Ignoring Tarek's aggression entirely, Ren narrowed his eyes, trying to refocus his trembling pupils under the lingering side effects of the medication. At first, the dense fog had deceived his brain, turning everything into warped, grotesque shapes like a wall of molten lead.
But when he looked deeper toward the tracks on the left behind Tarek and Marko, those "monsters" gradually revealed their true forms.
They were other passengers.
They had not disappeared. They were simply there… in a state so terrible it was hard to comprehend.
Even so, the number of passengers in Ren's memory felt strangely sparse; including himself, there were not even ten of them.
"Excuse me. Please move aside."
Ren looked straight into Tarek's fierce eyes.
His tone was calm to the point of indifference, as if he were merely expecting the bare minimum of cooperation.
He needed to move forward, to grasp the situation and determine their current location. From the mocking look Tarek had shown from the very first moment, Ren understood well enough that the man was not the type to offer help willingly.
Rather than wasting time in pointless arguments, he knew it was better to seek out more reliable information.
Tarek froze.
The mocking grin on his face twisted, stiffening into something ugly.
He had never encountered someone, especially a pale, sickly "scholar" who dared to meet his gaze with such chilling indifference.
A surge of violent instinct shot straight to his head. Tarek swung his rough arm, reaching to grab the collar of Ren's gray coat.
"You think you're talking to..."
The sentence never finished.
His hand stopped midair.
A chilling presence radiated from Ren, not the cold of the fog, but the stale breath of an ancient tomb, an authority from a bygone age quietly awakening.
For a brief moment, Tarek saw Ren's eyes deepen into endless abysses, ready to swallow what little sanity he had left.
He shuddered.
A primal fear rose from the depths of his spine, locking his muscles as if bound by invisible threads.
"…Tch."
Tarek clenched his teeth, trying to force his voice back, but only a broken growl came out. Slowly, almost unconsciously, he lowered his hand and stepped back half a pace.
"Get lost… you freak," he muttered, glancing away to avoid Ren's gaze, masking his trembling with a weak insult.
Ren did not respond.
He glanced at Marko, who still stood motionless like a statue.
It seemed the man had no intention of interfering with his companion's violence, either a loose partnership based on mutual benefit, or perhaps Marko simply wanted to use Tarek to "test" Ren's limits.
Ren gave a slight nod, a polite gesture utterly out of place in this gunpowder-tainted air.
But the moment he turned to leave, a sudden chill pressed against the back of his neck.
Not wind.
His instinct screamed in warning.
Ren threw himself forward on reflex, rolling cleanly across the ground. At the exact spot where his head had just been, Tarek's crude fist tore through the air, carrying a sharp gust that grazed past his neck.
The impact of the punch slamming into the train's steel body rang out dryly, signaling that the attacker had completely lost control.
Ren turned back, his once indifferent eyes now veiled in a faint, dangerous haze.
He was not surprised.
Only… his patience was wearing thin.
The missed strike, thrown with full force, caused Tarek to lose balance. He staggered and slammed shoulder-first into the cold steel wall of the train.
The metallic crash echoed through the silent forest. But the physical pain seemed only to fuel the humiliation burning inside him.
Tarek spun around.
There was no trace of humanity left on his face.
He roared a distorted, guttural sound like a cornered beast.
"You bastard! What kind of trick did you pull on me?! You think that rotten noble act is enough to scare me?!"
He cursed relentlessly, the foulest words spilling out along with spit and raw fury.
The veins in his eyes bulged, the pupils dilating unnaturally.
Ren stepped back, keeping a safe distance. His calm yet deep gaze now focused entirely on every subtle movement of his opponent.
Inside his mind, possible responses turned like the gears of a clock.
Tarek was still roaring, but Ren had already mapped out the perfect retreat.
If this madman truly lost control and charged again, Ren would not waste a single second arguing.
His target was the group standing farther away, the presence of a crowd would serve as a natural shield, forcing Tarek to withdraw or face interference.
And right then..
A sharp female voice, filled with anger and authority, crashed down from above the locomotive.
"Shut your filthy mouth before I come down there and stitch it shut with rusted wire!"
The shout rang out, cutting through even the howling wind.
Ren looked up.
On the steel shell of the locomotive, where white steam leaked in hissing bursts..
Anabelle clung there like a madwoman atop the cold metal beast.
Her hair was disheveled, her eyes blazing with warning.
Dim light from the boiler cast upward, illuminating her thick canvas jumpsuit, stained with hardened patches of oil.
A heavy leather belt hung at her waist, loaded with brass mechanical tools that clinked softly with each sharp breath she took.
The goggles typically worn by engineers rested on her forehead, now coated in soot, faintly reflecting the firelight from the boiler.
She wasn't looking at Ren.
She was staring at Tarek with utter disgust.
"Do you have any idea what kind of garbage your noise is dragging here, you idiot?! I spent hours checking every single valve, and this damn train still dropped dead like a corpse, while you stand there acting like a summoning bell for whatever's out there!"
She raised the heavy wrench in her gloved hand, pointing it at Tarek as if ready to throw it at his head.
"If you want to die, go jump into the boiler and burn yourself, don't drag the rest of us into your madness!"
Anabelle shoved the large wrench back into the utility loop at her belt, the dry clang of metal signaling that her last shred of patience was gone. She climbed down from the locomotive with sharp, decisive movements, soot still clinging to her tangled hair.
The commotion the scuffle and shouting, began to draw passengers from the cars ahead.
Blurred silhouettes emerged through the thick fog, their footsteps thudding heavily against the steel floor.
Seeing the crowd gather, Tarek did not shrink back. Instead, he grew more brazen.
"Take a good look! This brat's pulling some kind of dark trick, and that mechanic bitch is covering for him! What, you all planning a mutiny on this train?!"
He ground his teeth, violence still churning in his bloodshot eyes. But under Anabelle's sharp gaze, and the approaching figures, he understood he no longer held the upper hand.
He muttered another curse under his breath, turned sharply, and stormed back into the carriage, his footsteps slamming against the steel floor.
Bang!
The heavy metal door slammed shut with tremendous force, making the entire train tremble slightly.
The harsh metallic echo bounced off the walls, then was swallowed whole by the dense fog.
Silence fell abruptly over the train.
Only the faint hissing of leaking steam remained.
Anabelle stood there, one hand still resting near the wrench at her waist, her breathing heavy with exhaustion.
She glanced at Ren, then toward the passengers standing motionless in the mist, unable to hide the unease in her eyes about what might come if the train could not be restarted.
Ren gave a slight bow in thanks. Her presence had extinguished Tarek's madness at just the right moment.
As the echo of the slammed door faded, he turned to observe two men emerging from the thick fog.
The one in front was an Eastern man, dressed in a worn gray business suit stained with dust, completely out of place amid the steam and steel of the train.
He wore round glasses that constantly slipped down his nose. His eyes darted anxiously, and he clutched a cheap leather briefcase as if it were his last lifeline.
He walked quickly but unsteadily, as though trying to mask his fear with a facade of urgency.
Right behind him, in stark contrast, was a tall, dark-skinned man.
He wore an unusual outfit, a combination of a dark robe and bronze ornaments engraved with ancient symbols, producing faint clinking sounds with each calm step.
His face was cold, his deep-set eyes burning with overwhelming arrogance, as though he were looking down on everyone present.
At his waist, instead of tools or weapons, hung an old leather-bound book and several small pouches filled with strange, herbal-smelling substances.