[GK]Moby Dick

[plotdog]

NOTES: some doggie is plotting again...
the fic idea came when i found in the comic Ogata said something like if he lost in the duel he would also chase Vasily to the end of the world. i grew up reading jack london and other early twentieth century tough guy in nature literature theres no way now i stuck in the GK for a while [hehe] and not cash it out. so anyway, this fic might drag on for a while.

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Day had risen warm and bright, exceedingly warm and bright.

As the summer solstice approached, the sky stretched clear and endless over Lake Baikal, its surface shimmering in the sunlight. The lake was an intense blue that seemed plucked from a kingfisher's feather, yet no number of these birds was enough to replenish the deepest freshwater on earth. Here, the heavens poured out their pigments with such reckless prodigality that would've wrung envy from any starving painter.

Even the air hummed with life—birds darted low over the waves, their wings skimming the surface, while the larches adorned the shore with a verdant tapestry. For a moment, the world seemed suspended in perfection, disrupted only by the distant rumble and whistle of the Trans-Siberian train, carrying its travelers from the farthest reaches of the East to the western end of the vast land.

Vasily sat by the window, his gaze drifting over the vibrant landscape outside, though remained indifferent to its charm. His eyes were fixed on something far beyond. The rhythmic clatter of the train lulled him, almost pulling him back to one winter night in particular.

At the onset of a summer's day, he felt cold.

Above him, the silver birches clawed at the sky, their black knots gaping like ghouls' eyes. The night offered little light, save for the faint shimmer reflected from the snow's surface. He lay prone, the weight of his body driving him deeper into the snow. His Mosin-Nagant felt heavier than usual, as the cold bit through his leather gloves, adding to the weariness from the hours spent clutching it, waiting.

Dawn's first light seeped through the trees, glinting off the trail of footprints in the snow. The attempt to disguise didn't escape him. Rising to his height, he began emptying his gun into the distant casket.

The first shot was just the beginning. Vasily kept firing, ensuring at least one round would find its mark no matter how his target curled up inside.

One through the skull, to brand his memory with failure; one through the heart, to leave lingering dread, even in his death; another through the lungs, so his final breaths would taste of the spent of his conqueror.

And there's one last in his clip. He stopped. He hadn't decided where it should land.

Just as he was about to pick up a favorite spot, something flickered at the edge of his vision—the shadow beside the stump, had remained motionless throughout the night and could only have been taken as a scarecrow, began to rise slowly to its feet.

It's hard to tell from the pallor that whether it was of a natural being.

There's a gleam in those eyes, though, something like smugness played across cracked, gray lips, too pleased to make a complete fool of Vasily. Those lips tremble, as did the hands, now lifting a rifle toward his opponent.

The moment of hesitation offered him with one final opportunity. Vasily whirled around. He didn't have a second to spare.

Both triggers pulled as one.

The bullets needed less than a second to find their marks. Both fired with lethal intent, both would end with heads pierced, bodies crumpling into snow, spreading crimson stains.

Not a bad end, Vasily thought in his final moment. To collide in destruction with the other man who'd earned his place at the death row alongside.

Except—

The bullets found each other midflight.

A blinding spark erupted as the Mosin-Nagant's steel-jacketed core slammed into the softer lead. The impact released a burst of light as molten metal splattered into a million fragments of orange glows, releasing a crackling hiss as they vaporized into the air. The debris rained down, searing blackened pinholes into the snowfield.

But the collision was not the end. The remains of the Mosin bullet, though dented and misshapen, kept surging forward, leaving a smoldering trail of superheated air.

Vasily locked gazes with those eyes, darker than the deep. The twin voids stared unblinking as the glittering shard raced toward them. The fire danced across their glassy surfaces like the last flicker of a dying star, before being devoured whole by that infinite abyss.

The shard didn't so much punch through its target, instead, slowly, cruelly, pressed itself into the flesh.

When metal met living tissue, the lingering push was enough. The man swayed, collapsed, his body tumbling and rolling down the slope.

Behind him, a trail of crimson was spread across the snow.

The body jerked weakly, but by the time Vasily walked over and looked down, all movement had ceased. Only the stark white of the cloak remained, a sharp contrast against the black leather of Vasily's boots.

Blood trickled from the empty eye socket, winding its way down the Easterner's face. Reaching down, Vasily tried to wipe it away, but only smeared the blood further, staining his glove. Frustrated, he drew his knife and cut a strip of cloth from the cloak as a makeshift rag. Before decay could claim it entirely, he wanted one last clear glimpse of this face.

As he wiped the tip of the nose, the cloth fluttered ever so slightly. Vasily bent closer, pressing his ear to the man's face, and listened. A faint, ragged breath. Weak, barely audible. It wouldn't be long now, Vasily understood. The snowfield stretched endlessly around them, and the bullet was already buried deep in the brain.

He straightened, his gaze locked on the dying man's face, etching every detail into memory: the disheveled jet black hair framed the angular face; the symmetrical scars on both sides of his jaw; the soft, almost delicate curves of his nose and lips. Then, methodically, Vasily rolled up the bloodied cloth and tucked it into the pocket over his heart.

Death was near. He had already decided for his prey.

Farewell, Vasily thought. He would walk away, missing this, and live on in a world that he was bored with no competition.

But just as he turned—

A skeletal hand clamped around his ankle. Thick with the scent of grave soil, a cold breath hissed menacingly against his ear.

