As the train erupted from the sky with a thunderous crash, Toma instinctively activated his Black Regalia. Black and crimson flames engulfed his form before dissipating, revealing a stark white blindfold marked with a spiral over his eyes. His drab everyday wear had been replaced by a dark, embroidered robe—stylish and ceremonial.

	Blade in hand, he caught sight of the train’s driver. Recognition settled him.

	He turned toward the others on the rooftop.

	“Daimon,” Toma said quietly. “You may call me Daimon.”

[hr]
(Pronounced [DIE-moan]—it means Guardian Spirit in Greek.)