A sharp, grating screech suddenly erupted from beneath the train. Amid the clamor, the train seemed to exhale its final breath, finally coming to a halt beside the station.
Outside, the sounds escalated to a fever pitch: the furious shouts of men, the chilling screams of women, and the countless mournful cries of children—all of it now overpowering the dozens of revolvers still spitting smoke and flames.
The station resembled a wild, uncontrollable symphony. Here were every conceivable emotion, a kaleidoscope of twisted faces: the veins bulging on the foreheads of the administrators, the disdainful and contemptuous expressions of nobles hastily boarding through their exclusive passage, and, of course, the countless silent, darkly converging faces in the freight cars.
Administrator Walendo, sweat streaming beneath his black leather cap, face flushed from yelling, had no cargo to move—only refugees to transport. He fired six shots into the air in rapid succession, the power and sound reverberating painfully in his own ears. But before a crowd—a crowd no longer describable by numbers, more like a dense sea of humanity—the revolver's deterrence was meaningless. There were simply too many of them.
The station lay on the edge of the Viseria Fortress. The sudden outbreak of war over the past few months had spawned a massive population of refugees. Ordinary people were as weak as ants before trained soldiers. The Empire's pitifully ineffective laws had collapsed; bandits ran rampant, the army could not intervene, factories shut down, and every day countless people perished from war and starvation. Everyone wanted to escape this near-hellish place.
They could not afford ordinary passenger trains; only freight cars like the Empire's heavy trains suited them.
Walendo set aside the revolver's cylinder, intending to discard the six brass shells, still pungent with gunpowder smoke, and reload with fresh rounds. But the crowd surrounding the station had already gathered force. A single push from behind met a shove from the front, waves breaking over the rocks. Those behind surged forward, while those ahead lunged to secure the best boarding positions. Walendo's body was pushed backward by this irresistible force, dropping the loaded cylinder; six bullets clattered across the dense wire-mesh floor. He stumbled back a few steps, colliding with a half-man-high steel lever, his fat, red face and flesh jiggling with the impact.
He quickly regained his balance and stood, bloodshot eyes glaring at the throng barely a meter away. Sweat on his brow seemed to evaporate from the sheer heat of his anger. Like a bear, he took a step forward, flames of fury pouring from his body. In his rage, he failed to notice the lever beneath him.
Then came the hiss of steam as several air valves opened and closed behind him. Driven by the steam, steel pulleys moved along the rails. White steam hissed from the door joints as the massive, menacing freight car doors slowly opened, like a dragon revealing the sharp teeth of its gate.
The third level of the freight car, a head taller than the platform, finally came into view. On one side, dozens of pale faces glared downward; on the other, faces twisted in agony, as if seeing heaven but yearning to escape the bonds of hell.
By the gods, this is going to be a disaster. Beneath his serious, contorted, and startled expression, Walendo cursed quietly to himself.
The human tide surged like a giant wave, engulfing Walendo's small rocky outcrop. This was now a release point—and a signal. With his limited strength, he could not resist this frenzied crowd. More freight car doors opened slowly under the rhythm of the steam. Refugees poured in, jostling and pressing against one another. Some were lucky—only losing a torn shoe; others fell permanently in front of the cars, their faces contorted; still more were shoved off the platform, tumbling several meters, groaning in pain, murmuring prayers to the Holy Emperor.
Walendo was helpless, muttering curses under his breath and occasionally letting out hoarse shouts. But none of it could change the fact: the station had fallen completely out of control.
Even his massive, solid body could not resist the wave of humanity. He was like a small boat tossed on a stormy night, vulnerable to destruction at any moment.
The crowd surged him forward, stepping over layers of discarded shoes. They seemed to merge into a tide of sand, rushing into the freight car.
Walendo felt as if he were being crushed into a pancake, every inch of him pressed and contorted. Worse, the hand gripping his revolver could no longer retract as the pressing crowd forced his fingers into the trigger. Within a few breaths, his fingers could no longer hold, and with the painful friction of the crowd pressing from both sides, the revolver slipped from his grasp.
It fell onto a layer of worn shoes below, without a sound. A foot kicked it, and the revolver became a wave-born object, beginning a surreal journey through the interconnected freight cars.
"Damn these refugees, damn them fools!" Walendo cursed internally. He had barely climbed onto the freight car roof, holding onto the door frame, and even his tightly tied shoes had been stepped on; most of the buttons on his thick coat were gone. He dashed toward the noble section, waving his hands, blowing hard into a steel whistle.
