It was day four of the train journey. Only one day remained until they reached their destination. A lot had happened in that time. Simon had slept through an entire afternoon, and the three of them, including Ellen, had played card games. Eventually, other passengers, intrigued by the game, joined in, and at one point, seven of them were playing together. When the train stopped at a station, they would get out to stretch and buy various foods. The meals provided on the Divine Train were decent, but they were growing tired of them. At the stations, they could buy much tastier and more generous boxed lunches, and there was a unique pleasure in trying the different local specialties at each stop. It was a taste of travel that could only be experienced in the Holy Federation. Wanting to enjoy the train culture a bit more, Simon even went to the third-class cabin and mingled with the travelers there. Their cultures might be different, but they were all good people. With his natural, amiable personality, Simon quickly befriended everyone. Soon, whenever he passed by, the older men would offer him rum, insisting he have a drink. He’d even returned to his compartment tipsy once and collapsed onto the desk, earning a pitying pat on the back from Lethe. And then there was Heretic Inquisitor Metin. Even after being dragged away and beaten by Lethe, he didn’t give up and relentlessly interrogated Simon. Each time, Lethe would glare at him as if she wanted to kill him, but he didn’t seem to care in the slightest. This only put the senior inquisitors caught in the middle in an awkward position. Eventually, they started cutting off Metin’s interrogations and dragging him away themselves. While Lethe’s anger was certainly frightening, the truth was that Simon’s reputation as a devout and polite young man had improved considerably among the inquisitors. No one was on Metin’s side anymore. "Hey, hey! Lighten up, rookie." As he was being dragged away by his seniors after asking a mere two questions, an inquisitor named Odel slung an arm around Metin’s neck and spoke cheerfully. "Even if that kid really is a necromancer, don’t you think you have to give him credit at this point? It’s hard to find someone that devout even in the Federation."
Metin stared blankly at the senior inquisitor, saying nothing. A fourth-year Heretic Inquisitor, Odel was the team’s mood-maker. "Odel," Metin began. "Hm?"
"You seem to know a lot about necromancers."
Though the remark was sarcastic, Odel let out a hearty laugh. "Oh, of course! My job is to hunt those things down!"
"Necromancers are a hideous bunch who defile the dead, feel sexual desire for corpses, and commit acts of terror for fun," Metin recited grimly. Odel lightly grabbed the crown of Metin’s head and ruffled his hair vigorously. "Ugh, that hurts!" Metin yelped.
"Well, I can’t say I understand the tastes of those bastards," Odel mused, his tone that of a weary veteran. "The ones who commit terror attacks and other atrocities are extremists. To put it simply, it’s only a certain kind of person who does that sort of thing. Do you really believe that sincere, kind friend of yours is capable of such evil? Or is your only reason for thinking so the fact that he’s a necromancer?"
Metin’s resolve wavered for a moment, and he bit his lip hard to steady himself.
"Whether they do evil or not, necromancers cannot be forgiven for their very existence."
Odel chuckled softly. "Right, right. Why am I even trying to reason with a devout young man like you? The point is, you need to be more flexible."
They had arrived at the Inquisitors’ lounge at the front of the train. Standing before the door, Odel clapped Metin on the shoulder.
"There are plenty of ordinary people who dislike the Goddess, you know. Their lives are wretched, and no matter how much they pray, not a single crumb of bread falls from the sky. Meanwhile, the monasteries are always collecting taxes, be it the church tithe or the Twelve Articles. If we locked up everyone who complained about the Goddess as a heretic, there’d be no one left to farm, and the entire Federation would wither and die."
"Hmm..."
"Alright, alright, that’s enough lecturing from me. Let’s go in."
The two opened the door and entered the lounge, where five men, including their captain, Baccarat, were roaring with laughter.
"Oh, look who it is! Did your friend get your ass handed to you again today, rookie?" one of them jeered.
"Look at that long face! He totally did!"
