BOOM!
The sky bled red.
Flesh, steel, and embers tore through the air—splattering the steam locomotive's sleek black surface with a cruel coat of crimson.
The fourth compartment from the engine had been sliced in half.
Fire and smoke surged from its mangled remains, the wheels shrieking as the train ground to a halt. Three figures emerged from the inferno—two of them tall and terrifyingly beautiful.
Elves.
Slender silhouettes, skin pale as frost, shimmered beneath the blood-red moon. Blonde hair danced around their pointed ears, rifles carved of darkwood strapped to their backs. They stood like goddesses sculpted from ice—gazing down at the wreckage, and at the broken man beneath them.
Pace was on his knees. Scars riddled his blood-slick body. His feet were gone—chopped off at the ankle.
He cradled a woman's cold, lifeless body in his arms. Her brown hair was soaked and sticky, strands matting across her pale lips. His tears spilled onto her face, mixing with her blood like paint on a canvas.
His gaze rose through the smoke, locking onto the two monsters looming above.
Hate burned behind his amber eyes, teeth clenched as a drop of blood escaped his lips, sliding down his chin and onto the floor, breaking into a hundred smaller drops.
"Petty humans," one of the elves said, voice soft like a lullaby. "Isn't dying in battle their highest calling? Or are they too dull to see their fate? Ahh—to be accepted into the creator's warm embrace. It's a blessing not many receive."
She squealed like a kid, joining her hands as if praying.
"And yet…" she continued, her voice dropping low as her eyes narrowed into a cold glare, "they still have that mortified, angry look in their eyes. Ugh—just thinking about it is disgusting."
She turned her back to Pace, fingers brushing a green gem embedded in her gold, dragon-shaped earring.
"Division-VI Greenwood squad to Elfa. Locomotive secured. Crew eliminated. Awaiting Leywright support before extraction."
She snapped her fingers.
The other elf moved without a word, stepping forward. Her pistol—a sleek black thing of menace—quietly slid from its holster.
Silent as a whisper, she raised it. Aimed it between Pace's furrowed brows.
"So long… disgraceful warrior."
BANG!
The bronze bullet tore from the barrel, red-hot and spinning. It carved through the smoke, inches from Pace's skull—
And stopped.
Just like everything else.
The flames froze mid-dance. Ash hovered in the air, mixed with the snow. The elves stood frozen like statues. Even the sound of the wind was gone.
Time had died.
"How many times has it been? A hundred? A thousand? Ten thousand? How many more times must I regress before we win this stupid war?" Pace muttered to himself, staring up at the crimson moon through the shattered roof.
"How many times must I bury the same people in different ways?" His voice cracked. "Were humans damned to begin with?"
Tears slipped past his face, glistening under the moonlight. Pace looked down at the corpse in his hands, gently smiling.
Just then, a sound echoed through the train, like a door creaking open.
From the shadows behind one of the seats in the locomotive, a crooked man emerged. He wore a black suit, his spine curled like a question mark, limbs twice the length of his torso, body made of wood. A top hat adorned his head.
He walked slowly through the train—movement janky, like a broken puppet.
"To think you'd come this far. You've probably died more times than stars in the northern sky by now… and yet you still fear death." The wooden man spoke in a mechanical voice—like a broken music box.
"It's not death I fear. It's dying for nothing. A death that doesn't save a single life." Pace growled. "And that's what every death till now has been. Pointless."
The wooden man sighed, then sat on the seat next to Pace.
Clasping his hands together, he spoke again after a pause. "I have bad news."
"This is your last chance."
"Is that so?" Pace said with a bitter chuckle.
"Yes. My card has nearly burnt to a wisp. If I turn back time again after this, I will burn away."
"So that's it? I won't save anyone? Everyone dies regardless of what I do? Then what did I put this much effort in for, huh?" Pace's voice cracked as he screamed.
The man didn't answer. Instead, he stood, drew closer, and rested his rough hand on Pace's shoulder.
"What I am saying is that… this is your final chance, Pace. No more redos. You either win the war this time… or humanity, your friends, your lover—they all burn with you."
Pace looked at the elves, his heart pumping more adrenaline than blood. "It's not like I have an option. Go ahead. Say the incantation. Turn back time."
The crooked man sucked in a deep breath, then snapped his fingers three times. His lips moved, speaking in a language that felt both too familiar and entirely foreign. Comforting and distant.
The language of the gods.
The Herres.
"I bid the blooméd rose to rise, and turn the wheel of time,
The garden's breath, with whispered sighs, doth echo old lies.
By vine and root, I twist the fate, where time doth ever run—
For I, the warden of this state, unmake what is undone."
SNAP!
"One final piece of advice," the wooden man said, turning his head toward Pace. "If you really don't fear death… then this time, pick the Fool's Gate."
Pace's eyes widened as he frantically turned back—but the crooked man was gone. Swallowed by the darkness.
'Something happen to him?'
Exhaling, the tear on Pace's cheek slowly slipped down again. The snow outside began to move as time snapped back to its normal state.
And so did the bullet—drilling deep into Pace's head.
***
[Captain Paceric Winter
Martyred during the Battle of the Snow Piercer.
March 11, 2046]