Chapter 65: The Train
This novel is translated and hosted on bcatranslation
The subway station during morning rush hour always felt like a test of one’s patience. Crowds pressed in from every side, and it was so packed that anyone forced to join them might begin to question their life choices. It seemed as if everyone in Boundary City had chosen this exact train at this exact moment. If there had been any other way, Song Cheng would have gladly avoided traveling at this hour. But he had no choice. The “Train” he needed only appeared regularly during the second run of rush hour. At other times, there were rumors of it, but none you could trust.
Song Cheng had a strong, solid build, and as he pushed into the tightly crowded subway car, he could feel the train start to move. It picked up speed as it left the station, and he swayed slightly along with its motion. All around him, people were packed together so closely that there wasn’t a hair’s breadth of free space. Office workers in crisp suits and tired faces crushed in from every side. The warm, mingled scents of perfume, sweat, and old coffee formed a thick cloud. It was the kind of heavy, combined odor that developed when too many people stood shoulder-to-shoulder in an enclosed space.
It felt as if he were inside an iron cage stuffed with human bodies, speeding through a tunnel of concrete and darkness beneath the city streets. The train’s electric lights chased away the blackness just outside the windows, but somewhere beyond the tunnel walls lay the real underground world—vast, silent, and untouched by these man-made machines. It was a realm of quiet soil and damp shadows, a place that never felt quite right, always pressing in silently.
Song Cheng closed his eyes for a moment, imagining this train as a sort of blind, clumsy worm crawling beneath the earth. He pictured heavy dirt pressing in all around, damp and rotting, as if the world above had no idea what lay below. It was an unsettling thought, but one he kept replaying in his mind, perhaps to keep his focus.
With his eyes still shut, he began to gently force his way through the crowd. It was not easy—everyone was cramped and trying to preserve their tiny bit of space. Yet somehow, people stepped aside without really noticing they were doing it. Bit by bit, Song Cheng moved from the center of the car toward the back. When he finally reached the far end, he opened his eyes and glanced at the door in front of him.
A small sign on the door indicated that he was at the boundary of Car Two. Beyond that door lay Car Three. The noise of the crowd behind him started to fade. The endless chatter, coughs, and shuffling feet seemed to drift away, as though a thick wall had risen between him and the other passengers.
Song Cheng did not turn around. Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a narrow strip of oiled parchment. He placed it in his mouth and chewed slowly. The taste was sharp and bitter, waking him up as though he had just bitten into a piece of raw ginger. Feeling that sour tang spread through his senses, he pushed open the door and stepped through.
He entered a car that was completely empty.
Only a moment ago, he had been trapped in a suffocating crowd of morning commuters. Now, he found himself alone. The seats were slightly worn, and on them lay a few old newspapers. Song Cheng glanced at the dates on their front pages. The date printed there was for tomorrow, not today.
He turned and looked back at the door he had just passed through. Instead of saying Car Two, as it had a moment before, it now bore a sign reading “Car Sixteen.”
The bitter taste was growing stronger in his mouth. Song Cheng turned again and strode forward, heading through the next set of doors, leaving Car Sixteen behind him.
The next carriage he entered looked rusty, and the windows were so grimy he could barely see out. Dim lights flickered by now and then, but these glows did not resemble the normal subway tunnel lights. They looked more like strange, watchful eyes peering out from some unknown place deep underground, observing the steel worm of the train from a distance.
This was Car Twelve.
Song Cheng pressed on, moving through car after car. He carefully noted the number on each door. With every step forward, the carriages grew stranger. He passed one filled with plastic mannequins arranged on the seats like silent passengers. Another car was covered in mushrooms—fat, twisting fungi sprouted from the floors, the walls, even the handrails. In one carriage, there were no walls or ceiling at all, just a metal floor racing through shifting soil, as if the train’s belly had been laid bare.
The numbers on the cars had no pattern. They jumped about randomly: Sixteen, Twelve, Five, One… nothing made sense. Everything felt dreamlike and unreal.
All of a sudden, the next carriage was lit by warm candlelight, completely unlike a subway car. Song Cheng stepped inside and found himself in what appeared to be a large wooden wagon, softly illuminated by flickering flames. On either side sat a group of elegantly dressed women, their clothing old-fashioned and extravagant. They chatted brightly, their voices musical, and every so often they laughed, the sound as crisp as silver bells. Outside the windows drifted a thin mist, and now and then a strange city streetlight would glow softly through the fog, hinting at unknown roads beyond.
One of the women noticed Song Cheng’s entrance and stood up, startled. She came over, asking him what he wanted. Her voice was polite but clearly surprised to see a stranger appear so suddenly.
Song Cheng paid her no mind. Instead, he glanced at the sign on the carriage door: “Car One.”
Without a word, he turned and walked back the way he had come.
He stepped through the doorway and found himself in what looked like a perfectly ordinary subway car again. This carriage was well-lit, clean, and calm. The seats were arranged in neat rows, just like the trains people knew in the normal world.
