The Northwest Trunk Line
Even after regaining consciousness, I spent two more days in the City Guard's infirmary. By the time I was finally discharged, the calendar had turned to December 17.
On that first day, merely attempting to prop myself up sent an agonizing stitch tearing through the inside of my right rib cage. A single misplaced sneeze had seized me with pain so sharp it felt as though my lung were being ripped out, leaving me frozen in place for what felt like an eternity, clutching the iron post of the hospital bed with white knuckles. I had dreaded that the ribs were shattered clean through, but fortunately, the damage stopped short of that. By the second day, I could finish the bowls of chicken soup sent over by the laundromat owner and wash my own face at the basin. The medical officer signed off on my release with a string of stern warnings, emphasizing that I was under no circumstances to run or hoist anything heavy.
When I stepped into the hallway after settling the discharge paperwork, Orban, who had been waiting outside, turned his broad back to me without a word.
“Hop on.”
“I told you, I can walk just fine. Lead the way, Boss.”
Orban straightened from his awkward hunch and scratched the back of his head. Still, he wordlessly took the battered bag from my hand, and as we made our way down the stairs, his deliberate stride stayed half a beat slower than usual, matching my pace step for step.
Returning to the office, I found my little back room clean to the point of feeling desolate. Department Head Beltz and Martin had already been transferred to a city safe house designated by Inspector Havel, and every trace of bloody bandages and medicine bottles had been swept away. Sinking into my bed for the first time in days was a soft, welcoming comfort, but the problem was that sleep eluded me entirely. My body still ached, yet lying idle quickly grew maddening. Even with my eyes shut, all I could hear was the rumble of Orban receiving clients down on the staircase.
Worse, I had nothing to hold in my hands. The Sermaize revolver remained tucked in its holster, but Orban made it flatly clear that strapping on a single sidearm didn't qualify me for fieldwork. As for the rifles, Bram had taken only my damaged Type 91 back to his workbench. Correcting the bolt assembly that had twisted against the metal shelf, straightening the bent hammer, and recalibrating the zero would take several days, he had told us. The Rosen R98 sniper rifle I had hauled down from the water tower had been swept into the City Guard's evidence locker—receiver, telescopic sight, tungsten armor-piercing rounds, and all. Havel's ironclad protocol dictated that as a weapon used in an attempted homicide, it could not be released to civilians until the investigation was fully closed. When that investigation might conclude, the inspector admitted he had no earthly idea.
Battered in body and stripped of my rifle, I had handed Orban the perfect excuse to bench me completely.
The morning after my return, the initial settlement funds from ARC Headquarters landed. The moment Orban verified the deposit in the safe, he pulled a leather dossier from his desk drawer. My full year of residency records, tax certificates, and his personal background guarantee had long been drawn up; all we had lacked was the filing fee. I took four silver coins from the payout and accompanied him to the municipal registration office. Adding four to the eleven silvers stashed in the tin can under my bed made exactly fifteen. Just days ago, I had been wringing my hands over a single missing coin, but thanks to the hazard pay, I had cash left over in my pocket even after covering the fee.
On our way back from submitting the paperwork at the clerk's counter, we stopped by Bram's gunsmith shop to inspect the progress on the Type 91. The dwarf rolled a bent, older-model bolt across his grease-stained workbench, pointing out precisely where the steel had warped. He was busy fitting the dimensions of the hammer with an armory-grade spare of the same specification. Returning it before setting the headspace and validating its performance through a hundred-meter test fire at the North Gate range was out of the question—a stubborn matter of professional pride that belonged strictly to the craftsman.
Up until that day, lazing about hadn't felt entirely terrible. But by the second day, sheer boredom began to claw at me. Whenever Orban balanced the ledgers at his desk, I sat across from him with my chin propped in my hands, staring blankly at the scratching nib of his fountain pen. When clients called, I leaned against the wall to memorize their faces and voices; when the room emptied, I counted the carriage wheels rattling past the window. Whenever I offered to run a simple errand around town, Orban would snatch the basket right out of my hand before I could even head to the bakery, his dark brows arching in warning at the threshold. It was an unmistakable command: the invalid stays planted on the floor.
Is this a paid vacation or house arrest?
Waking late, eating, killing time by the glass, and eating again—the routine was uncannily identical to my unemployed days back in my past life. The only difference was that back then, my phone buzzed incessantly with debt collection notices, whereas now, it was just the boss's constant nagging. With no debts and the rent fully cleared, this life was undeniably an upgrade, yet staying cooped up in bed grew stifling. Whenever the ache in my ribs subsided, I paced circles across the wooden floor.
On the afternoon of December 20, Inspector Havel climbed the stairs to the office. Without exchanging pleasantries, he tossed a grey paper envelope onto the desk.
