The train cut through the countryside like a gleaming needle, sewing a line of steam and mana residue through the waking fields.
The world beyond the window turned soft with fog and dew, trees flickering past like silent sentinels.
Inside the carriage, the tension had shifted. Not loud. Not spoken. But tangible.
Norman kept one eye on the veteran.
He hadn't moved since that slow, deliberate turn of the head—since his gaze met Norman's with a recognition that made no sense.
Norman tried to make it fit, tried to summon a face from his past that matched those eyes, that bearing. Nothing.
But Aldrich? He was still watching too. Not with fear—never fear—but with something colder. Something analytical.
"I thought they were all gone," Norman said, quiet.
"So did everyone," Aldrich replied, voice like stone on gravel. "But war has a way of misplacing bodies. And paperwork."
The conductor passed through, offering tea and a practiced smile. Norman shook his head. Aldrich didn't even glance up.
Across the aisle, the man from the 9th sat perfectly still.
Norman leaned forward slightly. "You think he knows we recognized the emblem?"
Aldrich nodded. "He didn't blink when you said it aloud."
"And people don't look at you like that for no reason."
"They do if they remember you... or if you're a target."
Norman frowned. "Well, I definitely don't remember him. So I'm his target?"
"Too early to say." Aldrich's pipe appeared again, unlit. He tapped it once against his palm, then tucked it away. "But if you are... this train just got a lot more dangerous."
They fell silent. The train rumbled on.
A few seats down, a pair of businessmen discussed trade tariffs in sharp whispers.
A woman in a lavender hat scribbled notes in a ledger.
A little girl held a mechanical fox, its jeweled eyes blinking with artificial awareness.
The illusion of peace.
The veteran finally moved. Just slightly—adjusting the satchel, crossing one leg over the other with measured care. As if to remind them he was still watching too.
Norman lowered his voice. "Why would he show himself now?"
Aldrich sighed. "I was hoping you'd ask something simpler. Like where to get a second cup of coffee."
Norman looked back at the man. "Is he an enemy? I don't sense threat from him."
Aldrich hesitated. "He's a war veteran. If he wanted to hide his aura, it makes sense you can't sense it."
Norman gave a low grunt. "And you can?"
The old man shook his head and flagged a nearby conductor.
"Do me a kindness," Aldrich said, flashing his badge. "Find out who that man is. Third carriage, seat by the aisle, dark coat. Military cut."
The conductor blinked. "Is there a problem, sir?"
"No," Aldrich replied, offering a flat smile. "Not unless he gets off the train."
The conductor nodded, confused but obedient, and moved on.
Norman leaned back, every muscle tight with waiting. The train curved slightly, windows catching morning sun through the mist.
He looked back at the soldier. The soldier looked back.
Still no words. Still no shift in that unreadable stare.
Just silence. The kind that always came before the storm.
Then, from far ahead in the train—somewhere near the engine—a scream.
Short. Sharp. Cut off.
Norman and Aldrich were on their feet in the same second.
But the veteran? He sat perfectly still.
Passengers turned, murmuring, eyes wide. A porter stumbled backward through the adjoining door, pale as chalk.
"Sir—there's—someone's—" he stammered.
He didn't finish.
The lights above flickered. Once. Twice. Then held.
Aldrich brushed past him. "Come on."
Norman followed, heart thudding in time with the train's rhythmic clatter. The scent of ozone and iron grew stronger with each step forward.
They pushed through the next carriage—quiet gasps, nervous faces, someone clutching a teacup tight enough to crack porcelain.
Then another scream.
This one didn't end quickly.
It rose in pitch and volume until it was no longer human—until it became something else entirely. Something wrong.
Norman shoved the door open into the next car.
Steam hissed. Metal groaned.
And lying half-in, half-out of the lavatory was a body.
A man in a railway uniform. One hand pressed to his stomach. Blood smeared across the tile in strange, deliberate arcs.
Not random. Not panicked.
Drawn.
A rune.
Aldrich knelt beside him. "Still breathing."
Norman stared at the blood symbol. His voice was barely a whisper. "That's Second Glyphwork."
"We have rogue mages on the train," Aldrich muttered. "And they're not being subtle about it."
He stood, wiping his hands on a handkerchief already stained from other dark days. "Destroy that rune. Carefully—it might react to movement or blood."
Norman nodded, drew his revolver, and fired three precise shots.
Each bullet shattered a key line in the glyph.
The rune hissed and dimmed, its mana dissipating like smoke on the wind.
Then a faint clatter from above made Aldrich lean out the window, scanning the top of the train.
"There!" he snapped. "Runner on the roof!"