"Hahahaha!"
Metin ignored their taunts and slumped into a seat at the far end of the room.
"That’s enough," Baccarat said, silencing his men. "Good work, Odel, Metin."
"Yes, Captain!" Odel replied with a grin.
Metin merely clasped his hands and gave a curt nod. A few of the senior inquisitors started to comment on his attitude, but Baccarat waved them off again.
’What do these guys know, anyway? They just have it easy on the Divine Train,’ Metin fumed internally. He couldn’t stand the inquisitors here. Back on the front lines, he and his original comrades had been stationed in the heart of the conflict zones—places steeped in the Dark Alliance’s propaganda, crawling with necromancer sympathizers and heretics. There, you had to interrogate anyone suspicious without a second thought, making an example of them to establish order. If you didn’t, you’d be the one getting killed. But these inquisitors, assigned to a peaceful route in the rear, were all hopelessly indecisive. From their good-natured captain to Odel, who actually defended a necromancer, he found them all pathetic.
"Alright, everyone," Odel announced, standing and clapping his hands to liven things up. "We’re done for the day, and we let the Holy Feast Day pass us by yesterday! We should at least have a small drink to celebrate!"
It was a custom of the Deva faith to drink red wine from the monasteries and pray to the Goddess on the Holy Feast Day. As he spoke, Odel produced a bottle of fine wine from his bag.
"This one’s from the Vanyard Monastery! A seventeen-year vintage."
"Whoa! Isn’t that an expensive brand?"
"Nice! We’re priests, after all. We have to celebrate the Holy Feast Day."
The atmosphere turned boisterous as Odel poured a glass for each of them. Metin tried to refuse, but the insistent gazes of his seniors left him little choice but to accept.
"Where’s Sara?" Baccarat asked, referring to the sole female inquisitor on their team.
"Same as always," someone answered. "Probably asleep in the women’s cabin. You know she can’t touch alcohol."
"Then let’s just have a quick one among ourselves and call it a night."
It was settled. Odel, the provider of the wine, raised his glass. "A prayer of thanks for the grace of the great Goddess! Laus!"
Everyone closed their eyes and listened before echoing the toast.
"Laus!"
They all brought their glasses to their lips. Exclamations of admiration erupted from around the room.
"Ooh, that’s delicious!"
"This is good. But... my throat feels like it’s burning a little."
By the time they realized something was wrong, it was too late.
"...Huh?"
The inquisitors looked down to see something bright red protruding from their chests. The very walls of the train had turned the color of living flesh, and from them, razor-sharp spikes had erupted. The moment they’d swallowed the wine, their bodies had gone rigid, leaving them unable to dodge or raise a barrier.
Standing alone, the imposter Odel smirked and let the wine glass slip from his fingers. The wine spilled across the floor, staining it as red as blood.
"You...!" Baccarat’s pupils trembled. "You’re not Odel...!"
At a gesture from the man, countless more spikes shot from the walls, riddling Baccarat’s body.
"You’re the trickiest one here, so I had to make sure you were dead," he said, then turned his head. "But how did you notice, rookie?"
While all five heretic inquisitors had met their end, one remained, half-standing and gripping a spike that had pierced his side.
"On you, the scents of Divinity and Jet-Black are faint," Metin rasped, his nostrils flaring. "All I smell is blood. A sickeningly strong smell of blood that masks everything else. It’s a stench I’ve only encountered on history’s most prolific murderers, but for someone like that, you acted far too normally."
"Hmm, so that nonsense about your sense of smell wasn’t just bullshit after all?" the man mused. Metin had, in fact, tried to warn the others that Odel smelled suspicious, but after the incident with Simon, no one had trusted his judgment.
"Metin, Heretic Inquisitor of the Eastern Front," he declared, spreading his arms.
’Vwoooom!’
A Subspace tore open, and torture instruments fell to the floor or equipped themselves onto his body. Metin settled into a combat stance.
