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Author Note:
' ' = When thinking in mind.
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TAP.
The hatch above the engine carriage rattled against Kaelthorn's grip but refused to yield. His hand tightened, metal groaning under the slow inevitability of his strength.
GROOOAN.
The sound echoed like a death rattle through the roof until—
SNAP!
The lock tore loose. The hatch flung open, metal shrieking in protest.
DANG!
The noise reverberated down the length of the train like a cannon shot. In the nearby carriages, startled voices cried out. Mumei, who had only just regained her footing on the roof, froze mid-step, her golden eyes widening as she turned sharply toward the sound.
THUD.
Kaelthorn dropped down into the engine room, landing in a crouch upon the steel floor. His crimson eyes swept the chamber in silence.
The air was thick with heat and the acrid stench of burnt oil. The cramped room was a tangle of pipes, pistons, and trembling gauges—machinery that breathed like some wounded iron beast.
???: You—who are you?!
The voice cracked through the haze.
Kaelthorn turned his head to find an old man. Bald, bearded, his posture half-anchored by a pole he used as a makeshift cane. He was clad in traditional attire—loose white garments tucked hastily to allow for movement. His hands shook as he fumbled for a weapon leaning against the wall.
With a desperate snap, he brought up a bulky musket-like gun, steam valves hissing along its barrel. He levelled it at Kaelthorn, finger twitching on the trigger.
Old Bald Man: Answer me! How dare you trespass here?!
Kaelthorn didn't answer. He only looked at him.
The glow in his eyes pulsed faintly, not with rage, but with a cold, predatory sharpness. The weight of that gaze sank into the man like chains. His breath caught in his throat, muscles seizing in silent terror. He had faced Kabane before—screeching hordes at full charge—but never had he felt such dread.
His hands faltered. The musket clattered to the floor as he stumbled back, spine pressing against the iron wall. His legs gave way beneath him, leaving him trembling on the floor, unable to break away from Kaelthorn's silent dominion.
The predator's gaze shifted away.
On the driver's seat slumped the real horror. A man skewered through the back, a cruel spear erupting from his chest and piercing the control console. His lifeless eyes stared into nothingness while blood dripped steadily down the twisted shaft.
Beside him stood a young girl. Her build was wiry, her strawberry-red hair tied back in a practical knot. She wore a grease-stained engineer's uniform, sleeves rolled, hands still gripping the shaft of the spear in a hopeless attempt to wrench it free. Her expression was sharp with wariness, though Kaelthorn noted the fear beneath it.
She met his eyes for only a second before flinching and looking away.
Kaelthorn walked forward, the sound of his boots echoing in the smoke-choked chamber. She instinctively backed away, hand brushing against a wrench on her belt—but his attention was on the spear.
Without pause, he gripped it.
THINCH!
The weapon tore free with one brutal motion. The body collapsed with a wet thud, lifeless as discarded cloth.
BOOM.
BOOM.
Sparks burst from ruptured gears. Steam exploded in white-hot clouds. The console hissed and shuddered as mechanisms snapped under the strain, the once-ordered system devolving into chaos.
The girl staggered back, shielding her face from the smoke. Kaelthorn stood still, unbothered, crimson eyes catching every detail. The explosions subsided, leaving behind the ruined husk of the engine's core. The train's rhythm faltered. Its pace bled away with every turn of the wheels.
Kaelthorn: Girl. Do you know how to run it?
His voice was calm, low, a ripple against the hum of failing machinery.
The red-haired girl hesitated, swallowing her fear.
Strawberry Red-Haired Girl: …Yes. But I'm only a trainee.
Kaelthorn: All yours then.
He cast aside the corpse like it was nothing, the body landing with a dull slam against the wall. Both the old man and the girl flinched at the sound. Slowly, she forced herself forward and sat in the driver's chair. Her hands hovered uncertainly above the ruined console.
Strawberry Red-Haired Girl: With this gone, I can't monitor speed, fuel, or pressure. We're blind.
Kaelthorn: It doesn't matter. Full speed.
She blinked.
Strawberry Red-Haired Girl: That's… dangerous.
Kaelthorn: We have no choice.
The words carried no weight of debate—just fact.
He turned away, walking toward the door leading to the next carriage. Suddenly, his steps halted beneath the ladder. His gaze lifted, eyes glowing faintly crimson as they locked onto the figure above.
Kaelthorn: Girl. Look back. See if the Kabane are following.
Mumei froze on the rung, knuckles tightening around the wood. Slowly, she leaned her head down just enough to meet his gaze. The lantern light caught her face, revealing the sharp pout of her lips and the tension in her jaw.
