Chapter 65 – The Train

Chapter 65 – the train

Subway stations during rush hour were always so packed they made you question the meaning of life. The sardine-can conditions inside the carriages even gave rise to the illusion that perhaps the entire population of Boundary City was crammed into the subway—if he had any choice in the matter, Song Cheng truly did not want to ride the subway at this hour.

But there was no helping it. Under normal circumstances, “The Train” only appeared reliably on the second departure during the morning rush. Though there were sighting reports at other times, those occurrences were uncontrollable.

The powerfully built Song Cheng squeezed into the packed carriage, feeling the gentle swaying as the subway accelerated away from the station. Everyone in his field of vision was an office worker rushing to beat the morning rush, and the gaps between bodies were stuffed with a cocktail of mingled odors—

A cage forged of steel, crammed full of compressed, stacked flesh, plunging into the darkness underground, boring headfirst into tunnels propped up by concrete, rumbling from one place to the next. Artificial light could dispel the darkness within those “tunnels,” but in the soil beyond them, darkness and the unknown were the true face of the underground world.

Song Cheng half-closed his eyes and kept repeating this chain of imagery in his mind. He imagined this steel “meat-hauling cage” boring through dark earth like some grotesque, blind worm. He imagined the suffocating press of soil rushing toward him, the cold laced with the scent of decay.

Eyes shut, he slowly threaded his way through the crowd—the carriage was still packed, yet everyone unconsciously parted to make way. The tall, imposing Song Cheng walked unhurriedly to the rear of the carriage, then opened his eyes and glanced up.

The door was labeled as the end of Car No. 2. Beyond it lay Car No. 3.

Behind him, the cacophony that had filled the carriage had faded at some point, growing steadily quieter. Occasionally the sound of people talking drifted over, but it was distant, as though separated by a thick, heavy wall.

Song Cheng didn’t look back. Instead, he casually fished a strip of parchment from his pocket—it had been pre-soaked in an ointment. He stuffed the strip into his mouth and chewed slowly, feeling the intense, pungent coolness shoot straight to his brain, then stepped forward.

Passing through the door of Car No. 2, he arrived at a completely empty new carriage.

The previous car had been packed with rush-hour commuters. This one was deserted.

A few old newspapers lay on the somewhat worn seats. The dates printed on them showed tomorrow.

Song Cheng turned around and saw the automatic door behind him labeled Car No. 16.

The stinging sensation in his mouth was gradually spreading. He turned and continued forward, passing through the door of Car No. 16 to reach the next section of the train—this carriage was covered in rust. The windows on both sides were caked with grime, and beyond them, faint glimmers of light occasionally flickered past. They didn’t look like tunnel lighting; they looked more like eerie eyes sweeping by, watching this steel worm hurtling through the dark earth.

This was Car No. 12. Song Cheng pressed on, checking the carriage numbers as he went. With each car he entered, the scene grew stranger—one carriage was filled with plastic mannequins seated in every spot; another was overgrown with mushrooms; one carriage had no ceiling or walls at all, nothing but a bare floor hurtling through an undulating, writhing tunnel of earth.

And the numbers on all the carriages were randomly distributed between 1 and 21, with no sequential order whatsoever.

A warm candlelight suddenly entered his vision. The next carriage Song Cheng stepped into bore no resemblance to a subway car at all—he had entered a large wooden coach. Several exquisitely and flamboyantly dressed beautiful women sat on either side of the carriage, engaged in animated conversation, punctuated by peals of clear, melodious laughter. Beyond the coach windows drifted a thin mist, with occasional streetlamps flashing past, illuminating the streets of some unfamiliar city.

One of the glamorous noblewomen noticed Song Cheng’s sudden intrusion into the coach. She stood up in surprise and approached to inquire about his purpose.

But Song Cheng paid her no attention whatsoever. He merely glanced back at the number on the carriage door: Car No. 23.

He turned and walked back the way he’d come.

A “normal carriage” with a structure identical to an ordinary subway car came into view. The interior was spacious and empty, brightly lit, with clean, neatly arranged seats.

Only a single passenger sat in the middle section of the carriage, near the window, holding a newspaper that concealed their face.

Song Cheng glanced back to confirm. Only after seeing the number 22 on the door did he let out a breath and walk toward the lone passenger.

The figure wore a pitch-black coat. At their feet sat an equally black briefcase, and a black umbrella hung from the railing beside the seat.

From the coat to the briefcase to the umbrella, everything had an odd, rubber-like texture.

Song Cheng sat down beside this passenger and lightly tapped the newspaper in their hands.

The passenger finally lowered the newspaper and looked up at Song Cheng.

It was a smooth face with a faint sheen—like rubber. The features were those of a gaunt middle-aged man, wearing a stiff, old-fashioned black top hat that seemed utterly out of place in the modern era.

