"What's your name?" Another day had passed. This was the twenty-fourth day of Casia's journey on the Imperial Heavy Train. He looked at the little girl sitting beside him and asked again.
The girl sat upright, her back perfectly straight, her hat stubbornly refusing to come off. Beneath its brim, a dim shadow concealed a pair of increasingly lively black eyes.
"Nor," the girl replied simply, repeating the same two words.
"And your mother or father? Are they on the train?" Casia still held a shred of hope. He regretted the decision he had made earlier out of pity. He had traveled to Manoma to study, to seek opportunities for title and wealth. He didn't have much money, and though he could barely provide food for the little girl for now, what would happen once he reached Manoma?
He would be confined to the cheap dormitory on campus, shared with several others. If the girl followed him, lodging would be a problem, and so would everyday expenses. Casia felt his head swell with frustration and pain.
"Are you going to abandon me too?" The girl's intuition was sharp, like a wild animal or a keen hunter. She sensed Casia's internal conflict, his entangled worries affecting her own sense of anxiety.
Casia's pupils constricted, his mouth slightly agape—not only in surprise but also from words he couldn't utter. A sun-loving cat could never be a decisive predator. He thought of his sister Lilia again, and warmth began to surge in his heart. Slowly, he unclenched his fists, and the hesitation in his eyes finally dissipated—he had made his decision.
"Of course not. Trust me," Casia said, attempting to show the little girl a mature, steady, and confident smile. But in Nor's eyes, it probably looked worse than crying.
"Nor trusts you," the girl said, warming Casia's heart that had been chilled for days. He gently rubbed her head while his mind began calculating plans for when they reached Manoma.
A child capable of assembling a perpetual calendar clock required not only excellent vision but also patience and meticulous attention. Every gear's installation sequence and steps had to be carefully memorized and adjusted. Casia was skilled at such tasks. Once he made up his mind, even if regret lingered, his brain was already running through countless possibilities, though the reasoning was still immature.
The day passed quietly. Nor mostly slept, exhausted, leaving little time for conversation. Casia, when light allowed, took out theological and historical books from his luggage to read.
Several pages were heavily worn and marked, stating:
"Year 0 of the Sacred Calendar: The Astus family seized control of the Kingdom of Mano. After the first-generation analytical machine was transported to Manoma, the kingdom was renamed the Holy Dorag Empire. Leveraging the extraordinary computational power of the analytical machine, the empire's industrial foundation and technological innovations advanced rapidly. Within a decade, the Holy Dorag Empire became a new power on the Continent of Aftermath, triggering the 'Genesis Wars.' Tens of neighboring nations fell to the empire's steel war machine."
"After the Genesis Wars, the empire rested for centuries, then its ambitions swelled again, sparking renewed conflicts. Countless smaller nations perished, and the empire seemed poised to dominate the entire continent, but its advance was halted at the Western Overseas Coalition and again at the southern borders of the Fire Alliance. What should have been a crushing war became a cross-century stalemate. Generations longed for peace, yet this prolonged struggle persists to this day..."
Casia's eyes ached from reading in the dim light, the quiet around him amplifying the strain. His eyelids grew heavy, the letters blurring. Despite trying to stay alert, the past few days of stress over Nor had left him sleep-deprived.
Having finally decided on Nor's situation, the tension in his body relaxed. Fatigue, like a dark shroud, swept over him. Casia closed his eyes, letting the book fall onto Nor. Both of them drifted into sleep.
Casia felt a deep, dreamless rest, his mind empty, the body simply resting.
Suddenly, he sensed someone dragging his legs. His consciousness snapped back. A fine layer of cold sweat coated him. His eyes flew open; his left hand, still holding the book, rested on Nor's fragile body, while his right hand instinctively reached for the high-alloy short sword at his side.
Nothing.
Casia's heart seemed to squeeze violently. His chest pounded, making it hard to breathe. Slowly, his sleepy eyes adjusted to the darkness, revealing the first sight: a dozen pale, twisted faces of people around him, watching greedily.
The second sight: two individuals half-kneeling at his feet, tugging at the luggage bound under his knees. Casia had tied the luggage's coarse rope to his feet for safekeeping while resting. The hard-leather suitcase bore scratches from sharp objects, but the leather held. The two kneeling men tugged the tied closures, one wielding the short sword that Casia had lost.
In a blink, the rope snapped.
The clear eyes Casia had just opened were discovered by the surrounding dozen.
"Awake! Awake!" The hoarse shout sounded like a plucked old hen.
