The roof of the train was a blur of wind and motion.
Steel screamed as it met steel—Freya blocked the swordsman's opening strike with her rapier, but the force sent her sliding backward across the slick rooftop.
She dug her heels in, stabilizing, barely in time to duck under his follow-up slash.
Celine moved like smoke—slipping behind him, daggers flashing toward the gaps beneath his arms.
He twisted, spinning on one foot, and deflected both blades with the flat of a katana.
His second sword lashed out—a horizontal sweep that Celine ducked by inches.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
The sound of metal echoed across the wind-blown expanse.
Around them, more attackers were pulling themselves onto the roof—half a dozen already in formation, rifles aimed.
"My lady!" Celine shouted, dodging a thrust and rolling low. "We're about to get surrounded!"
"I'm aware!" Freya snapped, her blade flashing as she forced the swordsman back two paces with a flurry of precise thrusts.
The man's expression never shifted—calm, focused, almost serene.
He parried with the effortless confidence of a master, as if he already knew their next moves.
And then he went on the offensive again.
He lunged at Freya, both katanas moving in tandem like mirrored serpents. One went high, feinting for her neck—the other low, aiming to hamstring.
Freya pivoted, dropping her weight and twisting sideways. The high strike grazed her shoulder, slicing through silk and drawing a thin line of blood.
She grimaced, but didn't falter.
Celine seized the opening.
She darted in, both daggers aimed for the kidneys—but again, he moved, one katana flashing behind his back to block her assault without even turning his head.
It was like fighting a ghost.
"Who the hell is this bastard?" Celine spat, flipping away to dodge another round of rifle shots from the encircling goons.
"My guess? A ghost from the war," Freya said tightly.
Their adversary flicked blood from his blade with a graceful wrist motion and took a step forward, expression unchanged.
"You're both quite skilled," he said, voice steady against the roar of wind. "But you're playing checkers in a game of blades."
"Yeah?" Celine growled, reloading her pistol. "Let's change the board then."
Before he could react, she raised the pistol—not at him, but behind him.
BANG.
The mana-round struck the roof and exploded, along with some goons–and the shockwaves also made the swordsman off balance for a second
That was all Freya needed.
She surged forward again, her rapier a flickering beam of silver light, pressing the swordsman with renewed speed and aggression.
For a moment—just a moment—he faltered, stepping back on the slick rooftop.
Celine took advantage.
She tossed a small object—a flashbomb—behind him.
FWWMP.
A blinding pulse of violet light erupted, illuminating the fog like a sunrise from hell.
The swordsman's eyes narrowed as the afterglow seared his vision. He pivoted defensively, blades raised.
But that delay was enough.
"Now!" Freya shouted.
Celine hurled a dagger—aimed low—and Freya lunged high.
The man deflected the dagger instinctively—but Freya's rapier stabbed deep into the shoulder of his off-hand arm, punching through fabric and flesh with a surge of mana.
He staggered.
Not much.
But enough.
He flipped backward, landing with a crouch and skidding several feet along the roof. Blood darkened the side of his robe.
Still, he didn't retreat.
Instead, he smiled.
"Very impressive," he murmured, voice distorted slightly by the howling wind. "Lady Freya."
More figures clambered up around them now. Eight. Ten.
They were fully encircled.
"Celine," Freya said, breath tight.
Freya's eyes swept the encroaching circle of rifles, the blur of the terrain beyond, the endless wind howling at her back.
Then—without a word—she turned and ran.
"Jump!" she shouted, already sprinting toward the edge of the train's roof.
Celine was right behind her. They leapt together—off the roof, into the cold air, into the blur of trees and mist below.
WHUMP. WHAM. CRACK.
They crashed through the treetops like twin bolts of silk and steel, branches snapping, leaves exploding in a cascade of green and gold.
Celine tucked mid-air and rolled with the impact, hitting the mossy forest floor hard—but alive.
Freya landed less gracefully, skidding against a slope, her shoulder slamming into a root.
But they were up within seconds—bruised, breathless, bleeding—but moving.
"Keep running!" Freya hissed, voice low.
Behind them, the roar of the train faded. But not for long.
On the rooftop far above, the swordsman stood at the edge, peering into the trees where they'd vanished.
The wind tugged at his cloak. Around him, the remaining soldiers waited.
He didn't move at first—just stared into the forest like a hawk waiting for prey to resurface.
Then, with perfect calm, he spoke.
"Deploy gliders. Hunt them down."
A soldier stepped forward. "You sure they survived that jump?"
The swordsman's voice was quiet. Certain. "They survived my blades. The fall won't stop them."
He sheathed both katanas in one smooth motion.
"I want them found before sunset. Alive, if possible."