At the command room in front of the platform, all soldiers in winter uniforms watched the Empire's heavy train being battered by the human tide, faces ashen. Countless people had surged into the freight cars, yet more kept arriving behind them.
These were the people outside the low station walls, too poor to even buy freight tickets, now frantically scaling the walls, one wave after another, trying to sneak onto the train amidst the chaos.
Normally, they wouldn't even get near the station, as soldiers were posted on watch. But over the past few months, the station's forces had been drawn away due to the war spreading from Viseria Fortress. The station's defense was now a hollow shell.
"Report, General! All merchants and nobles are aboard!" The words echoed in the command room like a death knell.
"Close the freight doors. Heavy train, depart. Let these filthy dogs and their shit go to hell." The general's teeth were clenched as he said it—not out of frustration at the station's chaos, but because the dead refugees on the ground were accounted for by weight, yielding a considerable death toll fee above.
The freight doors slowly closed under the main console's control; steam hissed from the air valves, and the iron framework connecting the platform to the cars retracted. A long train whistle sounded, heralding the tragedy.
Those at the front tried to stop, but the tide of humanity was unstoppable; they fell from the platform. Those behind could not see what was ahead, only hearing steam hissing and the whistle. The train seemed ready to leave, driving them into a frenzy.
The gap was filled with human bodies. The platform was four meters from the rails, three meters from the car doors. In just ten breaths, the enormous void was packed with bodies.
More people stepped on the soft bodies, mistaking them for a layer of piled-up shoes. The heavy train began to move slowly; they climbed onto the freight cars, intending to enter through the open vents.
The still-red furnace fired up again; the massive train groaned as its metallic tracks rolled forward. The soft human bodies in front seemed as insubstantial as air.
Finally, the heavy train escaped the station. Those left behind cried, cursed, and begged. Those aboard felt relief, joy, and relaxation. Only the rails remained, layered with silent, crimson fragments.
"Damn it." The general was in a foul mood—the railways piled with corpses meant another costly cleanup.
Cassia, however, was lucky. The freight car he was in hadn't been opened; its vent had been closed by someone who noticed beforehand. Many people entered through the side passages, and the once spacious area became suddenly cramped.
Cassia's face flushed slightly. Though strong and healthy, he was now squeezed into a corner by the car walls. With the vent closed, the air was dry and stifling. He watched his luggage closely, flanked by pale faces marked by the biting cold.
The heavy train sounded its whistle several more times, quickly accelerating to top speed. Once outside, snow and wind hit, the vent reopened, and the cold air rushed in—but everyone visibly exhaled in relief.
Inside the freight car, people murmured prayers to the Holy Emperor, thanking the Emperor's mercy and light for allowing them aboard.
Cassia leaned against the car, his eyelids growing heavy. He longed to rest; his feet, having not touched the ground for over ten days, were swollen despite his daily exercise. But he knew it wasn't yet time. The newcomers had eased their anxiety and now scanned their surroundings, eyes like wolves starved for days. He feared that if he slept, his luggage might be reduced to mere scraps of leather.
He had to wait until night, find someone he could trust to watch over his belongings, and only once this group disembarked could he relax. Cassia paid no mind to the gazes of those around him. Many wore a single thin layer barely keeping out the cold; shoes were often mismatched. The first thing anyone did upon boarding was to find wearable shoes—a bit better than none.
Finally, forcing himself to stay awake, Cassia endured until nightfall, having gone half a day without water or food. His throat burned, and his stomach ached from hunger. Under the dim gaslight, fatigue had etched every face.
A few people went ahead to the food freight car to buy something to eat.
Cassia stretched slightly, bending to lift his luggage or grab some bread to stave off hunger. But suddenly his body stiffened, like carved stone. He unnaturally lifted his head, observing his surroundings: some asleep, some staring blankly at the gaslights, some watching the vent where stars occasionally flickered. No one noticed him.
Next to his luggage, something had appeared—a rough revolver, thumb-sized barrel and black alloy frame, radiating raw power.
Cassia's head buzzed, his mind chaotic. Acting on instinct, he didn't understand what had happened. When a cold gust cleared his mind, the revolver was already tucked inside his thick coat. Holding his luggage, he felt light and faint, every step echoing in his mind.
The car floor was packed with people. Cassia carefully made his way toward the food freight car. The dim, yellow light seemed to open a new world before him, and the pale, twisted faces around him appeared even more distorted.
Thus, the seventeen-year-old slowly walked past several tens-of-meters-long freight cars. Under the faint gaslight, amidst whispered prayers to the Holy Emperor, a single brass-cased bullet seemed to appear by fate, accidentally landing in the steadfast, pure black pupils of the young boy.