The air froze, then, like ignited gunpowder, chaos erupted.
"What are you doing!" Casia roared with all his might, panic surging. He had heard of thefts aboard the train, of people stealing while others slept. But experiencing it firsthand, the fear and helplessness were unprecedented.
Thieves need courage. And these desperate, starving people had chosen Casia, a seemingly harmless seventeen-year-old boy, as their target.
His shout did not intimidate them; instead, the theft became outright robbery.
They were greedy brigands.
The suitcase, lightly weighted, was yanked by immense force, flying through the air. The severed rope failed to restrain it, spilling its contents: several thick books, spare clothing, a black formal suit stitched by Casia's mother for formal occasions, two pairs of shoes, scattered pencils and pens, a fragile ink bottle shattering on the steel floor, bread wrapped in ochre waxed paper, a gilded acceptance letter, and a simple doodle reading "Brother Casia," floating gently to the ground.
"Mine! Mine! All mine!"
The scent of food and the cold drove the ragtag group into a frenzy.
Casia placed the awakened Nor on the wooden panel behind him, pushing into the crowd with brute strength, clearing space.
"Get lost!" Casia shoved a woman aside with almost a palm strike, his mind chaotic, unable to think.
Then a sharp pain stabbed his neck. In the dim light, he saw a flash of steel—the short sword had slashed his left jawline down to the ear. Hot blood poured across his neck.
He instinctively touched the wound with his left hand, seeing crimson on his palm. Panic surged. Sweat poured down his forehead, and cold shivered through his bones. He clutched the wound to stem the bleeding.
Paralyzed with fear, Casia watched as the crowd continued to loot. His clothes and shoes were taken; bread was devoured. Only books and pens remained untouched.
The wound on his left hand began to clot. Fortunately, it was superficial, no nerves harmed. The brigands, seeing their spoils secured, gained confidence. The man with the short sword led them, Casia a helpless lamb before them.
"Money! We want money! Give us your money!" hoarse voices demanded, full of victory and impatience.
"You have money to buy this little girl—why not save us? Bread is a hundred, a thousand times cheaper than her!"
"I'm hungry! I want money!" twisted voices cried.
"She's my sister," Casia stammered, lips pale and quivering.
The leader lost patience, emboldened by initial success.
"Don't lie! You weren't with her the past few days! Her hair is blonde, yours is black! Give us the money! Now!"
They tried to grab Casia and reach for Nor. He felt her hands clinging to his coat, drawing courage from her grip. Casia swung his fists, pushing them back. The wound tore again, blood flowing.
Though still underage, Casia's strength, honed in the steam factory, exceeded most adult men.
The crowd's anger boiled; they surged forward, hands reaching for his face. Casia swung blindly. The leader slashed with the short sword; Casia dodged but the chest of his clothing was torn, exposing white cotton. Even without a cut, his skin felt frozen.
"He wants to kill me!" Fear vanished, replaced by silent rage. Every weakness, every restraint, every quiet acceptance ignited into fury. Casia surged with heat like a spitting, angry kitten, claws bared.
He drew the revolver from his chest—black body, ten-centimeter barrel, thumb-thick caliber. Its muzzle bore a spiral called the "Death Spiral," a coiled menace ready to strike.
The air thickened and froze. Faces before him turned pale, all eyes on the gun. Their confidence evaporated.
"You dare—" the leader's words were a death sentence; his smug face was obliterated by a golden bullet.
The black dragon within the gun breathed fire without hesitation. Crimson flames illuminated the car, revealing terrified faces, signaling the arrival of a black storm.
The bullet tore a man's skull, ricocheted off the steam pipes with a metallic clang. Blood gushed; steam filled the dry air. Casia's eyes bloodshot, lips bleeding, right hand clenching the trigger, smoke rising. The rest had already fled.
Casia bit his lip, denying his eyes tears. He picked up books, pens, the precious doodle, and the blood-stained gilded acceptance letter.
He sat beside Nor, back straight, revolver set aside, left hand on the reopened wound. He didn't dare look at her, imagining his reflection through her eyes—surely a poor image. Lilia, his sister, would have been terrified of even a drop of blood. He felt an incompetent elder brother.
Yet, emotions stirred. He stared at the milky steam, unaware that Nor remained calm, her eyes brighter than before.
The other passengers had fled, leaving two silent, breathing figures.
When the metallic clatter of shoes approached from the train junction, the silence broke.
Seven or eight men in grey work clothes and black management uniforms entered. The leader wore a smile.