"The heretic inquisition will now begin. Reveal your true identity."
"A fitting final gift," the man replied.
A foul energy erupted from him, tearing his shirt to shreds. His bare torso was covered in swirling red patterns. "My name is Aloken."
He reached up and tore the living flesh from his face, revealing the features of a middle-aged man with long, slanted eyes.
"And I am a bishop of the Blood Heaven Cult."
The fight didn’t last two minutes.
Drenched in his own blood, Metin collapsed against a wall.
"Weak," Aloken sneered. He hadn’t even been an obstacle. Baring his teeth in a cruel smile, Aloken walked on. Beyond the lounge lay the crew’s quarters, and after that, the engine room.
He crossed into the next car and threw open the door. The crew, in the middle of preparing a meal, froze in shock. Aloken simply raised his arm.
As if struck by an unseen force, several crew members collapsed, their bodies instantly covered in blood.
"Aaaaaaah!"
"Silence," Aloken commanded, his voice chilling them to the bone. The survivors clamped their hands over their mouths, trembling. He waved a hand, and nooses woven from blood flew out, tightening around their necks.
Gripping the nooses, Aloken marched toward the engine room, dragging the choking crew members behind him. The heavy iron door was shut tight, but when he placed his palm against it, it exploded inward in a shower of fresh blood.
Gasping, the chief engineer scrambled back from his seat in terror.
Aloken surveyed the room. In the center was an incredibly complex, permanent divine magic circle, with a cluster of pipes feeding it Divinity.
"From this moment, the entire train is a sacrifice to the Blood Heaven Cult," he announced. "The inquisitors are all dead. Resistance is futile."
At his words, the chief engineer’s face went deathly pale. The Blood Heaven Cult! The same crazed heretics responsible for the recent mass slaughters?
"Turn the train around," Aloken ordered, dropping a map at the trembling man’s feet. "Reduce speed and proceed to point C."
The engineer looked down and saw a point marked with a single red ‘C’. "Th-This is a ruined track! It’s no longer in use! If we take the train that way...!"
"We have already restored it," Aloken cut in coldly. "Now, do as you’re told."
The chief engineer swallowed hard. "You’re asking me to put the passengers in danger? I could never—"
Before he could finish, Aloken flicked his hand back. One of the captured crew members collapsed with a sickening thud.
"Aaaaaaaah!" A piercing scream shook the engine room.
"I’ll kill one every time you waste my time."
Blood burst from a second crew member as their body went limp. "After them, I’ll bring the passengers from their cabins and slaughter every last one of them right in front of you."
A third crew member’s body burst.
The chief engineer was shaking uncontrollably. Aloken extended his arm toward the last surviving crew member.
"Please! Chief Engineer! Please, save me!" the man pleaded, his voice choked with tears.
The chief engineer’s own tears streamed down his face. He knew this murderer was serious. He knew, with chilling certainty, that Aloken would kill every passenger on this train without a second thought.
"...I’ll do it."
Finally, the engineer sat down and activated the divine magic circle. A short while later, Aloken watched with a satisfied smile as the slowed Divine Train successfully switched to the track for section C.
"Excellent."
The chief engineer and the last crew member collapsed, their bodies erupting in blood. Nothing could stop him now. He laughed, a loud, triumphant sound, and took out a communication crystal.
"It’s going as planned. Begin."
"Everything’s going according to plan," Lethe said cheerfully, her mood lifted by the cream cake she’d had for dessert. "We’ll be there soon. We just get off at the station, head straight up, and we’ll find the Tree of Life. We can finally save Ms. Anna."
Lethe paused, looking at Simon. "What’s with that serious face?"
"...Don’t you smell that?"
Lethe shrugged. "Did you catch whatever that Metin guy has? What smell?"
"Blood."
At that, Lethe’s expression hardened. Simon rose from his seat.
"A piercing, overwhelming smell of blood."

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