The cold, creeping dread spurred Morca to action, forcing him to quicken his pace toward the open train doors.
'If my assumptions are correct, they wouldn't dare execute extreme measures on public transit. Besides, the countdown hasn't hit zero yet.'
The thought had barely formed when reality fractured.
In a terrifying, instantaneous flash, every element of sound vanished. The bustling platform, the surging commuters, and the massive iron transit idling right before him dissolved into a blank, blinding white void. Time ground to an absolute crawl for a single millisecond. Then, just as abruptly, the world snapped back to life.
Thud.
Morca collapsed heavily onto the polished tile floor just inches from the train door. His entire frame convulsed with violent tremors. The local atmosphere felt thick, crushing, as if the air itself had turned to lead. All strength bled from his muscles, his legs turning completely limp. A horrendous, splitting pressure hammered inside his skull, as though he were carrying the collective weight of the entire world upon it.
His mouth gaped open, then closed, the desperate movement repeating fruitlessly. He clawed for a word, any sound, but his throat and lungs burning as if they hadn't tasted oxygen in a lifetime.
"Child, what's wrong? Are you alright? Are you alone?"
Just as his consciousness began sliding into the abyss, a warm voice cut through the fog, sounding like a gentle melody. Though the words were initially muffled, Morca felt a strange, genuine wave of concern radiating from the person supporting him. The twisted tension in his face eased slightly, a fragile sense of relief washing over his senses.
He was still in the transit station. Someone was beside him.
Yet, as the frantic questions continued to echo in his ears, a spike of irritation flared through his panic. If he had possessed a single shred of physical strength, he would have covered his ears or pushed the intruder away.
"Relax, child. Take a deep, slow breath."
Before the suffocating pressure could reach its absolute peak, a pair of soft, cozy arms wrapped firmly around him. The warmth almost caused Morca to murmur the word 'Mother', but an unfamiliar, crisp scent immediately cut the instinct short.
Slowly, his vision cleared enough to focus on an older lady who seemed to be in her late sixties, her silver-white hair framing a weathered but kind face. Resting on the tiles beside her was a woven basket filled with fresh fruits, and tucked right inside it was a small, pristine white cat staring aggressively down at him.
"Alright, take your time to recover," the old woman said softly, preparing to board. "You seem to have a severe temperature. I highly advise visiting a medical center tomorrow since it's already late, or you can drop by the Greenery Pharmacy in Magoria the moment you disembark. I'm no physician, so I cannot prescribe medication for you."
Resting his back against the side of the train car with a cold can of water handed to him by a station attendant, Morca scanned the surrounding platform. Some commuters cast brief, concerned glances his way; others were merely curious, while the rest simply waited for the path to clear so they could force their way on board.
Fort Winscalsy, serving as the premier central hub for Northelia's surrounding municipalities, housed the corporate headquarters of Evoslon Mainland's most lucrative corporations. The staggering wages drew people from vastly different cultures, ethics, and religious backgrounds to work here. Consequently, it wasn't surprising that many acted with cold indifference toward a collapsed stranger. Some even smirked, openly whispering that the high school student was putting on a staged performance for a viral prank video.
Among the crowd stood a young man dressed in a sharp, formal black suit. A single golden, circular monocle rested perfectly over his left eye, catching the station lights as he calculated the unfolding scene.
'He fainted after a brief ripple of spiritual force swept over him from that beggar across the tracks...' the monocle man analyzed silently, tracking the invisible residual energy. 'Truly, Pathbearers choose the most absurd professions in Evoslon. Even begging is incredibly lucrative for those who awaken Scout traits. This fellow must be a target of their surveillance. As for that elderly lady... she releases a distinct, peaceful aura, but lacks the core traits of a Pathbearer. She must be a member of the Sacred Proclaimer.'
The black-suited young man bent down to grasp the handle of his rectangular leather suitcase, his fingers pausing as a sudden thought clicked.
'Could this boy be connected to the opportunity...? No—no. Magoria..' Dismissing the thought, he lifted the suitcase and stepped smoothly onto the train.
'It seems I blacked out for a second,' Morca thought, his muscles screaming as he struggled to force himself upright. 'I need to thank the elderly lady who helped me... but first, I absolutely cannot miss this transit.'
Seeing him struggle, the old woman extended a free hand, providing steady support.
"Thank you, grandma, for your assistance. I suppose I'm simply not feeling well today," Morca said, offering a slight, respectful bow.
"Take care of yourself, child. Remember the Greenery Pharmacy," she replied gently, stepping into the carriage.
The remaining passengers filed past, and Morca followed in their wake, stepping through the sliding threshold. With a sudden, low hum of the electrical thrusters, the train engine engaged, and the transit smoothly accelerated out of the station.
-----
The moment the final car of Train Number D14MV12 disappeared into the dark depth of the tunnel, an old beggar crouched in the shadows of the adjacent platform. His disheveled gray hair and wild beard tangled together, matching the worn, heavily patched fabrics of his rags.