“Hello,” the peculiar-looking passenger nodded to Song Cheng. The voice was tremulous and off-key, but the manner was quite courteous. “What would you like to talk about today?”

An entity. Passenger No. 22. Generated within the Otherworld anomaly known as the train, typically found in Car No. 22. Rational, communicative, and occasionally even willing to help outsiders escape the Otherworld—though under certain conditions, it could also turn aggressive.

Right now, it was friendly.

“Have you ever heard of the address No. 66 Wutong Road?” Song Cheng asked in a conversational tone, as though chatting with an ordinary person. “Someone named ‘Yu Sheng’ lives there.”

The rubber-like “passenger” shook its head. “The Train doesn’t have that stop.”

Song Cheng’s expression instantly turned serious.

Passenger No. 22 possessed extensive intelligence related to “locations.” Aside from certain extremely bizarre or deeply hidden “locations,” as long as the inquiry was clearly directed, it could answer basic questions about virtually any Otherworld anomaly, even one millions of light-years away. At the very least, it would indicate whether the Otherworld in question existed and whether it lay within the Borderland.

But now it said the train didn’t have that stop.

“The Train doesn’t have that stop” meant it had no intelligence about a given location.

Since the Special Operations Bureau’s archives had first recorded intelligence on Passenger No. 22, this answer had appeared fewer times than the fingers on one hand.

After a moment of silence, Song Cheng asked another question. “What about the person ‘Yu Sheng’? Have you heard that name during your travels?”

“If it’s information about people you want, you should go ask the Story Person. He knows a great deal about matters concerning people—he’s in the Park, telling stories to the children there… Do you need directions? I can tell you ‘when’ the Park will be.”

“Thanks, but that won’t be necessary. I know where the Park is,” Song Cheng shook his head. He could feel the ointment’s potency in his mouth gradually weakening, so he hurried to ask his next question. “Any recent news about Night-shrouded Valley?”

“Night-shrouded Valley… ah, a traveler departed from there, but I don’t know the specifics,” Passenger No. 22 said unhurriedly. “If you’d like to know what happened after that, I’m afraid I can’t help.”

“Why not?”

“Because that stop has been canceled.”

Passenger No. 22 set the newspaper on its lap and spoke calmly with that rubber-textured face.

Song Cheng’s eyes went wide. He sat frozen in his chair, stunned.

This answer had never appeared before!

“The Train doesn’t have that stop” was at least a response mentioned in the archives, but “that stop has been canceled”… he was certain this was the first time!

“Why would it be canceled?!” he blurted out, his gaze urgent.

“Who knows?” Passenger No. 22 gave a very human-like shrug. “I only know about things along the Train’s route. As for what happens off the line… I haven’t the faintest idea.”

Song Cheng blinked, feeling the ointment’s potency weakening further. Faint voices were already beginning to reach his ears. He still had questions to ask, but just then, the corner of his eye caught the newspaper resting on Passenger No. 22’s lap.

It was the only thing on the entity that didn’t have that rubber-like texture. It really was just a newspaper.

The front page bore a large black-and-white illustration—in an era when even the cheapest roadside tabloids used color printing, the monochrome image looked distinctly anachronistic. The picture itself was blurry, abstract, and distorted. It didn’t resemble a photograph taken on location; it looked more like a crude sketch daubed onto canvas by a clumsy artist working from secondhand accounts.

A desolate valley. An enormous eye floating above it, slowly drifting away.

Below the illustration was the headline:

“After the Feast.”

“We’re almost at the stop.” Passenger No. 22’s voice suddenly came from beside him, snapping Song Cheng out of his reverie.

Song Cheng looked up sharply and saw Passenger No. 22 staring intently at him. The rational entity had already reached out to take the umbrella hanging from the handrail and was rising to its feet while asking in a seemingly casual tone, “What’s the weather like right now?”

Song Cheng immediately gathered his wandering thoughts and observed the entity before him with utmost care.

Passenger No. 22 had brought an umbrella today, but the umbrella was dry.

“It’s overcast today…” Song Cheng began.

But just then, he noticed a trace of moisture appear on Passenger No. 22’s briefcase, as though invisible rain had just fallen upon it.

“But the rain has already started to fall,” Song Cheng added immediately. “Bringing an umbrella was the right call.”

“Indeed,” Passenger No. 22 smiled. The rubber face emitted a faint sound of tearing and friction. “Have a pleasant journey. Mind the gap when you exit.”

“Have a pleasant journey.” Song Cheng let out a breath and nodded with a smile.

Noise flooded in from all around. The heat of human bodies filled the packed carriage.

The powerfully built Song Cheng was squeezed into the sardine-can carriage, feeling the gentle swaying as the subway decelerated into the station.

(End of Chapter)