"And if not?"
"Then bring me Reinhart's sword."
A moment later, a half-dozen cloaked figures leapt from the moving train.
Mana-gliders unfurled from their backs with a crackle of light, catching the air like wings.
They soared into the fog, scanning the forest below.
But by the time they hit the ground—Freya and Celine were gone.
Vanished into the deep woods like ghosts...
Back to the locomotive...
It was still accelerating.
Not gradually. Not like a schedule shift.
It lurched forward, and the rhythm of the wheels below changed—faster, heavier, urgent. The very air inside the carriage felt tighter.
Norman staggered, grabbing a rail. "The hell? Are we accelerating?"
Aldrich glanced up as the lights flickered once, then steadied. "No, boy, we're taking a scenic ride to our graves."
Norman was already moving. "Engine room?"
"Where else?" Aldrich followed, muttering curses under his breath.
Carriages flashed by as they pushed through crowds of confused passengers.
People were shouting—asking what was happening, where the conductors were, why the train was speeding.
A woman pointed out the window. "That's the last checkpoint before the city! We're going too fast!"
They reached the engine door. Steam hissed from the edges. Something smelled burnt.
Norman forced it open.
Inside: chaos.
The main engineer was slumped on the floor, bleeding from the head. Sparks spat from the control panel.
The mana conduits—thick glass tubes along the walls—glowed bright and uneven, pulsing like something alive.
Aldrich crouched beside the engineer. "Still breathing. Barely."
Norman looked at the controls. "Can we stop this thing?"
"Not without breaking it. Someone's locked the throttle and looped the mana flow—look." Aldrich pointed to a rune etched into the side of the boiler.
It glowed red.
"Second Glyphwork," Norman muttered. "Looks like a remote trigger. They've set this train to blow when it reaches the Rosenvale."
Aldrich's face tightened. "Then we've got maybe five minutes. Maybe less."
Norman opened the emergency panel, exposing the runes and wires underneath. "I'll pull the glyph apart. You watch the mana."
Aldrich blinked. "Do I look like a damn arcane reader?"
"Do you want to explode?" Norman barked.
Aldrich muttered something obscene but stayed put.
Norman worked fast. His fingers traced the glowing lines. "This is messy work. Whoever did this rushed it."
"Which makes it unstable," Aldrich said.
"Yep. And I'm about to yank the heart out of it." Norman took a breath—then infused his mana to the glyph. He was trying to overload it.
The red glow dimmed. The lines trembled.
"C'mon!" With a surge of mana flow–CRACK.
The glyph shattered, engine groaned like a wounded beast. Steam burst from every seam, filling the cabin with heat and noise.
Then—at last—the train began to slow..
Outside the cracked window, the spires of Rosenvale blurred into view—far too close.
Metal screamed as the emergency brakes engaged, the entire train jolting violently.
Luggage flew from overhead racks, passengers screamed in the distance. The floor heaved beneath them like a ship in a storm.
Then—
Silence.
A final hiss of pressure. A mechanical exhale.
The train had stopped.
Norman sagged against the wall, drenched in sweat, heart hammering like a drum. "Holy hells…"
Aldrich, hands trembling slightly, fumbled his pipe from his coat.
He lit it with a shaky flame, inhaled deeply, then muttered through the smoke, "Told you. This train would be the death of me."
Norman let out a breath that was half a laugh, half a sob. "Not today."
Aldrich eyed the shattered glyph still sparking faintly on the boiler. "No," he said grimly. "But someone damn well gave it their best shot."
A heavy silence settled.
Then Aldrich straightened, his joints cracking like worn leather straps. "We need to get to Rosenvale Station. Tell them what happened. Half of the carriages are gone."
Norman nodded, still catching his breath. "And don't forget about the mage. Maybe we can get something out of him."
Aldrich froze at the doorway, the steam curling around him like ghostly fingers.
"Oh, I haven't forgotten him," he said. His voice had dropped low—cold, focused. "And I'm going to—"
BOOM.
A thunderclap shattered the air.
The floor vibrated. The cabin shook. Norman instinctively ducked, hand going to his sidearm.
Out the window—a flash.
Then a towering mushroom cloud rose over the valley behind them.
Smoke, fire, and dust spiraled upward in a dark column, visible even through the drifting fog.
Norman stared, stunned. "What the hell—?"
"It just keeps getting better and better, huh?"
Aldrich's pipe dropped from his mouth. He didn't even notice. His eyes were locked on the horizon.
"No time for jokes, boy," he growled. "We need reinforcements. We're outmanned… and definitely outgunned."
He turned toward the exit, coat billowing behind him.
"Whatever this is—it's only just started."