The "Siberian Express" was likely one of the fastest and most luxurious trains in the Russian Empire. It was also one of the most secure.
Essentially, it was an armored train capable of safely transporting its precious cargo through the Epicenter Lands.
Airplanes and airships didn't fly beyond the Ural Mountains, as the "gray zone" began immediately after, where flying monsters could easily end the journey of man-made aircraft and the lives of their passengers.
Thus, all deliveries—of both manpower and cargo—relied solely on rail transport, a kind of fortress on wheels, able to defend itself and its passengers.
Four armored locomotives pulled 150 cars, each carrying 80 tons of cargo, not counting auxiliary "combat" platforms and fifty passenger cars that resembled "safes on wheels."
Passenger cars were divided into three classes. Most were third-class, open-plan cars for commoners. Second-class consisted of compartment cars, with four people per compartment, for administrators and less wealthy aristocrats. And, of course, first-class cars, occupied exclusively by haughty aristocrats. The cost of a first-class ticket equaled the total cost of all seats in a third-class car. To buy one, I had to part with nearly all my cash, but it was worth it.
My destination was Irkutsk, the largest city in the Empire's east, serving two roles. It was the main logistics hub for the Epicenter Lands, where all necessary cargo was gathered and distributed to the Outposts, small fortified strongholds along the Epicenter's perimeter.
It was also a major military garrison, housing numerous Imperial Army units to deter the southern neighbor, the Chinese Empire, from thinking it could easily seize the Empire's east. Such attempts had been made repeatedly in the past. The current "Treaty of Friendship and Cooperation" was, in essence, a cover for the Chinese to amass forces for another "attempt." A poorly kept secret…
Nearly six thousand kilometers from Saint Petersburg to Irkutsk—a five-day journey. The first day, I shamelessly slept, exhausted from recent events in Petersburg. On the second day, hunger struck, and I decided to stroll to the dining car to grab a bite and look around. Despite the late morning, I encountered several thoroughly drunk aristocrats, laughing loudly as they staggered to their compartments, some with servants' help. I had to step aside twice to let near-unconscious bodies pass. Noble youth were off to perform feats and glorify their Lineages.
But it wasn't just nobles traveling, nor just them fighting. Commoners' brawls were painful to watch—simple fistfights followed by handshakes. In a way, they were fortunate. Nobles had their own complications; even an accidental insult could cost a life or spark a Lineage war.
The first-class dining car rivaled any capital restaurant. Unlike an airship, weight wasn't a concern here, so designers went all out.
My habit of eating well and expensively persisted, but money was scarce… At this rate, my meager funds would soon run dry, yet I couldn't bring myself to economize.
As a Hunter, I never knew the meaning of "short on cash." No money? Go kill monsters. Our world was teeming with them, and experienced Hunters were few. Sometimes, barons decided to handle wandering portals spewing monsters themselves to avoid paying us. Result? They lost their entire army and called us anyway. For some reason, that world attracted monsters.
Expensive carpets, currently being scrubbed of someone's vomit by stewards; dirty tablecloths, swiftly replaced with fresh ones by waiters. Heavy curtains were drawn, letting morning sun through raised armored shutters.
They looked at me with surprise. I wasn't sure if it was my early visit or the lack of a visible hangover.
"What would you like, sir?" a waiter hurried over.
I knew aristocrats often dined in their rooms.
"English breakfast, please! And black coffee, no milk or sugar, right away," I muttered, gazing at the fields rushing by outside.
"Something to drink?" the waiter persisted.
I tore my gaze from the scenery and looked at him questioningly.
"By 'drink,' you mean alcohol?"
"Exactly, sir. We have the finest wines from France, Italy…"
"Have you checked the time?" I interrupted.
He faltered, glancing at an antique cuckoo clock in the salon.
"Ten thirty-two, sir!"
"Decent people don't drink before noon!" I frowned, then raised my voice. "Where's my coffee?!"
"Right away!"
Of course, I enjoy a drink, but not now. I wanted to settle in and understand the lay of the land before relaxing.
A habit from my past life.