“Final approval came through from the municipal registry.”
“Oh?”
From inside the envelope, he slid out a crisp parchment certificate alongside a palm-sized, brass-rimmed leather credential booklet. The cover bore the official pressed seal of the City of Belok, and within lay a sharp photograph of my face beside a crisp serial number. In the print, I was glaring directly into the camera lens, looking thoroughly disgruntled and put upon.
“It's out already?”
“You proved one full year of continuous residency at a single address, paid your municipal taxes to the copper, and had an ironclad guarantor,” Havel replied evenly. “Orban filed the documents without a single blemish, and I endorsed the confirmation directly under the City Guard's seal. There was no bureaucratic reason to drag it out.”
I finally held full citizenship in my hands. Never again would I have to awkwardly pull out a crumpled, flimsy provisional permit whenever a Guard patrol stopped me in an alleyway. If anyone subjected me to a stop-and-frisk, shoving this single booklet in their face would settle the matter instantly. I tucked the leather booklet deep into the inside pocket of my coat, while the larger parchment certificate was carefully slipped between the pages of an old ledger and stashed at the bottom of the wooden trunk beneath my bed to keep it from creasing.
While I had been lounging in enforced recovery, the world outside had been moving at a frantic pace. The ledgers and gate passes Havel seized were securely sealed within the City Guard's central vault. The crimson inspection lines Irina had strung across the records archive at the Central Branch remained strictly in place, and administrative clerks whose names appeared in the ledgers were being marched into interrogation rooms daily. The money-laundering channels for the embezzled funds were gradually surfacing.
Even so, the Central Branch Security Chief and Captain Kaspar Lentz remained completely in the wind. The sniper captured atop the water tower, Beate Schramm, exercised her full right to silence, while the gravity mage with the fractured jaw did little upon waking except spew venomous curses in raw Kasha dialect. Irina could only parse a handful of words, prompting the City Guard to plaster recruitment notices across Central Station and the harbor for southern military interpreters.
At the safe house sheltering Beltz and Martin, Havel's guardsmen maintained a twenty-four-hour cordon. Irina visited once a day herself, reviewing their medical progress and inspecting the entry logs. The physician's latest evaluation concluded that while extended marches remained out of the question, transit aboard a passenger train was entirely feasible.
The morning after that medical report arrived, Section Chief Irina Weiss walked into our office. It was December 21, exactly one week after the breach of the Central Branch headquarters.
Beneath her dark, charcoal-hued longcoat, she wore a pristine headquarters uniform, her massive greatsword bound securely across her back in grey wraps. Carrying a heavy leather portfolio, she shut the door behind her and immediately scrutinized my gait as I crossed the floor.
“Your stride looks noticeably lighter, Sonya.”
“Would you mind telling that to my boss? His overprotective routine is bordering on devotion.”
“I observed that your movements are lighter,” Irina countered smoothly, “not that you are fully healed.”
She took a seat opposite the desk and unclasped the portfolio. A formal deployment directive bearing the vermilion seal of the Headquarters Security Director emerged.
“Follow-up operational directives have come down from Headquarters. A decision has been finalized to transfer Department Head Gerhard Beltz and Engineer Martin Hess beyond the jurisdiction of the Central Branch.”
“All the way to Headquarters?”
“Yes. We will transit through the Karmin Direct-Control District and push up into the Rödern Free District. As principal witnesses, both men will deliver their statements directly to Headquarters investigators before being handed over to protective custody. It is the only certain way to sever the branch's interference.”
Irina unfolded a large continental railway chart across the tabletop. Karmin sat far to the northwest of Belok, an enormous nexus where rail lines converged like a web, encircled by symbols designating massive locomotive maintenance depots and switching yards far larger than any standard passenger terminal. From there branched the direct trunk line feeding into the Rödern Free District, seat of ARC Headquarters.
“Karmin falls under direct administration, meaning the Central Branch holds zero authority there. Municipal policing is handled exclusively by Railway Police answering directly to the executive board. The crux of our hazard lies in the Northwest Trunk Line connecting Belok to Karmin. That entire corridor falls squarely under Central Branch administration.”
According to Irina, the Central Branch held dominion over the main and branch lines traversing four national borders, encompassing twenty-eight major stations.
“We have yet to confirm how deeply the absconded Security Chief and Lentz's syndicate have infiltrated the rail network. It is highly probable they may forge emergency transit dispatches to obstruct the rails, or manufacture medical pretexts to forcibly decouple our coach at an intermediate stop.”
“We have to be that paranoid even while riding a company train?”
“The principal culprits behind this conspiracy are company executives,” Irina replied flatly.
She turned a page, revealing a status dispatch from the incoming audit team.
