Chapter 65: The Train

The subway station at rush hour was always so crowded that one might question their will to live. The state of the carriage, packed tightly with people, almost gave the illusion that the entire Boundary City was squeezing onto the train. If given the choice, Song Cheng would never take the subway at this hour.

But there was no other way. The ‘Train’ only manifested stably during the second rush hour train. While there were sightings at other times, they were unreliable and uncontrollable.

Stout and imposing, Song Cheng forced his way through the throng, feeling the swaying motion of the accelerating train as it left the station. His gaze swept over the mass of office workers heading to their companies, and the mingled scent of sweat and perfume filled every gap between bodies.

This steel cage, crammed with compressed flesh, burrowed through the darkness underground, like a grotesque and blind worm crawling through the concrete-lined tunnels from one place to another. The artificial light within drove away the gloom inside the ‘pipe,’ but beyond the reinforced walls lay the true essence of the underground world—darkness and the unknown.

Song Cheng closed his eyes, his thoughts swirling with these unsettling images. He imagined the steel worm crawling through suffocating soil, cold and reeking of decay, and a sense of asphyxiation pressing down on him.

With his eyes still shut, he pushed his way through the crowd—surprisingly, people unconsciously made way for him. Unhurriedly, he moved to the back of the second carriage and finally opened his eyes. A sign marked it as the rear end of Carriage 2, with Carriage 3 ahead.

Behind him, the cacophony of human voices faded into a muffled drone, as if separated by a thick, invisible wall. Song Cheng did not turn back. Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of parchment soaked in ointment, placing it in his mouth and chewing slowly. The sharp, pungent taste surged through his mind like a cold fire, invigorating his senses as he moved forward.

Passing through the door of Carriage 2, he entered a new section—empty, desolate, with worn seats scattered with yesterday’s newspapers… except the dates on the papers were for tomorrow.

Turning back, he saw the automatic door marked with ‘Carriage 16.’ The biting taste from the parchment continued to spread as he moved forward. Pushing through the rusty door to the next carriage, he found it filthy and aged. Murky windows framed fleeting glimmers of light, not from tunnel illumination but from eyes—dozens of grotesque eyes peering through the mud, observing the steel worm’s relentless march.

This was Carriage 12. Moving onward, Song Cheng counted the carriage numbers, noticing they were scattered without any sequence—numbers from 1 to 21 appearing randomly. Some carriages were filled with mannequins, others overgrown with mushrooms, and one had no roof or walls—just a bare floor speeding through the writhing earth.

Suddenly, warm candlelight caught his eye. The next carriage was entirely different—a spacious wooden coach, more like a noble’s grand carriage than a subway car. Luxuriously dressed madams sat on plush seats, their laughter melodic as they gossiped. Outside, wisps of mist drifted past, with distant street lamps illuminating the misty streets of some unfamiliar city.

One of the resplendent madams noticed him, rising in surprise to question his presence, but Song Cheng ignored her. Instead, he glanced at the door number—Carriage 23—and turned back the way he came.

At last, he arrived at a ‘normal’ carriage—bright, clean, and orderly, just like any typical subway car, but with one sole passenger seated by the window, face hidden behind a newspaper. After confirming the door number—Carriage 22—Song Cheng exhaled and approached.

The passenger wore a pitch-black coat, with a matching briefcase at his feet and an umbrella hanging from the rail. Everything about him—coat, suitcase, umbrella—carried a strange, rubbery texture. Song Cheng sat beside him, lightly tapping the newspaper.

Finally, the passenger lowered the paper and looked up at Song Cheng.

A smooth and faintly reflective face—resembling rubber—greeted him. It was the face of a gaunt middle-aged man, topped with a stiff, old-fashioned black bowler hat, looking entirely out of place in the modern world.

“Hello,” the bizarre passenger nodded at Song Cheng, his voice trembling and out of tune, yet polite in demeanor. “What would you like to talk about today?”

This was Entity No. 22, a passenger who would manifest within the Otherworld Train and usually remained in Carriage No. 22. He possessed sanity, could communicate, and would occasionally help outsiders escape the Otherworld. However, under specific conditions, he could display aggression.

