"Forget it," the man sighed. "Magical pets won't go near a real superhero. It's in their nature; our internal Qi is too intense, too turbulent. It scares them off. Besides, with your potential, you can't be a pussy and rely on a fanged squirrel to save your life." He gestured toward the harness again. "Put it on properly. It'll make the trek into Retto Town easier."
Thomas decided to give it a try. To his surprise, the stone pot—which had seemed to grow slightly larger since his arrival—fit into the leather sack with eerie precision.
The sack was made of a dark, rubbery material that stretched to accommodate the weight, securing the pot so that only the glass-like dome of the upper branches peeked out.
When he hoisted the straps over his shoulders, Thomas prepared for the crushing weight. Instead, he felt nothing. It was as if the pot had lost its mass entirely, floating against his spine with a weightless, comforting pressure.
To wear the harness, he had to temporarily remove the heavy coat the passengers had given him. He felt a spike of anxiety as he moved, terrified the stolen wallet would slip from his belt and clatter onto the floor. He felt a sudden, sharp pang of regret.
If he was smart, he'd ditch the wallet now. It was a link to the "villains," a piece of evidence that could get him executed. But the thought of entering a new city with zero currency kept his hand away from his belt.
"Looks good on you," the man remarked, though his eyes suddenly went distant. "You know, that look... it reminds me of someone I once knew. Poor Marcos. He was a good man, in his way."
"What happened to him?" Thomas asked, sliding his arms into the harness loops.
"He was a courageous dude," the man said, his voice dropping into a low, warning hum. "Witnessed something he wasn't supposed to. Had a sudden, inconvenient moment of conscience and decided to open his mouth to the wrong people. What a poor, misguided fellow he turned out to be."
The subtext hit Thomas like a bucket of ice water. The "lightning-lord" wasn't just telling a story; he was outlining the consequences of deviation. Keep your mouth shut, or end up like Marcos.
"Stick to the script," the man concluded as the train began its characteristic, violent deceleration. "In a few minutes, the Authority will crawl all over us. If you follow my lead, it'll be over quickly. If you don't... well, it's your word against mine. I'll ruin you before you can finish a sentence. I'll tell them you showed signs of 'Qi-Madness'—that you're going berserk and need to be neutralised."
"I understand," Thomas said, his detective's mind already filing away the threat.
"Good lad. Let's move."
The man stood up and waited for Thomas to finish adjusting the straps. "Just throw the coat over the harness. It'll look cooler that way. A bit of mystery goes a long way in this world."
Thomas followed the advice. The oversized coat draped perfectly over the swelling on his back, the heavy fabric concealing the shape of the pot while reaching down past his knees.
He caught his reflection in the soot-stained window. He saw a youth with a face too young for the eyes that sat within it.
With the heavy coat, the hidden burden on his back, and the wooden cane in his hand, he looked... different. He looked like he belonged. He looked like a traveller who had walked out of a fog and into a myth.
"Would you like me to describe the scene as they step onto the platform and meet the Superpower Authority (SA) agents?"
"It's indeed lively out here," Thomas muttered as he stepped off the train. The platform was a chaotic hive of activity, far removed from the quiet, dusty station where he had first boarded Becky.
It was exactly as the lightning superhero had predicted. The response from the Superpower Authority (SA) was swift—alarmingly so. A dozen superheroes were already gathered on the platform, their presence radiating a heavy, disciplined pressure.
How long has it been? Half an hour since the clash? Thomas thought, his detective brain involuntarily running the numbers. Back on Earth, it would have taken the police longer than that just to secure the perimeter of a crime scene this large.
He watched as the "normal" passengers were herded into a large, huddled group at the far end of the platform. They were surrounded by five stern-faced superheroes who looked like they wouldn't tolerate a single whisper, let alone a joke.
These guards were heavily geared; many wore metallic faceplates, and one had a chest piece that hummed beneath his vest, extending up his neck like a silver exoskeleton.
"You were there when it happened?"
Thomas turned to see one of the SA agents—the man with the chest piece—standing right beside him.
Thomas counted fifteen superheroes in total across the station. The facility was sprawling, boasting four rail lines and three massive platforms. This wasn't a mere outpost; Retto Town was a major hub.
"Yes," Thomas replied, steadying his voice. It was time for the interrogation.
"Tell me then. What did you see?"
The questioning was surprisingly informal. There were no notebooks, no voice recorders, and no sterile office.
The man simply stood there, his gaze fixed on the horizon as Thomas recited the fabricated story: the sudden assault by masked villains, the heroic intervention of the lightning-user, and the narrow escape of the passengers.
When Thomas finished, the agent simply nodded. "You have a scroll, don't you? Show it to me. Let's see if your mentor has arrived."
"Sure." Thomas was sceptical of how smoothly this was going. If the nightmare ended with a simple "thank you," he wasn't going to complain. He pulled out the scroll, but the agent held up a hand.
"You have to open it yourself," the man instructed. "Each scroll is sealed by the mentor's Qi. It's a security measure to prevent theft and identity fraud."
Thomas nodded, appreciative of the logic, and unrolled the parchment. The agent glanced at the signature and the glowing seal at the bottom.
"Oh, Mark? He's about to arrive any moment," the man said, handing the scroll back. "Just wait here. I'll inform him when he pulls in."
"Thanks."
Left to his own devices, Thomas leaned against a soot-covered pillar and observed the station. What he saw began to turn his stomach.
The "heroes" were being treated to a grand welcome. The lightning-user who had caused the entire mess was currently surrounded by other SA agents, laughing and regaling them with his twisted version of the battle.
He was being offered snacks and expensive-looking drinks, looking for all the world like a conquering king.
At the mention of snacks, Thomas's stomach let out a treacherous, hollow growl. He realised he hadn't eaten since his last breakfast in New York—a lifetime ago. The adrenaline had masked his hunger, but now the sight of the superhero feasting made his abdomen ache with a dull, persistent cramp.
On the other side of the tracks, the treatment of the common folk was a stark, ugly contrast. The passengers were being forced into long, miserable lines, treated more like suspected criminals than victims of an attack. The five supervising superheroes were harsh, shoving men and ignoring the cries of frightened children.
Thomas looked away, the disgust rising in his throat. Back in Earth, superheroes stood for justice and the protection of the weak. Here, they were tyrants. They were an apex class of overlords, and the "normals" were little more than cattle.
He clutched the straps of his harness, feeling the weight of the tree pot. He found himself praying for a high rank—an A or even an S—not for the fame, but for the power to change this.
He wanted a superpower that could actually protect people, not just destroy trucks. But a cold voice in his head reminded him of the lightning-lord's warning: he was a "cub" with a weak heart. If he ended up with a low rank, he'd have to keep his head down to survive.
"You are the one from the Dante settlement?"
The voice was calm, cutting through Thomas's brooding thoughts. He turned to find a man standing less than five meters away. He looked to be about twenty-five, with short, vibrant red hair and eyes that carried a faint, ruby tint.
He wore a dark red coat with three buttons meticulously closed over a brown vest. He didn't wear a hat, but he held an ornate wooden cane and a bronze pocket watch on a silver chain. Most notably, he had a crescent-shaped piece of silver gear with golden edges surrounding his right eye.
"I'm Thomas," he said, extending a hand out of habit.
The man looked at the hand, then back at Thomas's face, and offered a stiff, formal nod instead of a shake.
"I'm Mark," the man said. "I was supposed to meet you here, but I didn't expect to find you in the middle of a war zone. What happened?"