“The main body of the Headquarters Audit Division arrives at Central Station this afternoon. They will assume control of the archive seals and seized evidence, initiating a comprehensive audit of the Central Branch's financial and personnel registries. Tracking the fugitive Security Chief has also been delegated to the audit unit in coordination with Inspector Havel. The lead auditor is Section Chief Severin Roche.”
“Is he reliable?”
“Three years ago, during the disappearance of eleven relief grain transports, he personally cross-referenced hundreds of wheel-maintenance logs to prove the trains had never even left their sheds, hauling every conspirator into custody.”
Though she omitted the exact methods he used to drag them in, it was evident Roche was a seasoned operator whom Irina trusted enough to cover her rear. While Roche's auditors aggressively turned the branch upside down, our enemies' attention would naturally remain pinned to Belok. Under that cover, we would slip out along the Northwest Trunk Line with the witnesses.
Irina slid an additional subcontract across the wood toward Orban. The header bore the neat print of the Orban Fixer Office.
“Headquarters has formally requested your presence as well, Director. You investigated the field payouts and personally pulled the department head from the line of fire. The inquiry board requires your direct testimony.”
Orban glanced at my face before looking down at the parchment.
“You expect me to drag Sonya along too?”
“It is not a mandatory clause. However, the existing mutual assistance agreement remains active, and Headquarters has authorized one contracted combat operative to escort the transport.”
“The kid isn't even fully glued back together.”
“Departure is set for the morning after tomorrow. Prior to boarding, the medical officer will evaluate her physical readiness for extended transit. Should he deem her unfit, her name will be struck from the roster.”
“I'm going,” I cut in.
Orban pressed a hand to his temple and exhaled a heavy sigh. “At least read the terms on the paper first, brat.”
“The pay?”
“Yes, look at the damn numbers.”
Irina flipped the document over for me. Rail fare and first-class sleeper accommodations were covered in full by ARC Headquarters. Travel stipends, medical coverage, and equipment logistics were likewise underwritten entirely by the corporation. Beyond standard retainers, long-distance special deployment hazard pay was calculated per diem based on the actual duration of the trip. At the very bottom sat a crucial administrative guarantee: the period away from Belok would be logged as an official corporate deployment, preserving my municipal residency and tax continuity at one hundred percent.
The compensation was substantial, my citizenship was already secured, and it presented a golden opportunity to gorge on the free cheese soup at the corporate canteen in Rödern. There wasn't a single reason to refuse.
“Our final objective is delivering Department Head Beltz and Engineer Martin to Rödern, correct?”
“Yes. Once we arrive at Headquarters and safely transfer custody, the escort contract reaches successful completion.”
“Factoring in the inquiry and the return trip to Belok, we're looking at a week minimum,” Orban remarked, resting his chin on his palm as his gaze drifted toward the office key rack. Leaving the keys with the laundromat owner downstairs to collect the mail would easily resolve the vacant office.
Irina broke open a final wax-sealed envelope and fanned five train tickets across the table. The first set comprised three thick, standard second-class passenger tickets printed with my name, Orban's, and Irina's. The second set held two sealed service transit passes, their passenger slots left blank, stamped only with the crimson wax of the Headquarters Security Bureau.
Right in the center of the passenger ticket, my name stood out in clean, unmistakable type.
For the first time since my reincarnation, I held a formal travel ticket bearing my true, recognized identity. Back in my past life, buying a subway pass had been an entirely thoughtless reflex, but feeling my name and workplace pressed into the heavy cardstock gave me a strange, novel sense of grounding.
“The morning after tomorrow, precisely at 07:40, Platform 1, Belok Central Station,” Irina said, her gloved finger tracing the line along the route map. “We board Northwest Trunk Line Train 42 toward Karmin. Scheduled arrival is 20:20. Two hours later, we transfer to the direct overnight express bound for Rödern, pulling into Rödern Central the following afternoon.”
Beltz and Martin's coach would be registered under corporate manifests as an 'ARC Sealed Freight Utility Car,' with the actual coach assignment disclosed strictly to the stationmaster and the locomotive engineer two hours prior to departure. A medic from the railway hospital would travel with us disguised as a car attendant to oversee the patients' care.
“Upon reaching Karmin, a four-man escort detachment answering directly to Headquarters Security will link up with us. Our task is simply to keep both men breathing without incident until that handoff.”
Flipping the ticket over, I noticed a tiny line of print on the back: Meal Provisions Included: 4 Services.
Four guaranteed square meals.
I tucked the ticket securely against my chest and grinned. “Count me in, Section Chief.”
Orban clicked his tongue dryly. “Out of that whole contract, which part sold you?”
“The part where the food is free.”
Irina pressed her lips tight, fighting back a small smile.
On the morning before departure, the City Guard physician pressed firmly against my ribs during my final checkup. Extended train travel was permitted, but he followed it with a strict verbal admonition against running, brawling, or any sudden physical strain.