Today, he was friendly.

“Have you heard of an address—Wutong Road No. 66?” Song Cheng asked as casually as one would when speaking to an ordinary person. “There’s someone named Yu Sheng living there.”

The rubbery “passenger” shook his head. “The train doesn’t stop at that station.”

Song Cheng’s expression turned grave.

Entity No. 22 was known for his vast knowledge of locations related to the Otherworld. Unless it was an exceptionally bizarre or obscure place, as long as the question was clear, he could provide information on nearly any Otherworld location, even those millions of light-years away. At the very least, he would confirm whether a particular Otherworld existed and whether it lay within the Borderland.

But now he claimed, “The train doesn’t stop at that station.”

In truth, the train indeed had no fixed destination. However, when Entity No. 22 said, “The train doesn’t stop at that station,” it meant he had no information about the place. Since the Special Affairs Bureau documented Entity No. 22, responses like this had been recorded fewer than five times.

After a moment of silence, Song Cheng asked again, “What about Yu Sheng? Have you heard that name during your travels?”

“If it’s information related to people, you might want to consult the Storyteller. He knows many stories about people—he’s in the Park, telling stories to the Cursed Children. Do you need directions? I can tell you when the Park will appear.”

“Thanks, but I know where the Park is,” Song Cheng replied, shaking his head. He could feel the Sanity Ointment’s effect fading, so he hurriedly asked his next question, “Any news about Night Valley lately?”

“Night Valley… Ah, a traveler left from there, but I’m not clear on the details,” Entity No. 22 said unhurriedly. “If you’re looking for what happened afterward, I’m afraid I can’t help.”

“Why not?”

“Because that station has been canceled.”

Entity No. 22 set the newspaper down on his lap, his rubber-textured face perfectly calm.

Song Cheng’s eyes widened as he sat in stunned silence.

That answer had never been recorded before!

“The train doesn’t stop at that station” had at least appeared in the archives, but “that station has been canceled”—he was sure it was a first.

“Why was it canceled?!” he blurted out, urgency flashing in his eyes.

“Who knows?” Entity No. 22 shrugged with surprising humanity. “I only know about what happens along the train line. Anything beyond that… I have no idea.”

Song Cheng blinked, feeling the Sanity Ointment’s efficacy weakening further as vague human voices started echoing around him. He still had questions, but just then, he caught a glimpse of the newspaper on Entity No. 22’s lap out of the corner of his eye.

It was the only thing on the Entity that didn’t feel rubbery—a real newspaper. The front page bore a large black-and-white illustration—a stark contrast to the modern era where even the cheapest tabloids used full-color printing. The image looked abstract, twisted, and blurry, more like a crude sketch from an unreliable storyteller than an actual photograph.

The illustration depicted a desolate Valley, with a massive eye floating above it, drifting away.

Beneath the illustration was the headline:
“After the Feast.”

“We’re almost at the station.” The voice of Entity No. 22 abruptly broke Song Cheng’s trance.

Song Cheng raised his head, noticing Entity No. 22 staring intently at him while reaching for an umbrella hanging on the railing. As he stood, he asked in an offhanded manner, “What’s the weather like now?”

Song Cheng quickly gathered his thoughts, observing the Entity with heightened focus. Entity No. 22 had brought an umbrella today, but it was dry.

“It’s cloudy today…” Song Cheng began.

But just then, he noticed a faint trace of water on the Entity’s suitcase, as if invisible rain had just touched it.

“But the rain has already started to fall,” Song Cheng promptly added. “Bringing an umbrella was the right choice.”

“Indeed.” Entity No. 22 smiled—a sound like rubber stretching and tearing accompanied the motion. “Safe travels. Be careful when you disembark.”

“Safe travels.” Song Cheng let out a breath, smiling as he nodded in return.

The chaotic noise surged from all directions, and the warm press of bodies filled the cramped subway car. The bulky frame of Song Cheng was jostled in the crowd, feeling the train’s slow deceleration as it approached the station.

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