"This is just our first stop."

The inhuman sound rumbled deep straight into the bones. Vasily's breath hitched. Every hair on his body stood rigid as the presence leaned into him, pressing its chest against his back with grotesque familiarity. Its fingers dug into his shoulders, but he couldn't move. Couldn't fight back or scream. Some primal part of his brain registered this—at the closeness of its predator, a prey could be paralyzed.

But the reasonable part reminded him as well. None of this made sense. He recollected that he should never have been privy to the man's voice in life.

"Get the hell away from me!" Vasily grabbed its wrist and yanked with all his strength. He refused to be haunted—not by ghosts, not by memories or anything.

The shout tore through the air, and through his own nightmare. His eyes flew open.

The train car's dim light stung his vision. Around him, passengers stared, some alarmed, others annoyed. A woman clutched her children closer.

Beneath his white-knuckled grip was not a specter's bone-thin arm, but the wrist of a weary traveler, who winced as Vasily's nails dug into his skin. "Easy, friend," the man frowned, pulling free. "You were twitching. I only meant to wake you."

"Sorry." Vasily scrubbed a hand down his face, catching the cold sweat at his temple. His nose wrinkled—the train's stale air mixed dust with the aftertaste of adrenaline. "Bad dream."

The traveler's gaze lingered, not on Vasily's face, but on the faded military jacket slung over his seat. When the man spoke, his voice carried a tint of sympathy. "The war, isn't it?"

Vasily's jaw tightened. There's no deny that the duel at the border was nothing more than an extension of the war. He gave a single nod.

"I understand, lad." The man patted him on the back, disregarding Vasily's reluctance to be touched. "Anyway, as I was saying, we're getting close to Irkutsk. It's the first stop where you really feel like you're back in Russia. We'll have a few hours there, so stretch your legs, walk around the station, maybe even see the city—but don't lose track of time."

Stepping onto the stable platform, Vasily felt a bit dizzy. After several days on the train, he had grown accustomed to the jostling, much like a sailor who has been at sea for too long and finally sets foot on land. He held onto his thighs to steady himself, while lifting his eyes to survey the bustling Irkutsk station.

The air was filled with the thick smells: bitter tea from hissing samovars, burning of cheap tobacco ends, and the salty dried Omul fish hanging in braids from vendor stalls. Around the platform, voices in Russian and Siberian dialects rose and fell between travelers who made their brief stop at the station to barter, bargain, and break their fast.

It was almost noon. Pushcart vendors elbowed through the crowd shouting about their goods, mostly food. Roasted grouse dripped fat onto charcoal braziers. Loops of kolbasa swung over wooden counters, gently swaying. On the birch-bark plates, the rich, ruby-red lingonberry jam gleamed invitingly.

Vasily's stomach growled. He raised an arm to fend off a boy thrusting Baikal-stone trinkets and commemorative railway stamps at his chest.

Nearby, a Buryat woman lifted the lid of her wicker basket, unleashing a cloud of steam that carried the scent of something freshly baked. Inside, golden pirozhki sat in neat rows, their seams split just enough to reveal glimpses of the filling. Vasily dug out two kopecks. The woman pressed one into his palm.

The pirozhki was almost too hot to hold, but he took a big bite anyway. The crispy crust cracked open, flooding his mouth with the juicy, savory fillings of minced pork and cabbage. For that moment, his only task was chewing the mouthful of warm food, at a speed so fast that he almost choked.

The woman watched him devour the hot bun with such ferocity, and let out a chuckle. "Easy there, handsome," she said, pointed at his chin. "You're wearing more of it than you're eating—the juice is dripping into your beard!"

Vasily paused mid-bite, suddenly aware of himself, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He was a little embarrassed to find his beard was growing out, unkempt since the beginning of the long journey, now scratching against his knuckles. So he thanked the woman, turned abruptly to walk past the crowd to find the station's washroom.

He caught sight of his reflection in the public washroom mirror. The mere days of journey had left him looking more haggard than ever before. His eyes were bloodshot, shadowed by dark circles, and his once neatly trimmed beard now sprouted wildly out of place. Anyone who saw him might easily conclude that something unfortunate had befallen him.

It wouldn't be an exaggeration. Vasily thought as he rummaged through his satchel for the razor and scissors and began to work on the strays.

He still hadn't come up with an excuse for the failure of the mission or the loss of his entire squad, save for himself. Truth be told, he was reluctant to return. The telegraph summoning him was brief, but its wording was enough to convey the displeasure awaiting him.

He detested any sort of report, anyway. It used to be Ilya's stuff.

The brass pump was turned on, and cool water gushed down. He leaned in, cupping it in his hands, splashing it across his face to wash away the trimmings.

Now stepping back, he had regained some posture of his old self. More skin revealed, but it didn't really change the gloom surrounding him. He knew why people seemed always so amicable around him—it was easier to play along than to risk the consequences of crossing him.

There was a tiny cut on his cheek. He wasn't well-prepared or cautious as he should have been. Blood started to well up. Reaching into his pocket, his fingers found the softness of a handkerchief.

Just as he dabbed at it at the wound, in the mirror, his eyes caught sight of the red blotch marring the handkerchief. Only then did he realize that the amount of blood was too much for his shallow injury. The strip of cloth was cut from the cloak.

