The Last Train (3)
Georges took a deep breath and flung open the door to the front car. What unfolded before her was a sight that made her gasp in shock.
"No way!"
Georges St. Pierre, cadet of the Knight Officer Academy, let out a cry of astonishment.
The bandit leader Crowman! The monstrous killer who had terrorized the superpower Midland. A man with a 10 billion gold bounty on his head. The most vicious of the world's eight great villains, the monster who had plunged the world into fear!
And now this hulking bald brute was on his knees!
Of course, he was a fake—but Georges had no way of knowing that.
The fake Crowman wore a twisted grimace, blood pouring from his severed arm. A deep gash in the train floor pooled with crimson, forming a red puddle. Horror, shock, confusion—his face twisted through a storm of emotions as he glared straight ahead.
"...What the hell are you?"
Standing calmly before the glaring Crowman was Hotse, puffing on a cigarette she'd scrounged from somewhere.
"Why'd ya go messin' with a thirteen-year-old kid, huh."
"...?"
Her tone was unusually sharp, devoid of her usual drawl. Crowman furrowed his brow, utterly baffled.
"We're hijacking this train to demand ransom from the queen. Don't interfere."
"Kinda explanatory, ain'tcha."
"We're only on our third recap here with our chit-chat. Folks might've forgotten the backstory."
"Fair point."
Hotse flicked the blood off her kukri. Droplets rained down. A gust from the shattered window swept her hair back dramatically. For a split second, her golden locks seemed to glow an eerie red—was that a trick of the light?
Georges rubbed her eyes.
Then—whoosh!
Crowman yanked the chain at his waist.
"Ack!?"
Georges stumbled as her body tilted. A chain snare had looped around her ankle unnoticed. Rattle-rattle! It dragged her toward him at blinding speed.
In an instant, his thick forearm clamped around her throat.
"Tch, set a trap for a tiger and catch a mutt instead."
Crowman growled, squeezing her neck. Hotse just shrugged lazily, looking annoyed.
"That crude trap o' yours ain't catchin' no dog."
"Back off if you don't wanna watch this bitch die right in front of you!"
Crowman pressed a dagger to Georges's throat and bellowed. Hotse exhaled a bored puff of smoke.
"Don't worry about me!"
Georges shouted with grim resolve. A future knight couldn't beg pathetically for her life.
...But?
Hotse nodded coolly. "Got it. Wasn't gonna anyway."
The grammar was odd, but the meaning was clear. As a flustered Georges started to protest, 'At least pretend to care a little!'—
Rumble! Hotse raised her kukri high.
A thick crimson aura erupted in a whoosh! Georges's eyes widened in disbelief.
No way! A Sword Master? But what level? Normal auras matched hair color, yet hers wasn't gold—it was blood-red...
"Hold up!"
Someone blocked Hotse: Roin.
"She's a Knight Officer Academy cadet! I'd like to save her if possible..."
"Yeah? Then expel her first. Boom—instant ordinary dropout hostage."
"She's not ordinary once she's a hostage... But she's a civilian! Can't we try to rescue her?"
"Thing is, that bald bastard ain't total dogshit. Kinda tricky."
Hotse looked troubled. This Crowman had real skill—enough for a solid position anywhere. She hadn't gone for the kill, just lopped off an arm... and that was it.
"Heh heh heh... All of you, get outta this car. Unless you want a hole in her neck."
Crowman pressed the dagger harder. A red bead welled on Georges's pale skin. Shame hit her before the pain; she squeezed her eyes shut.
'Can't protect the princess—now I'm just baggage.'
She grabbed the dagger with her own hand.
"Huh? You little—!"
Crowman panicked. He tried to pull it away, but Georges yanked it toward her throat instead. Better to die than be a burden.
"Kill me!"
"Crazy bitch! You die, I'm screwed too!"
Crowman tugged desperately. Georges pulled back with equal fury. The one holding the blade trying to yank free, the victim pulling it in—a bizarre tug-of-war.
"What the hell are you doing!?"
"Some kinda sport?"
"Obviously not!"
Hotse and Roin could only watch the standoff, powerless. Even the mighty Hotse couldn't gauge the razor-thin margin on Georges's life.
Then.
"Know what the fastest bird in the world is?"
A chilling voice echoed from the train roof. It sounded ancient and worn, yet effortlessly natural, as if it'd always been there.
"...?"
Crowman blanked on the random quiz. "Dunno... 'In the blink of an eye'?"
Even mid-crisis, he played along with the nonsense riddle.
But the rooftop voice replied, "Wrong."
And—flash!
A silver streak pierced the roof like a shooting star blazing silver. Simultaneously—slash!
Crowman's remaining arm was severed!
"...!"
As he recoiled in shock, someone appeared, snatched Georges, and hurled her back. It all happened in the blink of an eye.
"Gaaahhhh!"