The waiter vanished, and I allowed myself a smile. An old joke from my past. Tramp Scotch, aptly nicknamed, never sober yet one of the most effective Hunters, strictly followed this rule. It was amusing to watch him in the common hall, sadly eyeing the minute hand inching toward twelve.
"Pardon, is this seat free?" A scrawny young man, about twenty, approached, wearing glasses he likely never removed.
Surprised, I raised an eyebrow and scanned the nearly empty dining car.
Was he short on space?
"Free, sit down…" I smiled, gesturing to the seat.
I didn't know why he wanted to, but I was bored and could chat.
He wasn't a commoner—clearly noble—and I noticed his intriguing Gift. I could sometimes identify Gift auras by subtle signs and residual glow, a professional skill.
A rare aura. In the Prussian Principality, only two Lineages had such a Gift, but they produced only girls. They married outsiders, with stricter selection than for a grand prince's daughter. The Healer's Gift was rare, hard to master, and useless without an experienced mentor.
"Newspaper?" I offered one I'd read, having three different ones.
I needed to gradually catch up on local events.
"Thank you, I'll take it," he accepted, skimming it while occasionally glancing at the entrance.
Perhaps he was shielding himself this way. But from whom?
I got my answer twenty minutes later when three drunk young men burst into the dining car.
"There's our Andryusha!" one minor aristocrat guffawed.
Their behavior and attire marked them as petty but bold.
"Why'd you ditch us?" One swaggered over, draping an arm around the guy, half-choking him. "Or did you find a new buddy?"
The guy shot me an apologetic look, begging forgiveness. He'd thought they wouldn't dare approach and would leave him alone. Just a bunch of idiots assuming he was a minor aristocrat. They didn't notice the mark of a signet ring on his finger. He was clearly traveling incognito, avoiding his power to stay hidden.
"Come drink with us—why sit with this guy?" The boldest one insulted me without shame, pulling him by the arm.
Clearly provincial aristocrats from some backwater, only picking on people like us. Neither of us wore signet rings, and only our clothes and the car's expense hinted at our status.
"Pardon," I stood, addressing them. "Could you take your stench and get lost? We're having a conversation."
That's all they needed.
"Wow, you're bold," the redhead whistled. "You insulted me, and I'm Viscount Georges Myasov."
Oh, gods… Only one of the three was an aristocrat; the others were just his lackeys.
"I'm not sorry—what's next?" A smirk crept onto my face.
"I demand a duel!" he snarled, like a dead hyena pup. "Or I'll accept a buyout—say, a thousand rubles."
"Do I look like a charity for beggars?" I feigned surprise, dodging his energy-charged punch.
His fist grazed my face, as planned. I grabbed it, pressed key points, twisted, and forced him to the floor, making the aristocrat scream and drop to his knees.
"What, your usual position?" I mocked.
"Bastard…"
Right… A kick to the gut sent the bold one who'd harassed my companion flying—the one I'd barely exchanged words with. But another sneaked up, trying to sear my face with fiery palms. A headbutt to his nose sent blood gushing onto the freshly cleaned carpet.
The staff watched with bored expressions, waiting for it to end so they could clean again. I gave them more work, breaking the viscount's nose with my knee. He was weak, fainting instantly. The blow was light, but he sprawled out, arms wide.
"What's going on?" Security entered.
"A gentlemen's scuffle, but they're done," a server clarified.
"Got it…" The senior clicked his tongue. "Conflict resolved?" he asked me.
"Yes," I nodded. "You can take them. The staff won't face trouble for witnessing this, right?"
I wondered if the viscount would vent his anger on commoners when he came to.
"Ha-ha-ha… You're a joker, Your Honor," the man laughed heartily and started clearing up.
I didn't get what was funny. Were all the servers masters here, so it'd be fine?
"I'm so sorry for causing you trouble," the bespectacled guy "woke up." "I was sure they wouldn't dare approach you. They avoided others."
"Others had signets," I raised my ringless hand but reassured him. "For reasons, I can't wear mine now, but I'll fix that soon, as will you. By the way, I'm Alexander Galaktionov," I extended my hand.