Mumei: Don't call me "girl."
Her voice cut sharper than the wind tearing past the train.
Mumei: My name is Mumei. Remember it.
Kaelthorn's expression didn't shift. He simply held her eyes in silence, unblinking. When he finally spoke, his tone was calm, almost dismissive, like stone grinding against stone.
Kaelthorn: …Alright, Mumei. Check it.
It was the way he said it—flat, steady, as if indulging a child rather than acknowledging an equal—that stung the most. Her pride flared hot, burning behind her eyes.
'Mumei: He thinks I'm weak. Just another passenger to order around. Who does he think he is…'
Her jaw locked tight, and she almost snapped back, but the weight of his stare stopped her tongue. Those crimson eyes didn't waver. They weren't a request, they weren't even a command—they were inevitability, carved into flesh and blood.
Mumei: Hmph!
She clicked her tongue, forcing her glare to harden even as her stomach twisted.
Mumei: Acting like you're the one in charge. I don't take orders from strangers.
Kaelthorn's head tilted slightly, enough for the dim glow of the carriage light to reflect off his eyes.
Kaelthorn: Orders or not… hesitation kills faster.
The words were quiet, steady—but they pressed down on her chest heavier than any shout. Not advice. Not a warning. A truth born from experience so absolute it left no room for doubt.
Her lips parted, but no sound came. She hated the way her body responded before her mind did—her heart skipping, her breath catching. She hated that he was right, and worse, that he said it as if he had already known she would bend.
'Mumei: Why… why do I feel like I can't fight back?'
Her pride screamed, but her hands betrayed her, turning back to the ladder. She climbed, every movement stiff, her face flushed with anger—though whether at him or herself, she couldn't tell.
Below, Kaelthorn had already turned away. He spun the steel wheel of the door.
CREAK.
As the hinges moaned, another voice pierced the tension.
Strawberry Red-Haired Girl: …I have a name too. It's Yukina.
Kaelthorn paused mid-step, looked over his shoulder with that same impassive stare.
Kaelthorn: I see.
Nothing more. Nothing less. Then the door groaned open, and he stepped through, leaving silence—and the sting of authority—behind him.
.
.
Kaelthorn stepped into the second carriage, but it was barren—dust motes drifting in the lantern glow, iron rivets groaning under the train's speed. He did not linger. His boots carried him toward the next door, but before he reached it, voices rose above the thunder of wheels.
Shouting. Desperation.
He pushed the door open.
Inside, the stench of blood hit him first. A samurai knelt in the centre, right hand clutched against his chest. The veins up his arm pulsed black, skin swelling around the bite wound—Kabane infection already spreading like wildfire. His breathing was ragged, and his face was covered in fever sweat.
Surrounding him were four others, steel guns levelled at their comrade. Their voices cracked with panic as they barked the same command again and again. Use the suicide bomb.
Kaelthorn's gaze drifted to the kneeling man's trembling fingers. Strapped to his belt was a leather satchel marked with the insignia of a flower, inside it a crude explosive meant to obliterate the heart before the Kabane virus could claim it. A safeguard. A curse.
But Kaelthorn's attention shifted quickly to the four who stood over him. Their eyes betrayed them. Not grief, not conflict, not even restrained duty—only raw terror, and eagerness to wash their hands of the problem. Not one shred of remorse for condemning the man they had fought beside, travelled beside.
Cowards.
Kaelthorn had seen this. Fear masquerading as pragmatism. Survival stripped of dignity. He did not deny that killing the bitten was sometimes necessary—but to do so without hesitation, without even the ghost of sorrow, revealed the rot within their hearts.
BOOM!!
The bomb went off. A flash of orange, a crack like thunder, and the kneeling man's body crumpled. Blood, smoke, and scorched flesh spread across the floor. His comrades exhaled in unison, relief written across their faces as though they had discarded an inconvenience rather than a man.
That was when they noticed him.
At the doorway, framed by drifting smoke, stood Kaelthorn. Crimson eyes glowed faintly, and in his hand gleamed the bloodstained spear he had ripped from the train's engine room. His silent presence pressed upon them like a predator stepping into the pen of prey.
Instinct won over thought.
BANG!!
BANG!!
BANG!!
BANG!!
The gunfire erupted in frantic unison, steam-guns kicking against their shoulders. Kaelthorn flowed low, cloak tearing the air, bullets sparking off steel where he had been. By the time they chambered another round, he was already upon them.