Fading consciousness, searing agony! Before the screaming Crowman stood the suited old man from before.
"Answer's 'old crow'."
The elder grinned at him. The long scar across his nose twitched like a snake.
Roin cried out at the sight. "Gasp! No way—the Midland killer!?"
Short white hair, nose scar, and an invisible, hair-raising slash. It all matched.
The old man from the coastal cliff stood there: Dexter Crowman. The real one.
The real Crowman chuckled at the retreating fake. "Dodged the vitals in a split second. Not bad. You've earned the right to impersonate me."
"Kuh... The real deal...?"
The fake bald man glared with hatred. Hotse stepped forward, meeting his gaze head-on.
"...You again?"
Their eyes locked; the real Crowman hummed thoughtfully and took a step back.
"The noisy one from the back seat earlier, huh?"
"Time to settle that unfinished score, kid."
Hotse raised her kukri. Roin's eyes widened. As Hotse got serious, her hair flushed blood-red. No illusion.
"...Hmph. Just here for one last train ride today. But if a fight comes knockin', I don't run."
Crowman stared at her gravely too.
"Stand down!"
The bald fake bellowed. He flung open his coat. Everyone groaned at the sight.
His torso was wrapped in massive explosives.
Clank! He hooked his belt to the roof with a grapple using his foot. Simple for an armless man—but deadly consequences.
Now he was an inseparable human bomb.
"Grrrr! Fine—I'll blow this train sky-high!"
"That'd just take out this car," Roin shouted, but the fake stayed aggressive.
"Plenty! Train's at top speed! Head flies off, body derails—who knows where. Keh heh heh heh..."
"...!"
Roin bit her lip bloody. The train was passing through the city. An explosion meant massive casualties. Derailment? Unimaginable damage to bystanders and passengers. And today was the last run—fewer riders, but still thousands of innocents at risk.
Roin asked calmly, "What do you want?"
"Was ransom at first... Don't care anymore!"
The fake was unhinged. His bloodshot eyes glared at Roin.
"Die, all of you!"
The explosives auto-ignited.
"No!"
Roin screamed, but Hotse and Crowman could only grimace. No one could stop it.
Then—Toot!
The train's whistle blared. Simultaneously—Crack-crackle!
Clank! Clank! Rusty bolts unscrewed themselves; the front car's roof suddenly detached!
Worn screws gave way—the roof peeled off like a steel bird taking flight, soaring skyward.
"Whoooaa!?"
The bald fake, grappled by his belt, rocketed up with it!
"Eek!"
He fumbled to unhook, but no arms. Then—Boom!
A massive mid-air explosion.
"Heh... Bolts pop right then. Weird coincidence."
"...!"
Crowman adjusted his glasses and muttered. Hotse nodded. Amid falling ash, Train Time No. 1 whistled triumphantly.
Toot! Roin stroked the wall, smiling softly at the roar.
"Thanks for the help?"
The train stayed silent, just charging ahead with mighty whistles. Roin gazed at the wide horizon ahead, caressing the wall.
"Good last run."
Afterward, Crowman vanished amid the chaos, promising Hotse a rematch.
Georges bowed to Roin and rushed back to duty. Military protocol demanded prompt return.
Roin and Hotse strolled casually back to the palace.
"Ah, damn~~ hot day, huh~~~"
Hotse was back to her slurring drawl. Her reddish tint had faded to gold again. Maybe it was all imagination.
"That, street stall smell~~ hits the spot~~ chueotang bowl,, chili powder,, perilla,, pow pow,, soju,, one round,, slam,, hits the spot~~"
She scratched her head, sniffing the booze wafting from the streets. Pure uncle vibes—who'd guess this was the hero who nabbed a train robber?
"...!"
Roin stared at her with round eyes, then asked, "...Hotse, what did you do before? As an elf?"
Hotse picked her nose and drawled indifferently. "100 million years,, stuck in eternal ice~~"
"Really 100 million years ago? Elves existed back then?"
"Wha~t's,, it to ya~~"
"How'd you escape?"
"Kept buggin' me,, so Cliche~~ busted me out."
"And before that?"
"Be~fore what?"
"Before the ice. Why'd you get trapped?"
Hotse wiped booger off her pinky on her kukri. "Lemme see... why'd I get stuck again?"
Roin watched eagerly. Hotse scowled, pondering, then grumbled. "Damn,, gettin' old,, dementia maybe,, memory's fuzzy~"
"Come on!"
"Hey! 100 million years ago! Ya think I remember that shit crystal clear?!"
Hotse eyed a street vendor's bindae-tteok and makgeolli.
"Wet the throat a bit,, might jog it~~"
"Ugh, fine!"
Roin pulled out her wallet. Snacks and booze in, Hotse finally reminisced haltingly.
"Lemme think~ yeah, back when tigers smoked,, sorta era~~"
What spilled from Hotse's lips were memories before the eternal ice. Ancient, faded ones.