Chapter 010 - The Infinite Train 10

  No meals were provided today.

  The train would pass through five stations—from Coldwind Station One to Coldwind Station Five.

  Elliot looked at me and asked, “Are we really going to get off just to search for clues?”

  Every time we confronted the biting cold, our bodies expended enormous amounts of energy. And with no daytime heating—forced to rely solely on our own warmth—the meager food rations were woefully insufficient.

  To make matters worse, that scheming old woman in our carriage watched us with unmistakable malice.

  “I’ll go,” I said through gritted teeth. “You stay and conserve your strength.”

  He raised an eyebrow in surprise. “Alone?”

  “Who else is there?”

  Just then, No. 137 hesitantly murmured, “I—I can go too…”

  I paused, “…”

  I sighed, “With those tiny arms and legs, do you really think you can make a round trip in five minutes? Just stay on board.”

  In the end, I was the only one who stepped off. I sprinted toward the station hall, where a thick door sealed the exit. Beyond it lay a snowbound wasteland, battered by the howling northern wind.

  I scoured every inch of the hall for waterblooms—examining every carved detail, every decorative motif.

  Yet, I found nothing.

  After five desperate trips, hunger gnawed at me, yet I still managed to salvage a few items—a dining knife, a metal tin, and a small glass bottle—anything that might serve as a weapon.

  I feigned weakness, prompting Elliot to volunteer to search for clues at stations from Noah Station One to Noah Station Three.

  I nodded, set aside my half-eaten meal, and wrapped myself in a blanket to rest and regain my strength.

  During the five-minute window when Elliot was off the train, I maintained a lazy, half-asleep guise.

  No. 137, unwilling to wake me, kept a nervous vigil. Suddenly, she screamed, “Sylas—!”

  A sharp scraping sound shattered the silence; I snapped awake and flung the glass bottle aside.

  Amid the cacophony of shattering glass, I subdued the culprit and, arching an amused eyebrow, quipped, “Auntie, you really know how to stab—neck first, then the eyes? Not even varying your technique?”

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  It was that old woman, clutching a sharp knife and flailing wildly, still determined to kill me.

  Without hesitation, I wrested the knife from her and plunged it into her palm, pinning her hand to the floor.

  Her hoarse, shrill screams filled the air. Growing impatient, I warned, “Keep this up and I’ll chop your hand off.”

  Outside, the dim station lights cast a sickly glow into the dark carriage, where blood trickled along the floorboards.

  The old woman fell silent, her body trembling in small, pitiful spasms.

  While waiting for Elliot to return, I kept her restrained. Bored, I said casually, “Let me ask you something—answer correctly, and I won’t kill you; otherwise…”

  I drew my knife and tapped it lightly against her neck. “What is waterbloom?” I asked.

  “Waterbloom?” she gasped in pain. “You mean the kind that grows in fields?”

  “No kidding—we all know that.”

  Her gaunt face contorted as her eyes darted wildly. Then, as if struck by a revelation, she blurted, “I remember now—waterbloom can also mean a mirror! Isn’t there a Waterbloom Station? I bet it’s filled with mirrors, which is why it got that name!”

  She continued cautiously, “Right? You all saw them when you got off at the station, didn’t you? Now, will you let me go?”

  Waterbloom… a mirror?

  I hadn’t expected to extract any useful information from her ramblings—this was an unexpected bonus.

  I kept my word and released her as soon as Elliot returned.

  She scrambled back to her seat as if her life depended on it, frantically trying to bandage her wounds.

  Elliot scanned the area in disbelief, patted the shivering No. 137, and asked, “Did she attack you?”

  “I disabled her hand,” I replied with a nod, then asked deliberately, “Elliot, do you remember how the hall at Waterbloom Station was filled with glass and scattered crystals everywhere?”

  He answered, “I remember. I even tapped them with a knife—they were so sturdy, nearly unbreakable.”

  I leaned in, my voice barely audible over the hum of the train’s engines, “Was there a door whose glass had an unusually high reflectivity—almost like a mirror?”