Chapter 012 - The Infinite Train 12

  When the train pulled into Waterbloom Station this time, the three of us leaped off without a backward glance.

  We split up immediately—each of us racing toward a different sector: the bustling main hall, the station restaurant, and the washbasin area.

  The main hall, teeming with passengers and clearly the safest refuge, was left for No. 137 to cover.

  I plunged into the restaurant, where chaos reigned beneath an eerie calm. With a serving tray as my makeshift hammer, I began to pummel the glass panels—one after another.

  The glass proved astonishingly resilient; even my stainless steel trays buckled under the force, yet the panels remained unbroken. I struck each pane no more than ten times, checking their reflective qualities with each blow.

  Finally, I encountered one that perfectly captured my reflection—a genuine mirror. I delivered a decisive, crushing blow, and the mirror shattered into countless fragments.

  Beyond the broken glass, there was nothing but an abyss of utter darkness—a void whose destination remained an enigma. Glancing at my watch, I realized our allotted five minutes had long since expired. There was no turning back.

  With retreat no longer an option, the sudden emergence of this new possibility was all the more tantalizing. The pitch-black void seemed to beckon, almost whispering, “Jump in! Jump in! Leap into me and end this game once and for all!”

  I stood before it, expression blank, and hurled the serving tray into the void. Silence was all that answered.

  The restaurant staff, long unnerved by my reckless, near-suicidal behavior, had already scurried off to summon security.

  Seizing the moment, I slipped into the kitchen. Battling a wave of nausea, I snatched one of the long arms from a kitchen worker—shoving half of it into the void before yanking it back. Sure enough, the arm snapped off, its severed edge jagged and uneven.

  A bitter laugh escaped me as I continued my assault, shattering three more mirrors. Each one yielded the same disquieting result: an expanse of impenetrable darkness, as relentless and merciless as a meat grinder.

  At last, when the restaurant was devoid of any smooth mirror surfaces, I did not linger. I deftly dodged the approaching security and made my way back into the main hall. There, pandemonium reigned—the few remaining passengers were thrown into disarray, their faces etched with terror as they watched us methodically shatter glass.

  I edged closer, and that’s when I noticed: No. 137’s waist-length hair had been drastically shortened.

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  “Where’s your hair?” I asked, my tone laced with concern.

  Elliot, standing nearby, explained, “She heard someone call for security and tried to leap into that void—but I stopped her, and a chunk of her hair got caught in the process.”

  Just then, yet another mirror exploded into shards. The three of us froze before the final, pitch-black void, exchanging hesitant, uncertain glances. Nearby, security personnel began to gather, leaving us no time to waste.

  Murmuring a half-hearted apology to No. 137 amidst her pained cries, I yanked two strands of her hair—tossing half of them into the void and then pulling them back out, snapping them in the process. Our hearts sank into an abyss of despair.

  No. 137 bit her lip and asked, “Does this mean… the last one isn’t either?”

  Elliot scanned the armed security team assembling around us. In an uncharacteristically calm tone, he raised his hands in surrender and loudly explained, “We mean no harm—please, don’t shoot.”

  The head of security bellowed, “Hands up! Drop your knives and any other weapons, and come over here!”

  I kept silent, my lips pressed into a thin line. I could hear my heart pounding furiously, a silent, resentful question echoing in my mind. This path—this cycle—had to be the right one. Those successive, trap-like voids were the best evidence: the mirrors had shattered, the cycle was broken, and a new path had emerged—though the correct route had yet to fully reveal itself.

  So… where is the correct path? And where is the right mirror?

  Suddenly, I spotted a display cabinet nearby, its glass showcasing a collection of classical bronze mirrors. Instinctively, I grabbed Elliot by the arm and whispered, “Look at that mirror over there. When we pass, let’s smash it.”

  But Elliot lowered his gaze, considering it for a moment before saying, “That’s not realistic.”

  I remained silent. Then No. 137 softly offered, “The bronze mirror over there? I once snuck off mid-journey to buy one. It’s in my pocket—shall I smash it now?”

  Elliot and I shot her sharp, questioning looks, and I urged, “Hurry up!”

  No. 137 flinched, but maintained her composure as she quickly produced the small bronze mirror and handed it to me. I then struck its surface hard with the handle of my dining knife.

  At that moment, the security team—growing increasingly impatient with our hushed whispers—raised their guns and fired a warning shot into the air, shouting, “Did those three hear me? Drop everything and put your hands up!”

  With a sharp crack, the bronze mirror splintered, fine fissures spreading rapidly, and the dark, ominous void reappeared. It was tiny—pitifully so. This time, without any prompting, No. 137 tore off a few strands of her hair and shoved them into the void. Once again, our hearts sank as we watched it snap cleanly into two pieces.