Casia never once turned his head; he kept his gaze fixed on the billowing columns of steam.
Fortunately, it wasn't a high-pressure specialty steam pipe—otherwise, the scorching torrent of steam would have posed a serious threat to the two of them nearby. This was what Casia's mind focused on; all other details and surroundings were subconsciously filtered out.
A few pairs of shiny black leather boots entered his line of sight, prompting him to finally lift his head. His pale, resolute face remained clear and unyielding, seemingly impervious to any defilement.
"Greetings, esteemed Mr. Murderer," said the man leading them. "I am Mr. Valoca, the junior manager of Empire Heavy Train 237. Of course, you may also call me Manager Valoca." The man's smile seemed innate, an endlessly agreeable expression exuding warmth and familiarity without a hint of pretense. Yet his eyes were slightly narrowed, long lashes flickering as though countless lights danced within them.
"Casia," the boy replied politely, at least relieved that no one had immediately aimed a gleaming revolver at his head.
"Ah…" Valoca sighed deeply, observing the crimson blood still steaming on the floor and the occasional twitch of the fallen body, gently rubbing his gloved hands together.
He slowly turned his head, surveying the surroundings, committing the dim, chaotic scene to memory. His gaze brightened at the golden-embossed acceptance letter beside Casia, but his expression remained unreadable—his smile betraying nothing.
"Esteemed Mr. Casia, murderer and saboteur, and also a future laborer in the Empire Heavy Industries mechanical sector, may I take the liberty to analyze your current predicament?" Valoca spoke in a calm, gentle tone, while the others remained silently behind him.
Seeing that Casia simply stared at him, Valoca continued:
"According to Empire law, those who kill must pay with their lives. On the Heavy Train, sabotaging a steam pipe—if serious—also demands death. However, as someone who has qualified for the Empire Heavy Industries school, we are all aware of how binding these rules truly are. The gunfire didn't travel far; we were only notified of the damaged steam pipe. In this cold weather, though physical activity can warm the body, I personally would rather sit in a heated room, listen to music, and enjoy some afternoon tea."
Valoca rubbed his slightly chilled hands again.
"Wouldn't you agree, Mr. Casia?"
"One hundred pounds, two thousand two hundred sovereigns." Casia's voice carried a hint of sobbing. Things had never been meant to turn out this way.
"Of course, such a skinny frame weighs only about a hundred pounds. But cleaning it up is troublesome. My subordinates are experts in this field. Two thousand sovereigns—how does that sound?" Valoca calculated as though describing a product for sale.
"Of course, there's also the matter of repairing the steam pipe, which is more troublesome." His tone was filled with the annoyance of handling complications.
"I can repair the steam pipe myself. I just need the tools your subordinates carry—I can pay to borrow them," Casia said. He knew he could not escape this smiling fox in front of him. He secretly preferred dealing with rough, cold-spirited train staff, whose dispositions were like a girl stripped of her clothes—everything exposed under light. One never knows what face is hidden beneath the thick layers of clothing and bandages.
"No, no, Mr. Casia," Valoca shook his head. "Repairing the steam pipe is the simplest part. The troublesome bit is that I am merely a small train manager. Once we return, the higher-ups will want an explanation for the damaged pipe."
Valoca looked troubled. "Suppose a hungry refugee grabbed a pistol and, trembling, fired at someone's possessions. The steam pipe gets damaged in the process. Then, the heroic Manager Valoca arrives, firing six silver bullets, destroying both the thief's pistol and his head. The matter concludes, curtain falls."
"Is that how it happened, esteemed Mr. Casia?" Valoca asked softly, continuing his mental stage play. "The props are meticulously prepared. Each bullet costs a hundred sovereigns, and to keep the higher-ups entertained, one must provide fine wine—worth five thousand sovereigns—to enjoy the performance. Handling these matters is truly challenging."
Valoca produced his pistol, the polished silver glinting—a clearly well-maintained, high-grade weapon. He removed the revolver's cylinder, revealing six identical silver bullets inside.
The bullets felt unusually heavy, cold enough to chill the hand as if they were ice rather than metal. Despite their perfection, they were only mass-produced, one-sovereign bullets plated with silver—a cruelly whimsical touch.
Casia narrowed his eyes and produced his money. Like a predator poised to attack, he could do nothing now. The coins, still warm from his touch, were taken by the gloved hands, exchanged for six cold silver bullets.
The steam pipe was repaired by skilled technicians. The cargo car door opened, letting in a sharp gust of cold wind. The body was discarded outside, the car surrounded by a silent, snow-covered farmland.
"Not afraid I might fire six cold shots from behind?" Casia loaded the silver .10-caliber bullets into the revolver, thumb snapping the cylinder back into place. The rough black gun once again became the black dragon capable of spewing fire.
"Mr. Casia, the Empire is far murkier than you've seen. You still harbor hope for it; I believe you will not forgo this chance to witness its true face," Valoca said.
"Well then, esteemed Mr. Casia, I wish you and your sister a pleasant journey." Valoca smiled, performed a formal bow—an elegant gesture from a rogue—and turned away, his boots clattering into the darkness of the train car.
The black ink and blood on the floor froze into a thin layer of ice. No one dared enter the car again; those passing by hurried, averting their eyes. To them, Casia was an absolute demon—one capable of ending their lives at any moment.
Casia's heart sank. Things should not have unfolded this way. His life trajectory should have been simple: board the Empire train, safely reach Manoma, pay the tuition, enroll, make friends, graduate five years later, earn a baronial title, find a suitable job, and give his mother and sister a good life.
Yet why, in just over twenty days, had everything changed? He, a gentle, kind person, why would someone attack him? Had he done something wrong, even though all he wanted was to do his best?
He turned to look at Nor for the first time. Her eyes contained no fear, only unwavering trust and profound depth.
"I'm still gentle," Casia said sorrowfully, holding the cold revolver in his hands. "Believe me, this is just a toy."
Although he could kill. This was the unspoken truth in Casia's words.
Night fell, and dawn came again. The next day, the Empire Heavy Train finally stopped at the penultimate station. A group of people ran down in tears, finding new lives here, leaving hell behind. Others boarded, filled with hope, heading to Manoma to make their mark; most would return quietly with their tails between their legs.
The train needed a day to load and unload necessary cargo, the cars left open until late at night. Though still far from Manoma, this was a prosperous industrial area, not a borderland. Electricity had spread here, and the platform no longer cast shadows of gas lamps, replaced by brighter, fog-penetrating mercury steam lamps, illuminating the busy station like the midday sun.
Casia could finally see the star-studded sky. Winter slowly receded. He wanted to step off the train, but news of him had spread; everyone still avoided him and Nor. No one dared cross into his car.
Since everyone avoided him, accompanying him seemed appropriate.
A ridiculous justification. Casia wanted to mock those completely unaware of the events, but as the clown of the story, he remained unchanged from beginning to end.
He held a gas lamp beside him, staying awake with books, most already committed to memory. Nor slept soundly beneath her hood, bearing unseen fatigue.
At midnight, the train's whistle sounded again, a mournful cry, carrying a group treated like cargo toward the Empire's most prosperous region—their dreamed-of paradise, but also their real-life hell.
Three days later, on the morning of February 12th, 1096 A.S., winter waned, but spring delayed. The Empire Heavy Train slowly arrived at the northern station of Norma. Outside, the sound of activity could be heard as cargo doors opened amidst swirling steam.
The manager blew a loud steel whistle, urging the people on the cars to disembark quickly.
Casia was awakened by the sound, his eyes opening to pain and soreness—Nor's fragile body was no longer in his arms.
Nor was gone.