The red stain wasn't his, or at least it hadn't been until moments ago. His own fresh blood now mingled with the dried, brown smudge from months past, reviving its crimson color to be as vivid as the day the same fabric had been soaked up in another man's fallen.

Vasily's fingers trembled slightly as he stared at the stained cloth, just as he had done countless times when no one was watching, unfolding it, refolding it, closing his eyes when lifted it under his nose to immerse in the rusty smell until it had faded. He tucked it away in its usual spot.

He then left the washroom, looking for a quiet place to smoke.

He wasn't sure if it was just his imagination, but he kept feeling that everyone he passed was staring at him. Maybe it was the bloodstains still smeared across his face, yet, it seemed to have always been this way. Eyes followed him wherever he went, scrutinizing, judging, as if they could see past the carefully kept facade to the freak beneath. He didn't want to stand among the crowd, wondering if everyone was talking behind his back.

The platform was packed, but only with third-class passengers. The esteemed guests, of course, had their own private lounge in a detached building, well away from the common bustle. Seeking a moment of peace, Vasily slipped around to the back of the structure.

When he got there, he found the spot was already taken, though, by a man dressed in a sleek black corduroy jacket and tailored fine-checkered trousers, completed with a hat. A cigarette dangled carelessly from his fingers, as he flipped through the gilt-edged pages of a red book. There was something about him, like an artist who had spent years drifting through the salons of Europe.

He didn't pay attention to Vasily at first, too absorbed in the pages that his big eyes were barely blinking as they tracked the lines. Nor did the gentleman seem inclined to protest the presence of a low-ranking soldier intruding on his solitude. Perhaps it was for the best.

Vasily settled against the wall, leaving a few feet of space between them. With a cigarette clamped between his lips, he struck a match.

The faint sound finally pulled the bookworm away from his texts. He lifted his gaze to Vasily, who was struggling to light matches from a box that seemed to have gotten damp during the travel. Without a word, he reached into his breast pocket and produced a slender silver lighter, extending his hand gracefully towards Vasily.

"Thanks," Vasily muttered, ducking his head to meet the offered flame. The cigarette caught with a sharp hiss. In that moment, he caught the stranger's gaze on him with a quiet intensity. With the flame now dancing on the tip of his cigarette, Vasily straightened up, the briefest flicker of a smile touching the corners of his mouth—a silent acknowledgment passing between them.

The man had lost interest in his books now, somehow. He lifted his cigarette and took a drag. The smoke that curled from his lips carried the scent of cardamom and oud, the spiced blend favored in Ottoman palaces.

A milky veil drifted between them, softening the sharp angles of his face until only his eyes remained visible, observing Vasily through the haze.

"Returning home, aren't you?" The stranger asked.

Not exactly. "Yes." Vasily casually brushed it off. His gaze flickered to the book in the man's hand, though it was in a language he couldn't read. "And you?"

"Paying a visit. I mean, returning from one." A private warmth softened his voice by the memory. "I spent some months at my Uncle's estate by the lake. For my health, naturally." He paused, the ghost of amusement in his sigh. "Dreadfully quiet. Dreadfully boring."

It wouldn't surprise Vasily if this young man had never known a day of true dread, or ever, if no sudden forces would end his luxurious lifestyle.

"More fun in the capital, isn't it?" he tossed the question like a bone to a dog, careless whether it was caught. Yet the man perked up, mistaking the remark for genuine interest.

"Absolutely!" His little mustache twitched with every eager exhalation. "God, I've missed it all—can't wait to get back to the friends and clubs my guardian tried so hard to keep me away from! Oh, and the fine wines, the theatre... Nothing like that exists out there in Siberia."

He laughed, but his laughter faded as he met Vasily's stony indifference. After a moment's pause, he leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "And what about you? Is there anyone—or anything—waiting for you back home?"

The question almost made Vasily consider such possibility. "I don't think so," he said, tapping off the ash into the platform's grime, "haven't been back in three years."

"Three years?" The man's hand flew to his chest, "So you were in that... rotten war, and they never even let you go home, until now?"

Vasily gave a stiff nod. He didn't want to explain how hard it was to show his face in his own village. The place might have raised him, but that didn't mean it would welcome him back. It would be like a hen driving away her own hatchlings if she found out they'd been replaced by something venomous.

"Oh, how cruel they are to you. The military... the regime!" The man tsked dramatically.

Vasily found it almost amusing—the way he shook his head with such sympathy, as if this spoiled youth had ever truly tasted oppression. He'd probably learned about suffering from book club discussions and champagne-fueled debates.

"I'm getting paid," Vasily said flatly. When the man blinked at him, uncomprehending, he added, "There's a salary for soldiering, however small. They didn't make me do this."

It could be worse if he stayed in the village and spent his days worrying about meeting the ends of the land leash. The noose of debt kept gnawing at families like a parasite. Better to trade sweat and blood for rubles in the army than starve in the fields, where every harvest was a gamble and every winter a creditor.

The man's gaze traveled over him, taking in the yellowed jacket straining at the shoulders and the cheap cigarette cradled between his calloused fingers. He could have easily pointed out the irony: still loyal to the machine?

Although, he locked in Vasily's lapels. "I can see. You're good. Already a lance corporal, aren't you? And you can't be a day over twenty-five."