"Pleased to meet you, I'm Andrey…" He was so relieved I wasn't mad that he shook my hand and gave his name. Then he realized I'd mentioned his signet and needed to introduce himself fully. "Androsov…"
He paled after saying his surname.
"Killed many people?" I asked calmly.
"What?! What people?" His eyes bulged.
"You're hiding—could be a reason," I sipped my now-cold coffee and grimaced. "Jerks… my coffee's cold because of them."
A waitress overheard, hurrying over with a fresh cup.
"I haven't killed anyone," he protested, indignant.
"Deflowered the Emperor's daughter? I get it… She's probably a beauty, and you couldn't resist. Now you're on the run," I teased, making him blush again.
"I didn't touch Olga!" he exclaimed, redder still. "I have a fiancée…"
His face was practically painted red. I enjoyed ribbing him.
"Ugly as a world war, so you fled? I'd run from one like that too," I tossed another silly guess.
"She's fine…"
"So, you ran from home for loose women and loud clubs? Too much control at home?"
"No… I want to visit a Rift…" I pushed him so far, he whispered the last part, looking pitiful.
"Wow, you'd make a lousy spy," I grinned. "Why all the hassle? I don't believe a Lineage with a healer is so poor they couldn't arrange Rift escorts for their heir?"
I got chatty, and he looked tired, like he might bolt, thinking I was after him.
"My parents didn't want me to become a combat healer," he said glumly. "We have money. Where'd you come from if you've never heard of my Lineage?"
He wasn't sulking but gathering his thoughts, now counterattacking.
"Not local."
I quickly spun my tale of living in European principalities, traveling the world, and returning home at eighteen.
He looked at me with envy—until I mentioned my entire family was dead, and I was the sole, unconfirmed heir.
I mentioned the Rift, and oh, I hit the mark.
"Then you need the Training Center, or they might not let you in. It's decent, and you can form a noble team. From what you say, you want to go to a Rift alone—that's suicide," he lectured, adjusting his glasses.
With this nerd, I didn't notice we'd switched to informal speech. He was smart, knew a lot, and his Lineage seemed influential, though I'd never heard of them.
"Sorry, I need the restroom," I interrupted his Rift and creature talk.
"Okay, I'll wait," he said, clearly a talker, and I a willing listener. "Wait, the restroom's…"
Yeah, I knew it wasn't there…
But that didn't matter. I stepped into the vestibule, heading toward adventure. I hadn't sent Shnyrka to "serve"—i.e., watch those three idiots—for nothing. The viscount traveled with guards and bribed two to kill me.
Just like that? I only roughed him up, and he wanted me dead? His guards were two sturdy men, roughly Warrior rank. One definitely was, from what I overheard.
They thought I was an Apprentice or Journeyman. Oh, how wrong they were. But that changed nothing—they were coming to kill me. The viscount had called his father, who gave the go-ahead. After they killed me, they'd summon him, staging it as a duel or claiming I attacked, and he defended himself.
Who'd believe me without a signet ring?
"I'll approach him, say the viscount invites him to apologize. You wait in the vestibule, and when we enter, take him out," one told the other, their plan as reliable as a Swiss watch.
Shnyrka, my hero.
I dashed to the vestibule where they planned to ambush me, opened the door, and hid behind the wall. No desire to play or waste time, so I infused my body with energy and donned armor. As they appeared, I attacked first, no greetings or talk.
The gray-haired man I kicked reacted correctly, blocking. But inertia… and an open door… One down. The second went for his pistol, forcing me to adjust and close in.
A brief struggle for the gun—ten seconds to seize it and shoot him in the head. I chose the angle so his brains flew out the door, not splattering the car. I wasn't about to clean.
He wasn't a Warrior. A weak Journeyman, hence the pistol. But the old man took my blow, though I should've broken his arms. Likely a weak Veteran.
Tossing the body out, I summoned Shnyrka and threw him the pistol.
"Get rid of it far away, where it won't be found," I said—my prints were on it, and I didn't need trouble, though it wouldn't be critical.
Leaving the vestibule, I noticed a conductor walking through the car, listening.
