The Path Ahead
The Doom Train ran like a heartbeat through the dark — steady, relentless, alive. Raghu had been inside for only a few hours, yet it already felt like he had stepped into a living maze.
Compartment 6 was nothing like a regular cabin. Its walls shimmered faintly with pulsing veins of blue energy — lines that carried both power and data through the coach. Thin cables crawled along the ceiling like roots, sometimes humming softly when someone passed beneath them. Small lights blinked across the corridor, marking active Halo links. The air smelled faintly of iron and ozone, mixed with the sweat and ambition of a hundred hopefuls.
Raghu walked through the aisles, curious but careful. Every compartment had its own rhythm. Some candidates sat in tight circles, comparing numbers and Doom Credits; others trained silently, eyes closed, movements sharp and mechanical. Conversations died down when he passed. People were already judging, weighing, ranking. The train was a machine built for competition, and trust came slow here.
He stopped near a vending column where two candidates argued over Pocket access.
"—you can't just buy into a trial without a sponsor!" one barked."The system opened it to anyone above seven thousand credits!" the other retorted.A mechanical voice from the column interrupted, cold and final: "Dispute logged. Supervisor review pending."
Raghu walked away, half amused, half tense. The supervisor's words from earlier echoed in his mind — ascend or fall, no middle ground.
He found a seat near the back of the compartment, where the window opened to a view of endless gray fog rushing by. There was no landscape outside, no horizon — only a blur of void and flickering light. Somewhere out there, other compartments were connected, forming the massive serpent-body of the Doom Train.
"Not much of a view, huh?"
Raghu turned. A man leaned against the rail, grinning, his dark hair tied back, eyes quick and alert. He was shorter than Raghu, dressed in a patched coat of deep maroon, and spoke with a faint accent.
"Lucien," the man said, tapping the number on his Halo band. Rank 31. "You must be Raghu, the new guy with the fancy eight thousand credits, no?"
Raghu gave a short nod. "Word travels fast here."
Lucien's grin widened. "Faster than the train, my friend. Everyone keeps tabs on the top twenty. You blink, and you're either a rival or a potential ally." He sat without waiting for permission, setting his data slab down. "Mind if I share the seat? I've been trying to talk to someone who doesn't just grunt back."
Raghu shrugged slightly. "Go ahead."
Lucien leaned back, crossing one leg over the other. "So, new faces always bring fresh stories. Let me guess — you fought your way through some pit or gate trial, right? Got the bonus entry?"
Raghu's expression didn't change. "Something like that."
"Ah, modest and mysterious," Lucien chuckled. "You'll do well." He paused, glancing around to make sure no one was listening. "You've probably already heard whispers about powers in Coach Fourteen, haven't you?"
Raghu frowned. "Power structure ? I thought the highest authority was with CNC."
"That's what they tell you," Lucien said with a wink. "But you'll learn soon — the rules on this train are like smoke. Right now , Officially, Coach Thirteen is the goal, where champions are forged. But behind that, there are power houses ,the power behind the curtain. It's where the factions run things. CNC is just a front."
Raghu studied him, unsure if this was rumor or bait. "Factions?"
Lucien's grin widened. "Four of them. You'll hear their names sooner or later, so I'll save you some confusion." He raised his fingers, ticking each off one by one.
"First, the Order of Aegis — disciplined warriors obsessed with precision and ritual. Their arenas are quiet, exacting, and every move is measured.
Then the Crimson Core — ambitious, cunning, always in motion. They control trade and influence. Everyone whispers about them because if you align with them, you get access, protection, and power.
Next, the Dominionof Storm — loud, forceful, driven by sheer strength. They train candidates in brutal cycles, valuing results over methods.
Last, the Soundof Silence — quiet, tactical, and precise. They work in shadows, using illusions and strategies that make them almost invisible. Discipline and patience are their weapons."
Lucien let the holograms fade. "Everyone here joins one, sooner or later. Or you become a lone warrior — no faction, no backup. Most don't survive long."
Raghu leaned back, thinking. "Maybe some people prefer standing alone."
Lucien smiled at that, eyes narrowing. "Maybe. But the train notices, and it doesn't forgive."
He glanced at Raghu, grinning slyly. "Personally? I'm leaning toward the Crimson core. They have pull—real power. Coach Fourteen is their cradle. They say one day they'll rule all coaches from here to Coach One. If you want to survive and climb, you think about where you'll stand."
Raghu raised an eyebrow. "And you'll make it there?"
Lucien's grin faltered for a heartbeat before returning. "I have to. Otherwise, the train eats me. Mark my words."
He finished his drink and drifted into the crowd. Raghu watched him go, uncertain whether to trust him.
Curious, he drifted toward the compartment's center, letting his eyes wander over the four factions in action. The crowd he has navigated earlier without knowledge was now easily distinguished by him.
One group moved in near-perfect formation. Their strikes and steps were slow, ritualistic, synchronized like a single organism. The older candidates observed silently as juniors struggled to match the rhythm. Discipline and control radiated from them.
Another faction was a storm of motion and sound. Candidates barked orders, traded information, and tested each other with glances sharp as knives. Ambition hummed around them. Lucien's choice became clear — the faction's pull was undeniable.
A third faction trained in brutal, chaotic cycles. Hits were counted in seconds, and mistakes punished immediately. Raw power, resilience, and endurance were their currency.
The final group moved almost invisibly, blending with shadows. Their drills were precise and tactical, leaving afterimages that disoriented even careful observers. Intelligence, strategy, and patience were their weapons.
Raghu leaned against a wall, absorbing the scenes. Every faction represented a path, every choice a risk. The train felt infinitely larger now, layered with invisible hierarchies and subtle power plays. Survival would demand more than sword skill; it required understanding alliances, cunning, and the ambitions pulsing within Coach Fourteen.
Lucien's words returned: "The train eats loners."
Raghu looked down at his Halo Watch: Unaligned. Rank 8. 8,000 Doom Credits.
Outside the window, faint streaks of light blurred past like the ghostly trails of forgotten worlds. The Doom Train groaned beneath him as if agreeing: it carried its passengers forward — toward trials, alliances, betrayals, and the endless climb.
For the first time, Raghu understood: to survive, he would need more than skill. He would need eyes in the shadows, allies in high places, and the courage to choose his path wisely.
The train moved on, and the next phase of his journey had already begun.