The spear carved arcs of silver death. One head flew, blood arcing like a crimson comet. Another throat split open with a wet gasp. The other two froze, horror in their eyes, as Kaelthorn hurled the weapon with inhuman force.
THUNG!!
The spear punched through one chest, then another, nailing both men to the wall like pinned insects. They coughed wetly, mouths flooding with blood, as their eyes dimmed in disbelief.
Kaelthorn stepped forward and yanked the spear free. Their bodies slid down the iron wall, lifeless.
In another world, he might have spared them. But here, he saw them for what they were. Men who would shoot first, verify later, and justify it after. Cowards who would murder an innocent in cold blood simply to quiet their fear. Such people would stain every refuge they entered.
There was no place for them.
SPLURT!!
Blood cascaded across the floorboards as the final gasps faded. Kaelthorn crouched, picked up one of their discarded steam-guns, weighing its crude craftsmanship in his grip. His gaze shifted toward the satchel of suicide bombs they had left beside the wall. Without hesitation, he tossed the satchel at their corpses.
He walked to the next door, unhurried, his footsteps calm against the rumble of the train.
With his back to them, he lifted the steam-gun, aimed lazily over his shoulder.
BANG!!
The bullet struck the satchel dead-on.
BOOOOM!!!
The carriage roared with fire. Walls buckled, blood and flame surged outward, consuming what was left of the cowards. Kaelthorn did not turn back. The door groaned shut behind him as he entered the next carriage, leaving the inferno to erase their shame.
.
.
The detonation ripped through the carriages like thunder splitting the night. The floor shuddered beneath boots and sandals, steel beams groaned, and smoke pressed in through the cracks in the doors. The fire from the blast painted the windows red for a brief moment before vanishing into shadow again.
In the next carriage, passengers flinched as if the Kabane themselves had already breached. Mothers clutched children closer, warriors pressed their backs to the walls, and whispers broke into frantic muttering.
Passenger 1: What happened—was it the Kabane?
Passenger 2: No, that was inside the train!
Passenger 3: Someone set off the bombs—!
The scent of smoke began to bleed through the ventilation, acrid and heavy, coating the air with dread. A few men shouted orders, but their voices wavered, betraying their own fear.
.
.
The rumble of the train steadied again, but the shock of the explosion lingered. From the engine room, Yukina felt the vibrations course through the floor plating beneath her boots. The chair she sat on trembled, the loose tools at her side clattering faintly.
Her hands tightened around the levers, knuckles pale. She didn't dare look at Kaelthorn directly, but she could feel his presence like a storm cloud—silent, oppressive, waiting.
The old bald man, still slumped in the corner where fear had stripped him of dignity, jolted at the blast. His head whipped toward the carriage door Kaelthorn had disappeared through, eyes wide and sweat dripping down his temples.
Old Bald Man: That… that wasn't Kabane. That was inside.
His voice cracked. He turned toward Yukina, almost pleading.
Old Bald Man: What did he do? Who—what is he?
Yukina's lips pressed into a thin line. She had no answer.
GROAN!
Suddenly the door wheel groaned, and the steel hatch creaked open. Smoke trailed in, carrying the bitter stench of charred metal and burned flesh. Kaelthorn stepped through, crimson eyes dim but steady, his silhouette framed in haze.
He didn't look at them. Not at Yukina, not at the bald man. His boots struck the floor in measured steps, not hurried, not loud—yet each one made their hearts lurch.
Yukina swallowed, her throat dry. She wanted to demand answers, to know what had happened back there. But when Kaelthorn's gaze swept the room, passing over her like a blade across the skin, the words died in her chest.
Still, Yukina couldn't keep silent forever. She forced her voice to steady, though it trembled just beneath the surface.
Yukina: That blast… those were our own men, weren't they?
Kaelthorn paused. He didn't turn his head—just let the silence stretch, suffocating. Finally, his voice came, cold and clipped.
Kaelthorn: They chose their path. I ended it.
Yukina's hands tightened on the levers until her joints ached. The bluntness of his words stung her pride as an engineer, as someone raised among samurai who clung to notions of loyalty and honor—even in this age of steel and fire.
Yukina: You speak as if lives are nothing more than weights on a scale. Do you even—
Her voice caught as his eyes shifted, crimson glimmer fixing on her like a predator weighing prey. The rest of her sentence died unspoken.
Kaelthorn: They pointed their guns first. That was enough.
The simplicity of the answer left no room for argument. Yukina looked away, biting down hard on her lip.
The old bald man shrank further into the corner, saying nothing now. He had seen enough to understand: words against this man were wasted breath.