"Twenty-seven." The correction came too quickly. Vasily felt the familiar mix of pride and shame, decisively suppressed the thought that he could do better if he hadn't missed the opportunity from the last mission.

"Twenty-seven, well, and still not married." The man exhaled a languid plume of smoke, half-lidded eyes glinting with provocation. "Then again, perhaps you ladykiller type don't hurry settling down."

Vasily could recognize the bait when he saw it. He had a hunch where this conversation was heading, and it was a direction he had no intention of following. Complicated situations were the last thing he needed, and all this man had offered him was a just cigarette lighter.

"Enough about me." Vasily's gaze dropped to the book. "What's that you're reading? Doesn't look Russian."

"This?" The gentleman lifted the gilded volume, "just some nonsense about sailors and adventure. The sort of content they go mad for in America." The scent of his cologne got sharp when he even leaned closer. "Though between us, this might be… inflammatory reading." A wink. "Keep that secret for me, would you?"

He told Vasily more about the plot: the obsessed captain dragging his crew to ruin chasing some white-skinned leviathan across the oceans, until only one beast or the other remained.

"Haven't finished it myself," he admitted, snapping the gilt-edged pages shut. "I've heard about the ending. Wouldn't want to spoil it—" he smiled innocently, "—in case you ever get your hands on a copy."

Vasily couldn't imagine ever learning some foreign tongue, nor the controversial text seeing the light of day in Russian. Although, the book's significance eluded him—what was so radical about a wounded man seeking vengeance? For him, it seemed the most natural thing in the world. The sea had maimed not just the captain's body but had also gutted his pride, and only blood could wash that clean.

"Sounds harmless enough," Vasily muttered. "It's just about fishing."

The young man scratched his temple, sending a lock of pomaded hair out of place. "Who knows what prickles our dear authorities? Perhaps—" he tapped the cover, "—the captain's madness hits too close to home. Absolute power, reckless pursuit… reminds you of someone?"

"Any man would do the same." Vasily's shoulders lifted in a shrug that strained his threadbare uniform, "any man with a spine, at least. And it'd be cruel to leave a suffering creature be. When our plow horse broke its leg, it's more merciful to put it down."

"Are we discussing the captain or his whale, soldier?" The man chuckled softly. "Though God knows poor Ahab needed putting down—barely able to stand upright as a vessel for his vengeful spirit. One might think the author thinks vengeance damns a man..." He extinguished the last ember of his cigarette on the platform railing. "...but what does some ink-stained writer know of war, compared to a true soldier who has witnessed the bitter losses firsthand?"

His eyes lingered on Vasily, noticing his breathing hitch momentarily before he bit out a faint "not exactly the same," hurriedly stuffing the cigarette into his mouth as if to barricade himself against offering any futile explanations.

"Not the same, no?" the young man pressed on, his tone suggesting that probing into the soldier's psyche had become an intriguing pastime for him. "So you stayed stationed in the East years after the war, yet claim it left no mark? Tell me—do fireworks still make you flinch? Does every slant-eyed face in the market make your hand twitch for your rifle?"

Vasily recognized this barrage of questions, provocation or parlor game, for what it was. However, it inadvertently struck a chord deep within him, unearthing memories he had kept buried.

"I can't spend my life seeing every Japanese as the enemy," he replied simply. "That would be exhausting."

"Ah yes, civilians are different, of course, women, children." The questioner conceded. "But what if you saw a veteran—someone who might have been responsible for the fallen of your comrades—and you'd feel nothing? No grudge? Not even..." His gloved hand mimicked a pistol firing. "...a moment's urge?"

It wouldn't be a lie to say he simply answered "no". That day, he had been eager to take the shot, but for a completely different reason.

"I only ask," the man continued, "because I met a peculiar traveler on the train. He tried to hide his face—" A theatrical pause. "But I could tell something was off. Turned out he was Japanese."

His thin brow arched as he caught the minute stiffening of Vasily's shoulders. "Oh, no question he's a soldier. There's a specific posture you soldiers carrying yourselves. So damaged, yet so dangerous." He smiled. "Tell me, dear friend. Could you truly have kept your composure, face-to-face with that?"

Before the gentleman could finish speaking, Vasily had already pushed himself away from the wall with the urgency of an owl spotting its prey in the moonlit fields. His neck swiveled around, searching the platform intently, seemingly deaf to the amused chuckles at his sudden movement—"My, what had I just said?"—he was trying to catch a glimpse of that all-too-familiar shadow that haunted his memories.

But there was nothing. No scarecrow. No ghosts. Just the wind, the endless stretch of railway tracks extending from the end of the platform, the cheerful chirping of chickadees nestled in the nearby elder trees, and the too-loud hammering of his own pulse.

He felt like a fool. Maybe the stranger was correct, that years of warfare had rewired his brain to become a paranoid psychotic. A Japanese soldier was not so uncommon, after all. Moreover, it would take a living, breathing person to board the train—something he hadn't fully considered until now.

"Where did you last see him?" Vasily wheeled around, his voice a demand directed at the well-dressed aristocrat. The man leaned back with an air of casual confidence, now holding the key piece of information that Vasily craved, more desperate than ever.

"Calm down, my dear fellow," the man said in a soothing, almost sensual tone. "Look at you, sweating and shaking. Why don't we retreat to my private lounge on the train? There, you can relax and catch your breath. There's no need for alarm. He's harmless—only got one eye left, after all."