In every sensory way, he resembled a discarded, homeless dog. Yet, what defined him wasn't his poorly appearance, but his completely unblinking, milky-white eyes—and the thick wooden staff resting against his knee.
The Old White Beggar.
Extending a weathered hand, his fingers gripped a piece of chalk, writing swiftly across the concrete floor:
"Train Number D14MV12, New Watchington, MAGORIA, and Mazeton, will be arriving shortly. All signs appeared, young master gone. Careful with the touch, handle five..."
He scrawled a few more cryptic, looping words before violently wiping the chalk dust away with his palm. Then, with a soft, deliberate blow, the air carried the white dust away.
-----
It was only after the rhythmic hum of the tracks settled that Morca finally let out a long sigh of relief.
Seated close to the glass window, his crimson gaze pierced the exterior gloom, where heavy, dark clouds were rapidly gathering across the horizon.
"It seems a storm is brewing. This might be the final heavy rain before summer break, and I didn't think to bring an umbrella or a raincoat today. The morning forecast explicitly claimed clear clouds. I can only hope it stops before I get home."
With his hometown drawing closer, Morca forced his tense posture to relax, closing his eyes against the flickering tunnel lights.
'Hmm… how fascinating,' an intrusive whisper echoed. 'Even though my awareness remains heavily sealed by"our" parents, that summoning mail somehow bypassed my notice for two whole days. The temporal alignment to awaken as one with him is drawing dangerously close. The Shermans are already deploying force against the son of the lineage head.'
Deep inside his mind, the reflection cast a deep glance at the sleeping Morca, whose physical eyes remained tightly shut.
'The lineage flaws awakening, huh?'
With a final, silent flinch, the reflection settled back into the subconscious grid, perfectly mirroring the exact, resting posture Morca held in reality.
"How incredibly disappointing! With how rapidly technology is advancing lately, science still finds it impossible to develop a reliable device to read the local weather," a passenger seated two rows ahead grumbled, breaking the silence of the carriage.
"I wonder what those self-proclaimed scientists are boasting about on the news and in the newspapers with their recent achievements, when they still can't provide an accurate prediction for a simple commute," another passenger voiced his dissatisfaction, gesturing toward the lightning illuminating the glass.
Before long, the casual complaints triggered a heated, collective discussion throughout the classic unit.
"Well, how can mere mortals predict the absolute trajectory of nature orders?" a soft melody broke through the arguments. "It was recorded in the sacred script long before our modern era: 'Man's way does not belong to himself, nor is it within his power to direct his own steps.' It is entirely natural that their technology fails to foresee the future."
Hearing the voice, Morca's eyes snapped open. He traced the source back toward the center aisle, recognizing the speaker immediately as the silver-haired grandmother who had assisted him on the platform.
'As I deduced... she's one of them,' Morca analyzed, his logical mind filing the details away. 'Judging by her specific script references, her traditional attire, and the kindness she displayed earlier, she fits the profile perfectly. A Sacred Proclaimer.'
He knew of them because a rare few among Evoslon's civilian population often cited the ancient scriptures when debating life's mysteries on public transport. An orthodox, deeply religious organization known across the continents as the Sacred Proclaimers.
Crack-Boom!
The sky outside roared with a deafening peal of thunder as the rain began pouring heavily against the glass.
-----
Seated a leg on top the other at the far end of the carriage aisle near the vestibule, the young man in the formal black suit adjusted his golden, circular monocle. He appeared to be in his mid twenties, calmly reviewing the newspaper held in his hands. The moment thunder shook the chassis, his gaze flickered toward the rain-slicked window.
"Hmm? Pathbearers are pursuing the transit?" He raised an eyebrow, tracking the invisible wake of energy outside. "It's exceedingly rare for a Pathbearer to act so brazenly in public. They are concealing their traits well. What could they possibly be hunting? A high-tier wanted personnel on board?"
He had already erased the earlier incident on the platform from his calculations; a brief fainting spell from an ordinary citizen wasn't worth space in his mind.
"Judging by the sheer velocity of their movement while remaining shrouded, they are far from ordinary. They must be operatives of a powerful family 'Order' to mobilize experts of that caliber." He deduced cautiously, well aware that while few in Evoslon were privy to the existence of extraordinary beings, those who did were never to be trifled with.
"No wonder the storm rolled in so abruptly—there will be a severe disturbance on this train shortly, or somewhere nearby. I need to maintain a absolute low profile; I can't afford to get entangled in their crossfire."
Tearing his gaze away from the glass, he returned his focus to the newspaper, muttering under his breath, "It's best to remain a mere spectator of this show. If they truly hail from an ancient clan order, they might possess sensory arrays capable of detecting my own Pathbearer traits, though I'm not here in-person, but still dwell in the present."
-----
Meanwhile, tearing through the heavy curtain of the downpour above the rushing train, three shifting silhouettes moved at a velocity that defied physics. Their robed, pitch-black outlines barely registered against the storm, perfectly mimicking human shapes.