Yukina stared at the destroyed console, hands frozen above the controls. She felt her pride burn inside her chest, a flame she didn't dare fan yet. There would be a time to confront him properly, to demand what kind of being he really was. But now was not that time.
For now, Kaelthorn's authority was absolute.
And the train pressed onward, steel wheels screaming through the night, carrying soldiers, civilians… and one crimson-eyed figure who had just rewritten the balance of fear inside the Iron Fortress.
.
.
Kaelthorn: What about that girl… Mumei?
He asked without turning, still leaning on the ladder that led to the hatch, his crimson gaze fixed on the dim reflections across the brass of the control console. Yukina's hands were steady on the levers, though her shoulders tensed faintly at the weight of his voice. She shifted, easing the Iron Fortress onto a slower grind for more control.
Yukina: She came back a few minutes ago. Said that when we slowed down, the Kabane started following. But when we picked up the pace again, they stopped. After that… she just left.
Kaelthorn: I see.
His reply was clipped, his tone flat, but inside he already knew—Mumei's pride was gnawing at her. She had grown frustrated with his calm dismissal, and absence was her form of rebellion. For Kaelthorn, that was fine. A grumbling child was easier to manage from afar.
The room settled back into silence. The Iron Fortress rattled along the rails, its pistons hissing and boilers groaning, filling the air with mechanical heartbeats. Opposite the sound, the old bald man squirmed in his seat. The stillness was suffocating him, crushing his nerves like a vice.
Old Bald Man: I—I'll… go check on the other carriages. See if people are… fine.
He stammered, barely able to keep the tremor from his voice. Neither Kaelthorn nor Yukina bothered to answer. That, in itself, was permission. The man nearly bolted, fumbling with the door before slipping through and closing it hard behind him. Only then did he exhale, as though escaping from a predator's cage.
Yukina shook her head faintly. She knew the truth. That coward had clung to the engine room all this time because he believed it to be the safest place. He would abandon passengers without a thought if it bought him a few more minutes of survival. This sudden "inspection" was nothing more than an excuse to run from Kaelthorn's presence.
The two of them remained together in silence, the air heavy but not uncomfortable. At length, Yukina spoke, her voice breaking the iron hum.
Yukina: So… uh—
Kaelthorn: Tass. Just Tass.
The simplicity of the name caught her off guard. It felt intentionally plain, forgettable, like a mask rather than a truth. She gave a slight nod, as though memorizing it.
Yukina: So, Tass… is your destination Aragane Station too?
Kaelthorn's crimson eyes shifted to her back, unreadable.
Kaelthorn: ... How far?
Yukina: We should have reached by tomorrow night. But Hayatani Station is gone now—lost completely. With fewer stops left, we'll arrive by early morning instead.
Kaelthorn pulled his pocket watch from under his cloak, its polished surface glinting in the engine-room light.
'Kaelthorn: Five hours till dawn.'
Kaelthorn: Do we cross any mountains?
Yukina blinked, caught off guard by the question.
Yukina: Huh? …Yes. Halfway there, the track cuts through a mountain range.
Kaelthorn: Then we'll part ways there.
The words struck her harder than she expected. Her hands hesitated on the levers, eyes narrowing.
Yukina: Mountains are dangerous. The Kabane swarm those tunnels, and I won't stop the Iron Fortress.
Kaelthorn: You don't need to.
His answer was final, a blade drawn with no need for further edge. He closed his eyes as if resting, the conversation over. Yukina bit back further protest. There was something immovable in him, something colder than steel.
Hours bled away. The Iron Fortress thundered toward the range, its momentum devouring the night. When the first shadows of the mountain loomed, Kaelthorn rose. He climbed the ladder with silent grace, each rung groaning under the weight of inevitability.
The hatch clanged as he opened it. Wind roared in, cold and sharp. Just before he pushed himself up and out, Yukina's voice slipped past her lips, low, almost swallowed by the engine.
Yukina: Be careful.
Kaelthorn paused, eyes narrowing faintly. The faintest trace of humanity flickered through his gaze. He replied without turning.
Kaelthorn: You too.
Then he was gone, pulling himself onto the roof. His cape snapped in the wind as the Iron Fortress barreled into the mountain's throat. He stood upon the steel spine, the tunnel's mouth yawning before him, and leapt.
SWOOSH!!
His form cut through the air, landing silently on the earth below. The fortress thundered past, its armored carriages vanishing into the black tunnel ahead. Kaelthorn turned once, watching the train shrink against the mountain's shadow, before facing the dark expanse of the forest. Without hesitation, he stepped forward, the trees swallowing him whole.
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*A/N: Please throw some power stones.
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