The invitation was extended with hopes that Vasily would be enticed by the prospect of escaping into the luxurious seclusion of the salon car. He was so certain, in fact, that he'd already begun peeling himself off the wall—only to freeze as thunderous footsteps echoed across the platform.

The gentleman sighed, watching the tall, handsome soldier seemingly flee in panic from his lair. Only a dying cigarette butt remained, its last wisp of smoke swirling weakly before dissipating into nothingness.

Vasily pushed through the bustling crowd, his eyes darting from face to face in searching.

He knew he must have looked like crazy person—eyes bulging, veined red across his sclera like cobwebs, his breaths coming in ragged gasps as he scrutinized each passerby for familiar features. People stared back at him as if witnessing a lion that had broken free from the circus, but Vasily paid them no mind. He was driven by the need to find the one person who had never left his thoughts since that fateful day.

He came to a halt at the platform's center, the ebb and flow of travelers sweeping around him like waves crashing against a lone rock. Disoriented, he lost all sense of time and place.

The Irkutsk train station of year nineteen oh-eight blurred, and suddenly he stood not in one place but in all places, at every conceivable crossroads spanning across epochs and dimensions. Languages melt together; atmospheres changed; people in varied colors of skin and fashion of attire brushed past him; steam engines morphed into machines of steel and lightning.

Amidst this vortex of the unknown, he drifted, pondering where—or whether—he might find the specter that had slipped from his sight and led him ever deeper into the pursuit. He had to catch that fleeting dot of light, or he would be forever stranded between worlds.

A whistle's long, mournful cry snapped him back.

He blinked—still here, still trapped in the same patch of cracked platform. But the station had stirred to life around him: travelers stamping out cigarettes, jostling past vendors with coin-filled palms, hoisting their baggage toward waiting carriages. The whistle reminded them that it was almost time to depart again.

Vasily found his body slowly come back under his control. Though still kept an eye on his surroundings, however futile and laughable to search for a non-existent threat, he strode toward the merchants, restocked his satchel with only necessary items like hardtack, salt-cured meat and matches.

He did plan to buy vodka, a comfort for the long, rattling journey ahead. But now the thought turned sour in his mouth. The numbness wasn't what he needed anymore. Not when clarity might be the only thing standing between him and... whatever waited down those tracks.

Vasily returned to his seat among the same travelers, though the carriage now hummed with renewed energy. Where before had been a drowsy silence, now workers slapped down a fresh deck of cards, a diligent mother pulled needle through stretched linen, and her children clustered around a self-appointed storyteller with their faces upturned like sunflowers.

"Young masters, you're just too late!" The guide tapped his knee. "Five years back, we'd have crossed Baikal proper, aboard the Angara ferry!"

"Did we get to row?" The boy's eyes shone with expectation.

"Pah! This was a proper steamship—big as your village! The locomotive stayed snug in its iron belly while we drank tea on deck." He pantomimed holding a teacup.

"But why?" The younger one's voice pierced through the carriage.

The storyteller hesitated, caught between engineering and a child's logic. "The tracks... well, they hadn't finished laying them round the lake then."

"WHY?" The boy's boots kicked the bench.

His brother joined the assault, "Couldn't the train just drive on the ice? It gets thick enough!"

Around them, card players smirked behind their hands. The embroidering mother's needle paused mid-stitch. Even Vasily, who usually just ignored these trifles, had lent enough attention to await the answer.

The storyteller muttered, somehow a bit awkwardly, "Well, it might sound impossible, but as a matter of fact…"

He might have spun the truth about the railway's misfortunes—how the engineers had actually tried the children's absurd plan, and how the ice had cracked and swallowed rails—had the train not suddenly lurched, its iron bones groaning as it slowed.

Barely ten miles out of the city, and the train had already been faltering.

A metallic shudder ran through the carriage. Conversations cut off mid-sentence, replaced by a collective intake of breath. Even the children fell silent, their endless whys frozen on their tongues.

Vasily remained seated, feeling a bit impatient but not moving. After all, it wasn't the first time the train had encountered minor issues.

He glanced outside. Through the window, emerald fields stretched endlessly beside the tracks, interrupted only by small shrubs sparsely scattered along the ridges, their branches adorned with tiny white blossoms. The attendant was slow to come and explain, but they were likely busy soothing first-class tempers further up the train. A window screeched open nearby as someone craned outside, but the vast expanse of the suburban countryside revealed nothing out of the ordinary.

During the long wait, Vasily pulled a small notebook from his pocket and began to write and sketch, already halfway full of the curious and fascinating experiences he had encountered during his journey.

Finally, a few men from the compartment pushed themselves to their feet. "We'll go see what's going on," one said, already moving toward the couplings. "You coming with us?"

Vasily realized belatedly that they were speaking to him. He glanced down—he hadn't yet finished sketching the Buryat woman with the unusual headpiece.

"Maybe not," he answered honestly. Then, in case his refusal might cause trouble, he added, "But let me know if you need me."

The volunteers hummed in acknowledgment and left Vasily in peace. He returned to his paper, now tracing the long strands of beads around the woman's neck—one tiny circle after another.