Norman didn't hesitate. He unlatched the hatch and climbed through with practiced grace.
The wind hit him like a slap—thin, cold, and furious. The train roof stretched ahead like a steel artery cutting through the land.
Behind him, Aldrich pulled himself up with a grunt. "I'm getting too old for this," he muttered.
"There!" Norman pointed.
A figure—light, nimble, cloak streaming behind like a torn banner—bounded from car to car with inhuman precision.
"Damn, he's fast," Aldrich muttered. "Too fast."
Norman launched forward. Each bootfall rang like a drumbeat, each step a gamble against death.
The wind howled. The train curved. Norman's foot skidded—but he caught himself, low and tight, and pushed on.
Ahead, the figure never faltered.
A shimmer clung to him—warped air, like heat waves.
Mana.
"He's using augmentation!" Norman shouted.
Aldrich shouted back, "So can you!"
Norman nodded.
His pupils flashed—green to silver. A ripple passed through him, subtle but undeniable. Mana surged.
Then—
The runner turned.
Not a glance. A look. Direct. Deliberate. Right at Norman.
His eyes were the color of scorched sky. And they were smiling.
He started to chant.
Norman's instincts flared. "No—no, no, you crazy bastard!"
He lunged, desperate to close the distance.
But the mage was faster.
A circle of light bloomed in the air, searing with lines of fire—glyphs spinning, locking into place.
The first fireball launched with a shriek.
"Shit—!"
Norman dove—
And the roof exploded into flame, heat slamming into his back like a wall. Sparks rained down the sides of the train. Metal screamed.
Below, passengers shrieked. Someone shouted, "Fire! Someone's fighting on the roof!"
Inside the carriage, a little girl clung to her mother as smoke crept in. A conductor stumbled past shouting, "Stay down!"
Norman didn't look back.
He ducked low, sprinting across the curved rooftop. Wind tore at his coat. The next blast came fast—he rolled under it, came up running.
The mage ahead didn't stop. His cloak streamed behind him, and in his wake trailed a shimmer of mana—twisting, volatile.
A second glyph spun to life—blue, cold, sharp. This time, it was Ice Magic.
"You're not the only one who has tricks," Norman blinked—his pupils flashed silver.
Mana surged through him. The next volley of ice shards shattered in his wake as he burst forward, a blur of motion.
The mage raised both hands now—fire and ice weaving in his palms. Twin glyphs bloomed, crackling.
Norman slid behind a roof vent. Another fireball flew—he darted out, revolver raised, fired once.
The shot clipped the mage's shoulder. He stumbled.
Norman charged.
The wind roared, the train curved—his footing slipped—but he caught himself, sprang up again.
He slammed a mana-fueled punch into the mage's ribs. Felt something give.
The man spat blood—then retaliated with a concussive blast.
Norman flew back, hit hard. Pain flared. He gritted his teeth, forced himself up.
The mage staggered to his feet. Another glyph formed—glowing hot, words on his tongue.
Norman's revolver was still in his grip, slick with sweat. He aimed.
But before either could move—
A shadow rose behind the mage.
Aldrich.
He hauled himself up from a ladder at the rear. His coat whipped in the wind, eyes sharp.
"Didn't say you could have all the fun," he said.
The mage turned just as Aldrich tossed something.
A silver cylinder—marked with runes.
A heartbeat later, it exploded in a flare of white light.
The mage screamed, stumbled back, clutching his eyes.
Norman smirked, "Good job, old man!"
He lunged, tackled the mage hard. They crashed onto the roof, slid toward the edge.
Norman punched once—twice—until the man went limp.
They lay still for a moment. Wind howled. Smoke drifted up from below.
Aldrich offered a hand. "Told you. This train just got a lot more dangerous."
Norman took it, pulled himself up, chest heaving. "What the hell is Second Glyphwork doing on the train?"
"We'll find out," Aldrich muttered. "But not up here."
They dropped back into the carriage, boots thudding against steel.
Smoke curled past the windows. The mage lay unconscious, shackled by mana-thread cuffs–Inspector's standard issued.
Norman exhaled slowly, sweat cooling against his back. "We'll interrogate him when he wakes up."
Aldrich didn't answer.
He was staring at the mage's wrist—where the sleeve had ridden up.
Burned into the skin, raw and recent, was a brand: a sigil made of interlocking runes.
Norman noticed that too, he leaned in. "Yeah. He's definitely Second Glyphwork. We need to tell Central."
And this was when the intercom crackled overhead. A voice—distorted, unfamiliar—hissed through the speaker.
"Bravo, Inspectors. But your effort was meaningless. We already got what we wanted."
And the train began to accelerate...