That winter was bitterly cold.
In the Manoma region, the harsh winter winds from the continent of Right Prime swept through the central ocean currents, carried further by even mightier natural forces, eroding the vegetation and ground of the entire area.
The cold wind had been blowing for a whole month, yet showed no sign of stopping. The boiler plant west of the city worked overtime, sending plumes of black smoke into the sky, making the world under this harsh winter seem as if daylight had vanished. Trains with gray armored cars carrying black coal arrived more frequently than in previous years.
Old Rom sat in the duty room, clutching a hot water bag tightly against his chest, the heating turned to its maximum. He stared blankly at the white-gray, frosted glass embedded in the copper-paneled walls, completely obscuring the view outside.
Next to the window, a low-temperature thermometer read 10°C indoors, and -14°C outdoors.
"This is no life for humans. May the Holy Emperor hear our prayers and send this damn weather straight to hell!" Old Rom cursed, instinctively drawing his hands closer to himself.
Then, without warning, a bright red indicator light lit up. Only when the iron door was struck heavily did Old Rom realize a train had arrived at the station.
Outside, the bitter wind rattled the dilapidated station canopy. The icy gusts seemed to slice at one's face.
Old Rom's expression was a mix of unwillingness and sheer terror. Were it not for being firmly held by rock-solid men, he would never have stepped out of the duty room. Yet who could have guessed that, approaching evening, a military unit would brave -14°C to reach this decrepit train station? And without a word, he was dragged outside by two men.
Shivering, surrounded by towering soldiers, he opened the iron door secured with three locks.
On the tracks stood an enormous black train, completely unmarked. In his decades of work here, Old Rom had never seen such a massive train: four meters high, armored with welded iron plates, resembling a black-scaled serpent crawling over the earth, the tracks groaning under its weight. The front of the train emitted thick, scorching steam, and three giant headlights pierced the wind and snow, cutting a path into the distance.
The first and last cars were filled with soldiers; the cargo was heavily guarded in the center. Wrapped in multiple layers of dark green tarpaulin, secured with steel cables and iron nails, the cargo bulged as if it might burst at any moment—three massive piles in total.
On the platform, Old Rom lit each gas lamp in turn. Under the light, the soldiers were clad in thick military coats. Except for the team leader, all wore crow-like masks with frosted lenses, revealing sharp, beast-like eyes. They carried long-barreled rifles, glinting bayonets at their waists, and black rubber boots covering their ankles and calves. The leader wore gold-rimmed glasses, a sidearm, and a short firearm strapped to his waist.
"These are the elite of the elite," Old Rom muttered internally, inserting his code card into the differential machine as instructed to erase the train's arrival record.
Dealing with the military wasn't new, but his instincts told him this time was different—far beyond previous encounters.
The platform was silent except for the wind, everyone waiting for Old Rom to finish erasing the record before unloading the cargo.
He wanted to finish quickly, return to the duty room, and sip some cheap wine to warm himself, but the hundred pairs of wolf-like eyes fixed on him, combined with the -14°C cold, made sweat prick his back.
Finally, the differential machine ejected the code card. Old Rom grabbed it, nodded at the lead officer, and turned to leave.
Perhaps due to the temperature, one of the iron nails securing the tarpaulin suddenly snapped with a crisp metallic ping, the corner of the tarpaulin whipping open in the biting wind. Almost simultaneously, the nearest soldiers moved with lightning speed, their nervous systems relaying commands to their muscles in perfect synchronization with the sound. In the split second the corner of the tarp lifted, revealing the cargo underneath, a soldier's hand struck Old Rom at the back of his neck.
…
Old Rom awoke in the duty room, slumped in his chair, the hot water bag in his hand long since cold. Only the hissing of the heating pipes and the ticking of the mechanical brass clock filled the room. The clock read 11 PM. Outside, the winter wind had finally subsided.
"Where am I?" he muttered, rubbing his still-aching neck, guzzling a swig from a nearby bottle of wine. Lighting a gas lamp, he turned off the heating and hurried out of the duty room. The platform outside was pitch black; the massive train had vanished, and the iron gate was locked, the key still hanging from his waist.
The soldiers were gone.
"Damn it," Old Rom muttered, feeling a headache coming on. His memory of the previous hours was hazy: opening the gate for the soldiers, erasing the record, then… falling asleep in the duty room? Something felt missing, but he couldn't recall, his head pounding. The alcohol helped, and after a deep sleep, by morning he had forgotten everything.
Half a year later, in early summer, Old Rom sat again in the same duty room. The heating now supplied cold air, and travelers came and went outside.
A postman handed him a newspaper through the window. As he opened it, bold headlines caught his eye:
"Current Holy Emperor Nico Friel passes away; new Holy Emperor is Elro Astus."
"Kingdom of Mano officially renamed the Holy Dorag Empire."
"Holy Dorag Empire declares the abandonment of the Old Calendar; the Saint Calendar will be used. Year 1879 of the Old Calendar becomes Year 0 of the Saint Calendar."
Holy Dorag Empire?Dorag?
Old Rom whispered the three words as if they had some strange magical power.
In an instant, the scene shifted. He felt transported back to that night six months ago: taking the code card, turning around at the metallic ping, the corner of the tarp whipping open, and the soldiers moving faster than any human eye could follow.
Beneath the tarp, he had seen it: a massive claw, its surface covered in dense black iron-like scales, reflecting the gas lamp's light like a piece of exquisite craftsmanship, resting quietly on the train's iron frame…