Once someone had remarked that he could only sit down and draw meticulously because of the patience of a sniper, but Vasily didn't see the connection between the two skill sets. To him, it was simply soothing to lose himself in the task—his mind holding only a vague, half-formed idea as he let his subconscious guide his hand. And in the end, the finished piece was not always what he had envisioned. Sometimes it disappointed him, but more often, he barely recognized it at all, as if something else had taken over, coaxing shapes from his fingers that he, a humble peasant's son, had never known himself capable of creating.

Sometimes, the images frightened him.

He had nearly finished when he surfaced from the trance that hypnotic rhythm of strokes lulling his mind into. Then, blinking, Vasily examined the figure on the page.

A shudder ran through him. With a jerky motion, he smeared those dark eyes into a messy crosshatch.

They were not hers.

A moment later, he took up the eraser, rubbing away the harsh lines, regretful of the outburst that had nearly ruined the sketch. Steadying his hand, he began again. This time, his touch was careful, infusing the eyes with warmth and kindness, about to add small wrinkles at the edges that spoke of too much smiling.

But he never got to finish it. A sturdy man in a worker's jacket rushed into the carriage, interrupting his focus. The worker scanned the compartment with tense urgency before his gaze locked onto Vasily—or more precisely, onto the cloth-wrapped rifle propped against his seat.

"We need your assistance, soldier," the man said, his voice pitched low, but the gravity in his tone left no room for misunderstanding that the request was specifically about handling the gun, not just any task requiring an extra pair of hands.

Vasily tucked away his sketch without protest and followed, rifle in hand. "What's the emergency?" he asked, but the man stayed silent until they'd stepped onto the coupling platform.

"Didn't want to scare the women and children," he muttered. Then, leaning closer, "there's a giant boulder on the tracks. Doesn't look natural—someone put it there." His eyes darted sideways, as if the wind itself might carry his words to the wrong ears. "One of my crew swears he's heard of bandits using this trick to stop trains."

Vasily's fingers tightened around his Mosin-Nagant. "Where are the train guards? There should be gendarmes aboard."

The worker wiped his nose with a grimy sleeve. "Should be, but ain't. They rotate at major stops—Irkutsk, for instance, but the replacement guards never made it to our train." His voice dropped to a growl. "Too convenient, that. Now we're left with a handful of service crew—thick-headed fools, the lot of them. They actually believed those fancy gentlemen who claimed it was merely a minor inconvenience. When they sit duck and wait, we volunteers are going out to move the boulder."

Vasily's instincts could also pick the wrongness of it. A boulder didn't simply appear on these endless plains without a decisive placement. And now this train, suddenly vulnerable... though not completely defenseless. Not while he was here.

"Understood," he said tersely to the worker. "I'll take position on the roof."

Vasily strode briskly past several carriages, and everyone stared at him as he passed, mainly focusing on the rifle he now had in plain sight, eyeing it with fear before exchanging uneasy glances with each other. The further he went, the more refined the decor became, and the passengers' attire grew more respectable. No longer were they coal-stained workers and farm women with patched aprons, he began to see bespectacled school masters and nuns seated on plush chairs.

Eventually, he reached the first-class compartment, only to find that he couldn't turn the door handle. Through the glass, the steward glared at him menacingly, gesturing a sharp shooing motion with his white-gloved hands.

He'd planned to secure the locomotive first, for it would be any hijackers' primary target. But clearly, reasoning seemed impossible for these privileged passengers. Vasily soon spotted the maintenance ladder. With practiced ease, he hauled himself onto the carriage roof, where the wind immediately whipped at his clothes.

He'd barely risen to a crouch when a whoosh cut the air beside his ear. Instinct slammed him flat against the roof before his mind registered the gunshot.

Far away, someone yelled. The volunteers were startled, now fleeing from their position to hide themselves behind the carriages or into the nearby field. The bandits had come faster than anyone had expected.

Vasily took a deep breath, using his elbows to crawl and carefully adjusting his position. He turned his head slightly, attempting to pinpoint the direction from which the bullet had come. The shooter hadn't even bothered to conceal himself properly—just a sloppy silhouette in the wheat fields.

Vasily unslung his Mosin, exhaled, and fired. A distant thud confirmed the hit.

This shot of his didn't seem to deter the attackers surrounding them very well. Meanwhile, the gunshots sent the first-class passengers into pandemonium. Lying flat on the roof, he could clearly their muffled shrieks vibrated through the thin metal beneath him. A door banged open.

"What in God's name—?"

He barely had time to turn before a bullet struck the butler climbing the ladder. The man toppled backward with a sharp gasp.

Vasily turned his rifle and aimed. Another shot, and another attacker dropped from a tree.

"Don't come out," Vasily barked at the next fool who poked his head out, seemingly had not learnt from his predecessor.

"You," Somehow, the voice was familiar. The voice belonged to the bookish stranger from the station gaped up at him. "What's going on?"

"Please step back into the train, sir," Vasily warned, "there's more incoming—"

Then, another sharp whistling sound cut through the air as a bullet struck the metal side of the carriage, leaving a deep dent. Vasily attempted to trace the bullet's trajectory, but his companion distracted him once more.

"It's too dangerous up here. You should come down too!" the man shouted.

No, this wasn't dangerous for him. He had grown familiar with such peril. He had been remodeled for it, in fact. Yet, he had to kick away the hand grasping his boots to aim properly. His acquaintance was unwittingly exposing their position.

"Next words you speak," Vasily hissed, shifting his aim downward, "I'll put the bullet in your tongue instead of theirs."

