Thomas thought about the superheroes from his old world—the comics and movies where heroes wore head-to-toe armour or specialised suits. "If these materials are so strong, is it possible to build a full-body suit? A complete set of Gear?"
The man laughed again, a loud, echoing sound that drew a few glances from other passengers. "Sure! If you are one of those monsters—the S-grades and the legends. For them, a full suit is a necessity. For the rest of us, we're lucky if we can afford a gauntlet or a monocle."
Thomas looked out the window as the train let out a long, mournful whistle. They were approaching something. The landscape was changing, the orange dust giving way to the jagged outlines of a town built into the side of a grey stone canyon.
"We're almost there," the man said, standing up and grabbing his cane. "Time to see if you're a cub with claws, or just another F-grade for the engine."
As the train's rhythm stabilised, Thomas found himself processing the visual hierarchy of this new reality. It was a world where the comic-book fantasies of his youth had been mangled and forged into a grim, industrial reality.
"I hope I become an S-grade," he muttered, the words barely audible over the clatter of the tracks. "Or higher."
The stranger's reaction was immediate. A loud, booming laugh erupted from his chest, startling a few passengers in the adjacent row. It was a sound of genuine, mocking amusement.
"I really do hope you become one, cub! At least then I can brag about being friends with a monster," the man wheezed, wiping a stray tear from his good eye.
He paused, catching his breath, before shaking his head. "But let's be real—it's impossible. All the S-grades and the legends beyond them come from the Core. They are born in the Ancient Sectors, places much older and more stable than these flickering candles in the Middle and Outer Zones."
"Outer and Middle Zones?" Thomas asked, his internal map of the world expanding once again. "Is that how the sectors are arranged? Like concentric circles?"
"Something like that," the man replied, his tone suddenly flat. He seemed to realise he had already given away too much free information. "It's the geometry of our world, cub. You'll learn the details when—and if—you survive your first year. For now, just worry about which foot to put in front of the other."
He shifted his gaze back to the window, signalling the end of the lecture. Thomas didn't mind the silence; he needed it to organise the data he had gathered.
The system here was brutal but clear. Grading was a measure of biological tolerance—how much "poison" your body could turn into "power." The method of assessment was crude, relying on scars and physical deformities, though the man had mentioned "ancient antiques" that offered more precision.
Thomas guessed those relics were reserved for the elite, the high-born heroes of the inner circles.
More importantly, he now knew that power wasn't just a static birthright. It could be cultivated.
It could be bought with Qi stones. As long as there was a ladder to climb, Thomas felt a spark of his old ambition. He had climbed the ranks of the NYPD through sheer tenacity; he would do the same here.
However, one massive piece of the puzzle was still missing. He watched the other passengers—the "normals" in their Victorian coats and quiet, submissive postures.
"By the way," Thomas started, breaking the silence one last time.
"What now?" The man looked at him with an expression of weary confusion.
Thomas gestured toward the other people in the carriage. "What about them? What about the people?"
"What about them?" The man repeated, clearly not following.
"You've talked about the wars between superheroes and villains," Thomas said, his detective's voice becoming sharp and accusatory.
"You've talked about the struggle for Qi mines and the resources of the Isolation Zones. But you haven't mentioned the people's role in any of this. Back where I... back in the stories I know, the first responsibility of a hero is to guard the weak. Isn't our task to protect the innocent from the villains?"
On Earth, this was the foundational myth of the superhero. But here, the concept seemed to land with a dull thud. Oliver and this stranger spoke of conflict as a matter of personal interest and territorial greed.
The man blinked, his oculus whirring as if processing a strange new command. "Oh, we defend them, of course," he said, his voice lacking the enthusiastic edge it had when discussing Qi stones.
It sounded like a line he was reciting from a dusty textbook. "Why else do you think we struggle for resources? It's for the expansion! To allow the common folk to move into new sectors without the fear of being ruled by a truly despicable villain. We keep the lights on, cub. That's their role."
"I see..." Thomas said, though he didn't see at all.
The man's tone told the true story. The "innocent" were an afterthought—a justification for a war that was really about who got to sit on the mountain of gold. In this world, the "superheroes" weren't guardians; they were warlords with better PR.
The realisation made Thomas feel a deep, unsettling doubt about the entire system. He had spent his life fighting for the "little guy," but in this world, the little guy was just a byproduct of the infrastructure.
"It's a bit weird," Thomas thought, a cold cynicism settling over him. He lacked the facts to make a final judgment, but his gut—the famous gut that had never failed him in a precinct—told him that the difference between a "hero" and a "villain" in this world might just be a matter of who owned the most mines.
Still, he had his own problems. He wasn't a social reformer; he was a man in a dead man's body trying to find a reason to keep breathing. If being a superhero was a "good job" that paid well and kept him alive, he would take it. He just hoped his "superpower" was something more than being a human battery.
SCREECH!