked the air out of him and sent him sprawling backward into a patch of decorative moss. His towel finally gave up its will to stay, flopping to the ground in defeat.

  The someone he’d hit didn’t fall. She staggered, caught herself, and stood over him with the air of a perfectly calibrated gyroscope that had decided to remain upright purely out of contempt.

  Her eyes were sharp and silver-gray, narrowed beneath wind-swept black bangs. She was tall for a girl, lean in build, her uniform sharp-creased and regulation-perfect.

  She did not blink.

  “…You again.”

  Ren blinked up at her, dazed. “I… again?”

  “You were the one screaming about soup and lavender five seconds ago.”

  “Ah. That… that may have been me, yes.”

  Her eyes moved from his face to the towel on the ground. Back to his face.

  She folded her arms. “You’re not just late — you’re a walking HR incident.”

  “I swear I thought it was the boys’ side—”

  “And you thought that because…?”

  “My grandpa—he said the doors—he painted—there was kanji—”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Kanji. That you can’t read.”

  Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

  “…Only when it’s smudged with steam.”

  They stared at each other.

  The silence stretched like taut cable.

  Then she turned with the grace of someone who had made peace with the futility of mankind and walked away without a word.

  Ren exhaled. Sat up. Brushed moss off his arms.

  From somewhere in the next hallway, he heard Grandpa’s unmistakable whistle — cheerful, off-key, and deliberately unhelpful.

  Scene 4: Homeroom Begins

  —-: Ren Kisaragi

  By the time Ren found the correct classroom — Main Building, East Wing, Room 2-A — the bell had already rung, and his uniform was damp in places that should never be damp. His hair clung to the side of his face, and the hastily reattached button on his collar was threatening a quiet but inevitable rebellion.

  He stood outside the frosted-glass door for a full five seconds, weighing his odds.

  Walk in now and be late… or walk away and be a headline.

  From inside, the class buzzed with low chatter and the occasional squeak of a chair leg. Then came a voice — clear, poised, with a patient edge honed by years of discipline and disappointment.

  “Mr. Kisaragi. We’re waiting.”

  He winced.

  Pushing the door open, he stepped inside.

  The room was a polished steampunk hybrid: wood-paneled walls with copper conduits lining the ceiling, a pressure gauge above the blackboard, and a faint ticking sound from the ventilation clock near the window. The desks were neatly arranged — brass-framed, leather-topped — and nearly every seat was occupied.

  Ren froze.

  He hadn’t misheard the admission stats.

  This school was formerly all-girls.

  It wasn’t all-girls now. But it might as well have been.

  Eighty percent of the students stared at him. Most of them girls. Whispering. Assessing. Laughing softly.

  The few boys — about a dozen scattered like afterthoughts in a sea of hair ribbons and pilot badges — gave him the subtle nod of survivors.

  At the head of the class stood Ms. Shiraishi, arms folded, her teaching goggles resting on her forehead, her expression unreadable.

  She spoke with the formality of someone introducing a new model of airship component.

  “Class 2-A, please welcome Mr. Ren Kisaragi. A transfer from abroad. Mechanical track. With…” — she glanced briefly at the paper in her hand — “...recommendations.”

  Ren bowed. “Good morning. I, uh, look forward to not crashing anything.”

  No one laughed. One girl coughed politely. A boy near the back muttered, “Too late for that.”

  He scanned the room for a seat and found one between a stack of reference manuals and a girl with wire-rimmed goggles perched on her head. She barely looked up from her notes.

  As he sat, someone to his right leaned over.

  A boy — slightly older, dark hair, easy grin, a loosened necktie and the aura of someone who knew exactly how weird this place was.

  “Welcome to the wolves’ den,” he said. “I’m Jiro. You’re already my favorite disaster.”

  Scene 5: Tour with Jiro

  —-: Ren Kisaragi

  “So, how many rules have you broken today?” Jiro asked as they walked out of the classroom into the stone-floored corridor.

  “Define ‘broken,’” Ren replied.

  “Walked into a girls’ bath? That’s one. Late to homeroom? That’s two. Almost collided with Rin Arisaka? Definitely three, and also a death sentence.”

  Ren winced. “So she has a name.”

  “She has a legacy,” Jiro said, hands in his pockets. “Her older sister flew in the national finals. Her mom was the first woman to solo-finish the Crystal Circuit’s long course. And Rin? She’s undefeated in every in-school trial since she joined.”

  “Oh,” Ren muttered. “Great. Can’t wait to bump into her again.”

  “Statistically speaking,” Jiro said, leading them down a stairwell flanked by vertical steam pipes, “you will. Probably during a turbulence drill. Or a co-op flight sim. Or while cleaning the workshop sinks.”

  The academy opened up before them as they exited the east wing: a view of Hinode Academy’s central yard, shaped like a tuning fork — two long gravel paths flanking a central copper-and-glass sculpture depicting the first crystal ignition engine. It shimmered faintly in the early morning sun.

  Jiro pointed off toward a cluster of stone buildings wrapped in metal scaffold and catwalks.

  “Hangar Row. That’s where the club teams keep their racers. We’ve got five teams this year, and three of them are still fighting over who owns the leftover parts from the last crash.”

  Ren stared at the hulking doors of the closest hangar. “They let students build?”

  “Build, fly, crash, curse, rebuild. Welcome to the cycle.”

  The next stop was behind the dormitory blocks — lower stone buildings, more residential, with worn garden paths and flower boxes made from salvaged fuselage panels.