Only one passenger was here, sitting quietly near a window. The person held a newspaper spread wide, the pages hiding their face. No one else was present.
Song Cheng paused and checked the sign behind him. It said “Car Five.” Satisfied, he let out a small breath, then moved down the aisle toward the lone passenger.
The figure wore a black coat. On the floor beside them was a black briefcase, and hanging from the railing overhead was a black umbrella. All these items—coat, case, umbrella—had a strange, rubbery texture. They didn’t look like cloth or leather, more like something artificial and unnatural.
Song Cheng sat down beside the passenger and gently tapped the newspaper. The passenger lowered it slowly.
The face that appeared was smooth and shiny, like polished rubber. The man’s features were stiff and gaunt, and he wore an old-fashioned black hat that seemed to belong to another time. Even so, he nodded politely and spoke in a shaky voice, “Hello,” he said. “What would you like to talk about today?”
This was “Passenger Five,” a known entity on this Otherworld Train. According to all that Song Cheng knew, Passenger Five usually stayed in Car Five. He was intelligent, able to hold a conversation, and at times even helpful. Sometimes he guided travelers who were lost, although under certain conditions he could turn dangerous.
But at the moment, he seemed friendly enough.
Song Cheng tried to sound casual. “Have you heard of Wutong Road Number Five?” he asked. “There’s a person named Yu Sheng living there.”
Passenger Five shook his head slowly. “This train does not have such a stop.”
Song Cheng’s face grew serious. Passenger Five knew much about places along the route or even far beyond. If the train’s magic touched some distant land, Passenger Five could often confirm its existence or at least give some hint. To have him say “the train does not have such a stop” meant no information at all. That was rare. Only a handful of times had the records shown him giving such a blank response.
After a moment, Song Cheng tried again. “What about Yu Sheng? Have you come across that name in your travels?”
Passenger Five tilted his rubbery head thoughtfully. “If it’s a person you’re interested in, you should speak with the ‘Storyteller.’ He knows many things about people. He sits in the park, telling tales to the children. Would you like directions? I can tell you when the ‘park’ will be available.”
Song Cheng shook his head. “No need, I know where the park is.” Time was slipping by, and the sharp flavor of the oil in his mouth was fading. He had to hurry. “Any news about Night Valley lately?” he asked quickly.
“Night Valley…” Passenger Five’s voice wavered as if sorting through distant memories. “A traveler left from there not too long ago. But I’m afraid I don’t know the details,” he said slowly. “If you want more information about what happened afterward, I can’t help.”
“Why not?” Song Cheng pressed.
“Because that stop has been canceled,” Passenger Five replied. He lowered the newspaper onto his lap. The calmness of that rubbery face was unsettling.
Song Cheng’s eyes went wide. That answer was new. He had never heard Passenger Five say anything about a canceled stop. There were records of “no such stop,” but never “canceled.”
“Why was it canceled?” he blurted out, leaning in.
Passenger Five just shrugged, a movement that looked oddly normal with such an unnatural face. “Who knows?” he said simply. “I can only speak about what the train still passes through. What happens beyond that… I cannot say.”
Song Cheng fell silent. The bitterness in his mouth was almost gone now. Distantly, he could hear the familiar noise of many people talking and shuffling. The crowded subway world was drifting back into his senses. He still had questions, but something else caught his eye—Passenger Five’s newspaper.
Unlike Passenger Five’s rubbery belongings, the newspaper looked completely ordinary, a real newspaper. On its front page was a black-and-white illustration. In an era where every cheap magazine used bright colors, this monochrome picture seemed old and strange. It was blurry and hard to understand, as if the artist had tried to draw something impossible. It showed a barren valley, with a huge, floating eye drifting away above it.
The headline under the picture read: “After the Feast.”
Before Song Cheng could ask anything more, Passenger Five spoke again, breaking into his thoughts. “We’re about to arrive,” he said calmly.
Song Cheng looked up. Passenger Five was watching him closely, reaching for the black umbrella on the railing. As the entity stood up, he asked in an almost casual way, “What’s the weather like today?”
Song Cheng focused, looking carefully at the umbrella and the briefcase. He noticed a faint trace of moisture, as if the briefcase had been touched by invisible rain. Without hesitating, he answered, “It’s cloudy… but the rain has started falling. You made the right choice bringing an umbrella.”
Passenger Five smiled, or at least his face moved in a way that suggested a smile. The rubbery surface creaked softly. “Indeed,” he said, “Have a pleasant journey. Take care as you disembark.”
“Safe travels,” Song Cheng replied, forcing a calm smile.
All at once, the noise of the real subway swelled around him again. The warmth of tightly packed bodies replaced the chill of the strange train cars. He felt the gentle sway of the ordinary subway as it slowed, preparing to stop at the next station.
When Song Cheng looked around this time, he was back in the crowded rush-hour train, squeezed in among tired office workers and their many smells.