"The target is locked," one of the shadows reported to his companions, his voice cutting through the wind. "Range: fifty kilometers below the standard sky limit, and one hundred and thirty meters directly away from our current spatial coordinates. He is inside a moving public transport, exactly as the scouts reported."
He held out a grayish nonagon disk. Runes pulsed along its edges, displaying five cold red dots and a single, isolated silver dot. Floating across the artifact's interface were the exact words the Old White Beggar had scrawled in chalk:
"Train Number D14MV12, New Watchington, MAGORIA, and Mazeton, will be arriving shortly. All signs appeared, young master gone. Careful with the touch, handle five..."
Beneath the message, a bold, fresh script glowed with ominous intent:
'TRACK THE TAKER. NEVER ALLOW HIM TO STEP INTO MAGORIA.'
"How many mortals populate the transit? What is their disposition?" a deeper, unsettling voice demanded from beneath the central hood. It carried the raspy, dry texture of an old man, though the unnatural resonance made it clear it was a vocal disguise.
"Including the conductor's cabin, the transit consists of a twelve-car commuter network grouped into four distinct sections: the regular, classic, and business units, alongside the engineering compartment," the shadow with the nonagon disk read from the pulsing runes. "A thousand inside the regular units, five hundred and fifteen occupying the classic cars, and two hundred and fifty-six in the business sections. The engineering cabin is guarded by thirteen armed security officers and five train crew members."
"Rodrin, you know precisely what Sir Emmett Lee is demanding—and it isn't a tedious demographic description," a voice laced with childish irritation interjected. "Just state how many Pathbearers populate the cars, and which unit houses our target."
"Maia, your lack of restraint has been growing increasingly lately, but I will not argue with you while a mission of this magnitude is active," Rodrin snapped.
"Then spit out the numbers before you lose your dumm head," Maia countered smoothly.
"Pff."
Rodrin swallowed his retort, well aware that this wasn't the time for internal friction. He could already feel the suffocating, threatening gaze radiating from the shadow Maia addressed as Sir Emmett Lee. The man had descended directly from the Sherman Clan province to the localized branch he and Maia managed in Fort Winscalsy.
More importantly, Emmett Lee existed on an entirely different evolutionary tier. While none of them two could be classified as ordinary, Emmett was a legendary figure dispatched directly from the Sherman Darkness Lineage Order—a deeply feared entity within the higher echelons of the clan.
Rodrin could only suppress his frustration and report.
"There are five Pathbearers on board. The highest evolutionary rank among them is a Forged Reaper. The target is currently amidst inside the classic car unit."
"Should we simply detonate or wreck the transit to frame it as a catastrophic accident during the state investigation, Sir Emmett Lee?" Maia inquired, her childish tone dripping with an unsettling, casual recklessness.
"You must be utterly insane, Maia Belfort," Rodrin hissed.
"Hmph. Enough, both of you," Sir Emmett Lee warned. His voice dropped to a lower, incredibly creepy register that instantly silenced the pair. "There will be no reckless slaughter. I shouldn't have to remind you of the protocols."
While derailing a mortal transit was child's play to an entity of his caliber, the bureaucratic and spiritual fallout that followed was a variable he didn't sure to manage. He wasn't a psychotic butcher who executed ordinary mortals when the objective was completely within his grasp.
Furthermore, executing a Pathbearer outside a designated boundary was never simple; every awakened practitioner was inevitably tied to an ancient backer or a powerful lineage house. Striking them here on the Northelia country was an invitation for a blood feud to their province.
"According to the summoning countdown, he still has roughly seven minutes remaining—just enough time to reach his doorstep," Rodrin suggested, reviewing his tracking disk. "If we do not execute the capture now, abducting him later under the Lineage Head's personal protection will be nearly impossible. We must strike before the transit enters the metro tunnel leading into Magoria City."
"Even if this target manages to reach the threshold before the countdown hits zero, the directive remains absolute. The mission must not fail," the creepy voice confirmed, cementing Rodrin's fears.
Sir Emmett Lee's gaze drifted toward the dark horizon. 'Don't blame me, Claudius. I am well aware you despise getting involving with the clan's machinations, even after inheriting the Sherman patriarch seat. But with your heir in our hands, the paradigm shifts. If we don't act now I fear the council will make their move sooner... he's more of use to the lineage than the threat to the world.'
Suddenly, a localized telepathic command vibrated inside Maia and Rodin's skulls:
"You know what to do."
'As anticipated, he's initiating the strike ahead of schedule. Hehe, no one can afford the absolute wrath of the Sherman.'
If the shadows hadn't completely obscured her face, one would have noticed a mischievous, bloodthirsty smile tugging at the corners of Maia's tiny pink lips.
-----
Seventeen minutes had already elapsed since Morca had boarded the transit.
Inside the classic car unit, resting on seat number seventy-one, Morca's eyes snapped open, tearing him away from his resting daze.
However, the vision that materialized right before his face caused his heart to violently skip a beat.
Beads of ice-cold sweat instantly erupted across his pale forehead.
The entire train car was completely empty!