"Pardon, did you hear a noise?" he asked.
"Noise? No, I just got here. But I saw two guys leaving the restroom—maybe them?"
"Disgraceful…" The conductor grimaced and moved on.
Now, if the viscount raised a fuss about missing guards and called the police, the conductor would mention two men and recall the time.
They'd think the lovebirds flew off…
Somewhere in the Russian Empire's hinterlands
Stinky woke with a raging thirst. A typical morning after drinking rotgut. His real name was Alexander Ilyich Sukharev, once a renowned tinsmith in five nearby villages, fixing any cookware.
But something went wrong, and he became a bum, earning the humiliating nickname "Stinky."
This morning was different. His head ached not just from a brutal hangover but from a mild concussion, courtesy of his drinking buddies Shovel and Brick.
All because he tried to woo Otter, Brick's "common-law wife." Outmatched, Stinky was shamefully banished from their cozy commune under the railway bridge.
It had happened before. Now he needed to scrounge up booze for a "reconciliatory binge."
Sighing heavily, Stinky shifted. Something poked his side. Reaching with his filthy hand, he found a brand-new pistol, inexplicably there.
The ex-tinsmith smirked. No need to beg for cheap liquor to "make peace." His commune would soon have a new boss! And Otter wouldn't escape! Brave Stinky would soon make her a "widow"!
I wondered where Shnyrka ditched the pistol. Hopefully, sunk in a swamp.
After my "stroll," I returned to Andrey, and we stayed in the restaurant until evening. So many people came through, my eyes couldn't keep up. Minor aristocrats were the boldest. Higher ranks were usually courteous. Merchants acted overly arrogant. One I disliked, so I sent Shnyrka hunting. So much swagger, yet only five hundred in his wallet. He pompously told the waitress, "Keep the change, though you don't deserve it." Sure… a ruble tip, big spender. His money came in handy, and it wouldn't go to waste.
Androsov went to the conductor, asking me to come along. He feared using his power, not wanting to reveal himself. He was desperate to avoid his parents finding him before he hit a Rift a couple of times.
For twenty rubles, we convinced the conductor to move him to my car, away from the idiot viscount. He was grateful. This nerd was nearly broke. He'd taken gemstones from home to sell for cash. He had no money then and avoided cards, as they'd give him away.
"You know anyone can challenge you to a duel here?" he said, enjoying giving advice and clarifying things I didn't know.
"I figured," I hinted, referencing the viscount.
"Right… I forgot about them."
"Listen, maybe skip the Rift? I'm worried they'll rip your balls off. You don't seem like an experienced fighter," I voiced my doubts.
"I can't fight without my Gift," he shrugged.
"Or with it, right?" I gave a crooked smile.
I'd hit a nerve, and he decided to take a risk.
"Give me your hand," he requested. I pointedly hid my hands behind my back, glancing around.
"Hey! I'm not like that," he laughed, palms up in protest.
"Galaktionov, has anyone called you a jerk?" he rolled his eyes.
"More than once," he couldn't imagine how much I'd heard in my past life. "Fine, take my hand—but if you break it, you're fixing it."
He checked for witnesses, grabbed my wrist, and activated his Gift. Sharp pain shot through my hand—maddening if you hadn't endured it hundreds of times. He was manipulating my nerve endings.
"Something's wrong," Androsov frowned at my mocking smile. "How can you stand it?"
"A fighter doesn't fear pain; he lives with it," I shrugged, offering advice. "Kill immediately in life-or-death situations, don't toy with their nerves. And learn to fight without your Gift—it'll come in handy."
"Noted," he nodded, adjusting his glasses. "My turn for advice," he grinned widely. "Learn the Empire's laws, or you're like a fish out of water. Someone could challenge you to a duel for nothing, and you wouldn't know it's illegal. Or you might accidentally declare a Lineage war. You're a future Lineage head, after all."
He got me there… I hadn't studied everything needed at home. I doubted I'd make it to the Empire, planning for France instead.
With time on the train, I could catch up. Androsov was handy, helping with unclear points.
"Hey, Andy, you like whiskey? I saw a great collection at the bar…"