At Bram's shop, I retrieved the repaired Type 91 rifle. I surrendered the twenty-two surplus cartridges left over from the raid on the branch and received fresh ammunition issued for the assignment. The replacement bolt handle cycled with smooth, crisp precision, and the iron sights were dialed true to a hundred paces. Bram handed over a wooden box containing six five-round brass stripper clips—thirty rounds of 7.62mm service full metal jacket ammunition in total.
On the dawn of December 23, nine days after the breach of the Central Branch, the departure date finally arrived.
Orban departed ahead of us, escorting Beltz and Martin through the secluded northern maintenance gate of Central Station inside a shuttered railway hospital transport carriage. Irina and I, dressed in plain overcoats, passed through the standard administrative checkpoint. The stationmaster handed Irina a slip of paper; the moment she memorized the car number, she struck a match and burned the slip to cinder.
Emerging from the subterranean tunnel onto Platform 1, we were greeted by the hiss of steam as Northwest Trunk Line Train 42 loomed before us. Behind the massive black locomotive stretched nine heavy, steel-clad coaches. Our assignment, Coach 8, was a utility car coupled just ahead of the rear mail van. Its exterior bore no medical insignias, marked only with a clean white number 8. Yet stepping inside revealed two bolted hospital cots and medicine cabinets lining the inner bulkhead.
Beltz sat propped against the window cot adjusting his spectacles, while Martin lay locked in exhausted sleep, his left arm bound in splints. A medic from the railway hospital, wearing a white attendant's armband, was quietly monitoring their pulses. I slotted my refurbished Type 91 into the gun rack of the adjacent compartment, locking it tight after checking that the chamber and magazine were empty. At my hip, the six-shot Sermaize rested firmly in its leather sheath.
At precisely 07:40,
HOOOOOOOO—!
The steam engine unleashed a deafening whistle that rattled the platform. With a heavy clank, the couplers snapped taut, and the massive steel driving wheels began their slow rotation.
Past the coach windows, the soot-stained brick structures and towering chimneys of Belok began their steady retreat. Clearing the city ramparts, the train curved gracefully along the embankment. The South Gate drainage works and the clock tower of Central Station, places where I had scrambled through mud and dust over the past year, dissolved into the morning mist. As the factory haze thinned, the view opened into sweeping expanses of frost-dusted winter barley fields and bare apple orchards.
When the smoke from Belok's chimneys had completely vanished over the horizon, Section Chief Irina rose from her seat.
“Shall we make a round through the coaches, Sonya?”
“Sounds good. Let's go eat.”
We stepped through the forward hatch of Coach 8. Coaches 7 and 6 were standard passenger cars half-filled with travelers, while Coach 5 proved to be the dining car, thick with the rich aroma of hot food. Sitting at a window table, I ordered two sausages, fried eggs, piping-hot potato soup, and fresh bread until the table was groaning. It was entirely covered by the corporate expense account—a meal that tasted twice as sweet for being completely free. As the muddy brown waters of winding rivers and blue ridges rolled past outside, I used the crusts of bread to scour every last trace of broth from my bowl.
The first and second stations passed without the slightest disturbance.
At the third stop, track inspectors in grey overalls approached with grease buckets, sliding beneath the carriages to inspect the wheelsets. One inspector crouched beside the rear trucks of Coach 8, lingering unusually long beneath the chassis, but he withdrew without attempting to mount the steps.
Then, well past midday, Train 42 glided into the sprawling junction of the Fourth Transfer Station, a major hub interlaced with six parallel tracks.
The instant the locomotive ground to a complete halt, three inspectors wearing grey overalls and crimson armbands marched toward Coach 8 with urgent strides. The man in the lead thrust forward a clipboard, shouting sharply,
“Emergency dispatch from the upstream signaling post! The left rear axle box on Coach 8 is dangerously overheated! Under no circumstances can this train depart before we unbolt the housing to inspect the bearing!”
Irina took the man's credential badge and maintenance order, beginning a meticulous line-by-line verification. While she kept him occupied, I leaned down with narrowed eyes, peering underneath the coach toward the trucks.
The square cast-iron housing at the tip of the wheelset—the axle box. There was no visible smoke, nor the slightest stench of scorched grease. I pressed the back of my hand against the forward axle box, then shifted my palm flat against the rear cover they claimed was failing.
Through the skin of my hand, I couldn't detect the slightest temperature difference. That alone might not prove everything was pristine, but the blistering friction heat the man insisted on simply did not exist.
Keeping my palm rested flat against the cold metal casing, I tilted my chin up toward the man with the red armband. It was time to hear what else he had to say.
“Hey, mister... this isn't even warm, you know?”