  “That one’s your dorm — Cedar Hall. All-boy dorm. Which is to say, six of us.” Jiro waved toward the low building.

  Ren raised an eyebrow. “That little one?”

  “Yup. Still smells like last year’s chili explosion. But we’ve got working showers. Most of the time.”

  They passed an empty, ivy-choked building with boarded windows and a rusted gate.

  “That’s—well, that was Willow House. Closed a few years ago. Rumor is someone tried to hotwire a competition motor and vaporized half the east wing.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I’m not, but the headmistress insists it was just a methane leak. Totally unrelated to the floating toilet tank they found six blocks away.”

  They turned a corner and approached the school’s private hot spring — a natural mineral spring surrounded by a carved stone enclosure, half-covered by a wooden awning. A rising mist danced over the water, the surface disturbed only by slow condensation from the nearby vent lines.

  Jiro slowed his pace. “Now this,” he said gravely, “is where many things happen that shouldn’t happen. The source of half our student handbook revisions.”

  Ren stared. “Like what?”

  “Lost towels. Steam-induced memory loss. Accidental midnight truths.”

  He paused. “Also, don’t eat the brown eggs someone keeps boiling in the edge basin. That’s not officially food.”

  Ren nodded solemnly. “Noted.”

  Jiro clapped him on the back. “You’ll fit in fine. Just remember — don’t touch anything glowing, and don’t follow Grandpa anywhere without a written will.”

  Scene 6: Legacy Hall

  —-: Ren Kisaragi

  The midday sun filtered through latticed copper piping above the far campus wall, casting long shadows across the overgrown path Jiro called Legacy Lane. It was quieter here — fewer steam valves, less foot traffic, and not a soul in sight.

  At the end of the lane stood a long, low building wrapped in rust, vines, and silence. Its once-shining sign had faded to a tarnished plaque barely visible through oxidation:

  HINODE FLIGHT RESEARCH — BLDG. 7

  Jiro stopped just short of the chain-link fence that half-heartedly blocked the entrance.

  “Storage,” he said quickly. “Old stuff. Busted frames. Retired parts no one uses anymore.”

  Ren squinted at the hangar’s silhouette — the way its upper panel arched like a bent wing. One of the upper windows was cracked but intact. Vines crept down from the roof, hugging the gutters. There was something quiet about it, but not dead. Something held in place — like the stillness of a gear waiting to turn.

  “Doesn’t look like storage,” Ren said softly.

  “Yeah, well. That’s what they tell us.”

  Jiro was already walking back toward the main path. “Come on. If we’re late for Workshop Orientation, Shiraishi makes us label wire brushes by hand.”

  Ren lingered.

  His gaze dropped to the base of the hangar doors. The chains that were meant to secure it were looped loosely, padlock hanging but not latched.

  Almost like someone had locked it for show.

  He stepped closer, resting a hand on the metal seam. It was cold — but not dead. The kind of cold that meant it had once been hot, burning with energy long since stilled.

  He turned to follow Jiro. But just before he left the fence line, he glanced back.

  One of the upper vent slats let out a faint click. Like pressure releasing.

  Like breath.

  Scene 7: Night Stroll & The Hangar

  —-: Ren Kisaragi

  The night air at Hinode Academy carried a quiet sort of pressure — the kind that settled over brass rooftops and gravel paths like condensation. The moon cast long shadows across the empty courtyard, the rhythmic hiss of steam valves slowly replaced by the croak of frogs along the outer fence and the low hum of distant cooling tanks.

  Ren walked alone.

  He had no plan. No curfew worth obeying. No sleep coming anytime soon. His boots scuffed lightly against the gravel as he drifted toward the old side path, past the bathhouse, past the shuttered dorm, back toward the vine-covered gate at the end of Legacy Lane.

  The old hangar stood the same way it had during the day — quiet, sagging at the corners, surrounded by weeds and silence.

  But it felt different now.

  The shadows around it moved in slow ripples, like heat waves off metal, and the air carried a faint metallic tang. Ren approached, pulse quickening, and reached again for the padlock.

  It wasn’t locked.

  It wasn’t even latched.

  It simply rested in place, waiting for someone to try.

  He lifted it off the latch. The chains unwound with a rusted groan. The doors gave under pressure, one inch at a time, until they yawned open into pure darkness.

  He stepped inside.

  At first, he could only smell it — a blend of old oil, dust, oxidized copper, and the mineral sweetness of dormant crystal residue. The air was thick and unmoving, like it had been holding its breath for years.

  A few steps in, his boots crunched against broken glass and scorched wire.

  Then he saw it — illuminated faintly by moonlight spilling through the cracked skylight:

  A half-dismantled airship hull, silver plating dulled to a matte ash, resting on a sunken lift track like a relic laid to rest. Its sides bore deep scars, entire sections missing or peeled back to reveal its internal structure — all ribs and conduit, tubing and burnt copper veins. Crystal lines ran along the side, some cracked open, others intact but drained.

  Beside it, a broken banner sagged from the wall, stitched with faded kanji and a crest shaped like twin wings arcing around a bolt of lightning. Beneath that, a black-and-white photo had slipped partially from its frame — a younger version of Grandpa Goro, goggles crooked, standing beside a fully assembled version of the same ship.

  Ren stared.

  His hand lifted, slowly, to rest on one of the exposed pipes. It was cold. But not lifeless. It was like touching the bones of something that still remembered what it meant to fly.

  And in the center of the console, just barely visible beneath a dust-cloaked sheet of glass, was a nameplate.

  He wiped it clean.

  The Silver Dart