A single lantern flickered inside a rundown building, its dim glow barely illuminating the dust-filled air. The wooden walls were rotting, the ceiling sagging in places, but none of that mattered to the men inside. They stood in tense silence, eyes fixed on the figure before them.
At the center of the room, Ferno leaned forward against a rickety wooden table, his hands planted firmly on its surface. The table creaked under the pressure, but he didn't care. His sharp eyes scanned the gathered men, his presence alone enough to keep them standing at attention.
"The job is set," Ferno said, his voice calm but firm. "The train leaves tomorrow night. We already have our people in place."
He dragged a finger across the table's surface, as if tracing the train's path in his mind.
"The cargo we need is three sections behind the engine room. It stays untouched. Our people on the train will make sure nothing interferes. That means no mistakes. If anyone—anyone—tries to get too close, they're dealt with. No warnings."
One of the men nodded before asking, "Should we patrol the whole train?"
Ferno's gaze didn't waver. "No need. Focus on the cargo. The rest of the train doesn't matter—unless someone gives us a reason to make it matter."
His word was final. There would be no further questions.
He straightened and looked at his men. "Once the train starts moving, you all stay sharp. I don't want anyone slacking off. The cargo car will be watched from inside and out. Two men will stand guard inside the cargo section at all times. Four men will patrol the roof. If anything happens, you send a signal immediately."
The men nodded.
Among them, one figure remained silent.
His face was rough, unshaven, his shoulders broad beneath his worn-out cloak. Nothing about him stood out—just another hardened smuggler like the rest. But beneath the false skin of his face lay something else entirely.
A mask. Thin, flawless, and crafted to mimic human flesh with terrifying accuracy.
He was no common smuggler. He was an infiltrator.
Ferno's voice cut through the heavy air once more.
"Once we're moving, stay alert. We don't need unwanted attention."
The men all scattered into the streets.
The unshaven man slipped into the darkest part of the city and entered a small, unlit apartment.
Then—his fingers reached up to his jawline.
A quiet peeling sound filled the room as he grasped the edge of the false skin and lifted it away.
The rough face disappeared.
What remained was something completely different.
Smooth skin. A slender jawline. A pair of piercing, focused eyes.
The disguise was gone.
And beneath it stood not a hardened smuggler—but a woman.
She exhaled slowly, flexing her fingers. Even after years of training, wearing those masks always felt suffocating.
She moved to a table in the room and began writing something on a parchment.
In the late night, the tavern was alive with the usual chaos—clinking mugs, drunken laughter, and the heavy scent of ale and roasted meat. The air was thick with smoke from pipes, curling toward the wooden beams above.
No one noticed when an old man shuffled in, his worn cloak dragging slightly as he walked. His wrinkled hands trembled as he leaned on a simple wooden cane, his hood shadowing his weathered face.
No one cared. Just another forgotten soul among the crowd.
He approached the counter, moving at a pace so natural it drew no attention.
The tavern owner, a burly man with a scarred cheek, barely glanced up. He had seen all kinds in his years running this place.
The old man reached into his pocket and placed a few coins on the counter. Among them was a small parchment, folded neatly.
The owner's thick fingers brushed over it, pausing for only a second before his hand closed around the money. He didn't unfold the parchment.
He reached for a bottle, poured a drink, and pushed it toward the old man.
The hunched figure took it without hesitation.
The train station was filled with the hum of voices and the hiss of steam, the metallic scent of iron thick in the air. The massive steel engine loomed over the platform, its enchanted lights casting a bright, artificial glow across the bustling passengers.
The train itself was a monstrous length of iron and wood, stretching across the tracks like a serpent.
At the rear, the passenger cars were filled with merchants, nobles, and travelers, their conversations blending into the evening air.
Closer to the front, the cargo sections were locked down—Ferno's men already in position, some disguised as workers, others standing guard in plain sight.
Inside the VIP section, a steward knocked on a private cabin door.
"Sir, would you like anything to eat or drink?"
Silence.
Inside the room, a man sat near the window, dressed in a long black coat. A black-and-gold cane rested beside him, its polished surface gleaming under the soft light.
He did not answer immediately.
His fingers tapped idly against the table, his gaze unfocused, as if lost in thought. His mind was already several steps ahead.
Finally, his voice broke the silence—calm, indifferent.
"No need."
The steward hesitated before giving a polite nod and moving on, shutting the door behind him.
The man did not move.
His reflection stared back at him in the window. The light from the lamps revealed only part of his face—
A smooth white mask, unreadable and cold. A single reading spectacle rested on one side, catching the light.
The train surged forward, cutting through the dense Mistwood Pines. The ancient trees, twisted and gnarled, stood like silent sentinels in the night. Thick fog clung to the forest, swirling between the trunks, an unnatural mist that never fully lifted—even under the full moon.
An hour passed.
Above the cargo section, Ferno's men stood guard, some pacing the length of the train, others resting their rifles against their shoulders. The rhythmic clatter of the tracks was the only sound that filled the silence.
Then—
A figure emerged within the fog.
Slow. Silent. Unnatural.
One of the men frowned. "Oi, who's that?"
Another squinted through the mist. "One of ours?"
The figure did not answer.
The moonlight shifted, illuminating him.
A long black coat. A black wide-brimmed hat casting a deep shadow over his face. A white mask— pristine and unreadable, with only two eye holes, yet nothing could be seen behind them. No mouth, no expression.
In his gloved hand—a black-and-gold cane, its surface reflecting the moonlight.
A cold chill ran through the men.
One of them instinctively stepped back. "No way…"
Another swallowed hard. "That's…"
The third man's voice came in a whisper, laced with fear.
"…Merlin."
They were all terrified.