The threat seemed effective, as the man loosened his grip. Satisfied, Vasily repositioned himself. But he was a moment too late.

Another wet thud echoed. He whipped around, just in time to see the aristocrat stagger, fingers clutching at the smoking hole in his fine clothing. For a suspended second, the man stared at the blood blooming across the fabric, and then crumpled from the ladder like a shot pheasant.

For a moment, Vasily froze, lying on the edge of the carriage and looking down at the body that had fallen beside the railway tracks. It was only then that he noticed this young gentleman, who had been so arrogantly strutting around hours ago, was actually just a boy who had just come of age. His hat had rolled to one side, revealing hair that was still more blond than brown. His eyes, now fixed in a lifeless stare, still showed signs of shock. A square object fell from his pocket—the book he had been reading earlier, the crimson cover difficult to discern whether it was originally that color or stained with fresh blood.

More bullets flew over. There remained more than one shooter.

Vasily struggled to identify the sources—the bullets were coming from directions at a ninety-degree angle to each other. It was nearly impossible for him to hit one without being shot by the other. Moreover, there could be even more bandits hidden in the bushes.

But perhaps it wasn't just bandits. Vasily knew that desperate revolutionaries might also turn to robbery. This scenario seemed more likely. They might have used their connections to divert the guards away from the train.

He couldn't linger in the fight any longer.

In one fluid motion, he rolled off the carriage roof and landed silently in the gravel beside the tracks with the grace of a cat. Immediately dropping into a prone position, he scanned for threats along the opposite embankment.

His shoulder brushed against something soft. The young aristocrat's body lay beside him, pale as the pages of the book that had tumbled from his pocket. Vasily's hand hovered, then with unexpected gentleness, he smoothed the boy's eyelids shut over sightless eyes. After a brief hesitation, he picked up the book and tucked it into his own satchel. Perhaps this would save the dead man some unnecessary trouble when the police discovered the body.

Vasily remained motionless, mind racing. He had pinpointed two shooters' positions, but the presence of two more lurked in uncertainty. If they kept up the suppressing fire, he would be pinned down. However, if they thought him dead... they might advance towards the train, unprepared for a confrontation.

Yet something nagged at him. Train robbers, even desperate militia usually didn't have this level of coordination, nor such firepower just to steal luggage. The missing guards, the strategic boulder... This wasn't mere banditry. There's something more important on the train. Or someone.

He swallowed hard and cautiously made his way along the side of the carriage, moving backward.

If it was just an ordinary robbery, he had no real obligation to protect the civilians. And if something of critical importance was on board—something related to the empire's security—the situation could become much more complicated.

The bandits might leave no witness to the secret. Even if Vasily managed to safeguard the secret, he could still end up in serious trouble simply for knowing too much.

It would be so much easier if he were not here to witness it.

His fingers closed around the cold metal latch of the cargo hold door. This felt all too familiar to him. How many years had it been since he'd been packed into the similar cargo holds with other new recruits, shipped to the frontline like livestock to slaughter?

The lock yielded easily. Dank air washed over him, thick with the scent of moldering hay and animal musk. Eyes with horizontal pupils blinked at him from the shadows as sheep shuffled away, startled by the light spilling through the open door, their startled bleats echoing in the confined space. He carefully navigated through their woolly forms, boots sinking into the damp straw.

Finally, near the water trough, he found several horses. He approached, patting their heads one by one. They all looked extremely tired from the long trip, lazily swishing their tails to ward off flies. These appeared to be workhorses used for farming—sturdy creatures, but probably not built for speed.

His attention was drawn to one horse in particular. At first glance, this horse wasn't tall and even looked somewhat more listless than the others. Her brown coat was dotted with irregular light-colored patches, but Vasily quickly recognized that these were new hairs growing over old wounds. He walked over and felt around the ribcage. The horse flinched slightly, revealing a roughly inch-long depression on her left shoulder blade—likely from a saber wound. Her muscles remained tense as she watched him warily.

Vasily could recognize his own kind.

"Still got some fire in you, don't you?" he murmured, working his fingers through the ex-army horse's tangled mane. Her ear twitched toward his voice. His hand brushed against a rusted nameplate on the saddle bridge: "Napolyeon." Beneath it scratched in Cyrillic as if an afterthought, "Tort."

Patting the scarred flank of Napolyeon, he gently persuaded, "I'm afraid you'll have to come with me."

He didn't leave immediately, waiting for the right moment. Given enough time, the raiders would withdraw, and then it would be safe to go. The city wasn't far. On horseback, he could reach it before sunset and wait there until this mess blew over. After that, he'd board the next train.

The livestock car was almost completely sealed, with a few small windows that had been covered with thick cardboard to keep the animals calm. Carefully, he peeled back a corner and peered out, but from this angle, he could barely see a thing.

Vasily heard rustling noises outside as someone was approaching, and it sounded like there were quite a few of them. He dropped into a crouch, pressing himself out of view from the window's narrow gap.

To his relief, the newcomers showed no interest in the cargo, striding past toward the front cars. Only when their footsteps faded did he dare rise, easing the cardboard aside for a better look.

Though their clothes were ragged, the bandits moved with sharp, deliberate, trained precision. They bypassed crates of supplies entirely, making straight for one carriage in particular. With a violent heave, they forced open the reinforced door of the third car—the one bearing a partly scratched-off Imperial seal that Vasily hadn't paid attention until now.

