Before Thomas could formulate his next question, Oliver pointed a gloved finger toward a sprawling, open plaza visible through the haze of black smoke.
"We've arrived! I believe you have a destination in mind, and this is where our paths diverge. I'm truly honoured to have met you, champ. Good luck out there, and may Qi be on your side."
With a final, bone-shaking groan from the engine, Becky finally shuddered to a halt. Thomas felt a strange prickle at the back of his neck; that last phrase—may Qi be on your side—felt hauntingly familiar, like a half-remembered line from a movie or a prayer he'd heard in a previous life.
"Thanks for the ride," Thomas said. He felt he should thank the man for the information, too, but the words felt heavy in his mouth.
He gathered his oversized Bonsai pot into his arms and descended the metallic stairs, being far more careful with his footing this time. He didn't let go of the railing until his boots were planted firmly on the solid, unmoving ground.
"Make sure to come back and visit! Our settlement will always have a warm hearth for its first hero!" Oliver shouted from the top of the deck. With a wave and a roar of black soot, the behemoth lurched back into motion.
Thomas watched it go, confirming his earlier theory with a grimace. "Who was the madman who decided oval-shaped tyres were the future of transport?" he whispered, shaking his head. He turned his attention to the plaza.
He stood at the corner of a massive square paved with large, rectangular stones. They were cut with the same precision as the diamond stones in the streets but carried a greater sense of weight and history.
The plaza was vast, easily large enough to accommodate ten thousand people without feeling crowded. In the centre stood a magnificent fountain.
A stone statue of a man dominated the water feature, his hand raised high toward the orange sun while the other gripped a heavy sword. Water didn't just flow from the fountain; it erupted from the statue's extended palm, as if he were manifesting the liquid from his very soul.
Curiously, the statue wore a delicate eye mask—the kind one might see at a Venetian masquerade. It felt more theatrical than heroic. Thomas didn't linger on the art; his eyes were already scanning the surrounding buildings for his next lead.
The most prominent structure was situated right beside him. It featured a wide, inviting entrance and a massive sign with neatly carved letters.
To his surprise, Thomas found he could read the words instantly, though the script was a jagged, alien language that bore no resemblance to English. It was the same language that had "unlocked" itself on the scroll in his pocket.
DANTE TRAIN STATION.
"At least something remains familiar," Thomas muttered. He passed through the grand entrance and found himself on a platform that stretched for hundreds of meters in either direction.
The station possessed the serene, quiet atmosphere of a rural depot. There were only two platforms and two sets of iron rails, just enough to accommodate two trains at once. A few people sat on stone benches, their Victorian-style coats and long dresses giving the place an air of timeless tranquillity.
Across the tracks, Thomas spotted a small, standalone building with a sign indicating it was the ticket office.
To get there, he had to cross a pedestrian bridge built of dark metal and weathered stone. It was an elegant structure, reminding him of the bridges he had once walked over in Venice during a cold-case investigation years ago.
When he reached the other side, he waited as two citizens finished their business with a man behind a barred window. Once they stepped away, Thomas approached.
"Excuse me," Thomas said, pulling the scroll from his vest. He glanced at the translated name once more. "I need a ticket to Retto Town, please."
The worker didn't even look up. He was hunched over a massive ledger with thick, yellowed pages. Beside him sat a small bottle of black ink and a long wooden pen.
He dipped the nib, the scratching of the wood against the glass the only sound in the small office, before writing in a tight, meticulous hand.
"Retto Town? That'll be ten Dems," the man said flatly.
"Dems?" Thomas's voice caught. The word meant nothing to him.
The worker finally paused, though he still didn't lift his gaze. "If you've only got Niks, I don't have the change to break them for you today. Take it or leave it."
Thomas felt a cold pit form in his stomach. He realised, with the crushing weight of a detective who had lost his primary evidence, that he had no currency. He retreated from the window in silence, the worker already returning to his ledger as if Thomas had never existed.
Thomas found an empty stone bench on the platform and sat down, placing his tree pot beside him. The reality of his situation was becoming increasingly dire. He wasn't dreaming. He was in a new world, one with its own geography, its own heroes, and—most frustratingly—its own economy.
"They even have their own money," he whispered, staring at his boots.
He was confused, agitated, and utterly lost. Oliver's stories had provided the "macro" view of this world, but the "micro" details of daily survival were a mystery. He felt a sensation he hadn't felt in a very long time: he was broke.
On Earth, Thomas had been a success. He had a healthy bank account, no debt, and no family to drain his resources. He had never needed to worry about the cost of a train ticket.
Now, he was a teenager in a leather vest with a magical tree and exactly zero "Dems" to his name.
In a fit of desperation, he began to search through his many pockets. He checked the deep ones in his vest, the hidden seams in his trousers, and even the lining of his coat.
Nothing. Not a single coin. Not a scrap of paper. It was as if the previous owner of this body had lived a life of absolute poverty.
"What am I supposed to do?" Thomas wondered. He needed to get to Retto Town. The scroll was his only lead, his only link to understanding why he was here.
A dark, reckless thought flashed through his mind—he could just wait for the train and slip on board. He could hide in the luggage car or blend into the crowd.
But as he looked at the orderly station and the meticulous worker in the office, he knew there would be conductors. If he was caught without a ticket, he might end up in a jail cell before his "superpower" even had a chance to manifest.
He was a detective; he knew better than anyone that the easiest way to fail a mission was to get caught on a petty misdemeanour.
He sat back, the "survival instinct" from earlier now replaced by a cold, calculating worry. He needed ten Dems. And he needed them before the next train pulled into the station.