A prison transport.

A shackled figure staggered out, seized by the figure that seemed to be the leader of the raiders. Two eyes locked for a long moment, before they pulled each other into a fierce embrace.

No.

The prisoner was too familiar.

There was no way to mistake the person. His long hair had been crudely shorn, but the broad frame, the defiant stride was the same. It was the same man who had once walked unflinching across an open snowfield, daring Vasily to take the easy aim.

That day, pride had clouded Vasily's judgment. He was too overwhelmed by the duel, that the original object to eliminate the emperor's assassin was almost completely forgotten. The man had ingeniously set a simple booby trap that wiped out Vasily's team, allowing him to escape unscathed while Vasily was engaged in the fight.

Somehow, they'd recaptured him. The realization struck like a slap. Someone else had finished Vasily's mission. Or tried to. Now, just as before, the man was slipping free.

Vasily's fingers tightened around his rifle.

Outside, the wind carried the distant clatter of hooves and fading shouts. The raiders were leaving. He held still, counting heartbeats until silence settled. He waited for five minutes—maybe ten—before freeing Napolyeon from her secured knots.

He led her cautiously toward the door. She didn't resist, leaping down from the carriage with practiced ease, then standing motionless as Vasily adjusted the harness on her back. With a swift motion, he swung himself onto her.

The landscape stretched before them—scorched and empty, save for crows circling something half-buried in the dust. The raiders were nearly gone now, dark smudges against the horizon. They, too, seemed headed toward the city—laying low, perhaps, or catching another ride out. A train in the opposite direction, or a ferry across the lake, back to their strongholds in the Far East. They'd vanish like smoke, and then it'd be too late.

But here, in the open wilds? This was where the odds still favored him.

Vasily tightened his grip on the reins and urged Napolyeon forward. The mare broke into a steady trot, her hooves kicking up dust as he leaned low, poised to chase—if not for yet another violent gunshot shattering the fragile peace that had just settled over the land.

Vasily twisted in the saddle. His instincts were sharp, but not quick enough. The bullet struck high in his left arm, just below the shoulder. He barely registered the impact before the sudden, slick heat of blood seeping through his sleeve.

Gritting his teeth, he flattened himself against Napolyeon's neck, digging in his heels to veer sharply toward the nearby field.

The shot had come from behind.

Clamping a hand over the wound, he assessed the damage. The bullet had passed clean through—no tumbling, no splintered bone. Just a searing puncture where it had entered with a smaller, neater exit. The muscle fibers of his deltoid spasmed around the hollow, but the pain was still distant, dulled by adrenaline. Instead of panic, a cold, detached curiosity gripped him as he studied the wound.

He'd seen injuries like this before. There weren't many weapons that left such surgical holes, tearing through flesh with high-velocity rounds. Precision rifles. He knew a few from the war.

Which meant—

His stomach dropped.

Vasily stroked Napolyeon's neck, signaling for her to lower herself and stay hidden. After ensuring she was concealed, he crawled several meters into the field, gritting his teeth against the throbbing in his arm. Retrieving his binoculars from his pack, he methodically scanned the area where the shot had originated.

Why hadn't the shooter followed the other bandits?

He pressed the binoculars to his eyes, but his heart was pounding so hard that it made it almost impossible for him to focus properly. Forcing slow breaths, he steadied himself.

It was just another shooter, nothing unusual. That poor young man had mentioned about a Japanese soldier on the train—hadn't he? It made sense. The man must have hidden, waiting for the bandits to strike. And it wouldn't be uncommon for a Japanese soldier to use an Arisaka rifle, would it?

He couldn't even convince himself.

Then—a glint in the distant shrubs. The telltale flash of sunlight on glass of binoculars.

Vasily's finger twitched toward his rifle, but he hesitated.

If it were him out there, he wouldn't be careless enough to give away his position. Not without intentions.

He aimed an inch below the glint for good measure, took his shoot, and then rolled immediately out of his position.

For a breathless moment, he waited, lungs burning. Then, with a cracking sound, a bullet split the air where his skull had been half a second earlier.

Lying sprawled in the swaying crop field, Vasily's body imprinting the earth beneath him as he gazed upward. The sky stretched endlessly overhead with the same vastness that had witnessed empires rise and fall. On the horizon, the sun perched like a dying ember on the world's edge, bleeding crimson and gold, as if in an attempt to wage a final, valiant battle, refusing to retreat into the encroaching darkness.

A wild, almost deranged grin spread across Vasily's face.

Again, he was being distracted, allowing the assassin to slip away. But did it even matter now?

His mind flashed to that day. He went out looking for the assassin's company after the duel, only to return empty-handed and find the corpse gone. The phantom of his rival had haunted him ever since, gnawing at his sleep. Not out of fear of revenge—no. He'd been terrified that it was over, that it would never return to claim him.

To one side lay the city. He could still correct his mistake, salvage his mission before reporting to his superiors, and carve out a respectable future.

To the other was the wild, empty, silent, and the white shadow of his own personal death waiting patiently in the stillness, ready to swallow him whole.

Vasily didn't hesitate. He already knew his choice.

end of chapter one

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btw i've commited to slow burn and keep everyone's pants unbearably on for a while so it wouldn't be any "his personal death" "swallowing him whole" without idk, probably fifty thousand words, lol.