The Frostwyrms' synchronized rotation created a vortex of chitin and frozen spit—their bioluminescent underbellies pulsing like faulty block signals. Johnathan's firebox roared in protest as he performed a maneuver that'd make Brunel roll in his grave: a full-pressure sanding gear deployment mid-reverse. The silica grit sprayed upward in a parabolic arc, refracting cavern light into prismatic warnings across his SYSTEM display—[LAUG RESERVES: 45.6%].
Great.
Just fucking great.
Johnathan's pressure gauge danced like a drunken stationmaster's pocket watch—44.3% Laug reserves remaining, dwindling faster than public patience during a three-hour signal failure. His pistons pumped phantom steam; if locomotives could hyperventilate, he'd be wheezing like the Flying Scotsman after breaking the 100mph record.
The SYSTEM's crimson warnings pulsed in time with the Frostwyrms' eerie bioluminescence, casting Johnathan's failing pressure gauges in apocalyptic hues—[LAUG RESERVES: 42.1%]. Each decimal point plummeted like a runaway brake van down the Lickey Incline, his firebox gulping precious energy reserves faster than a GWR Castle Class devouring Welsh coal.
Johnathan's sandbox rattled ominously as Inuka sneezed inside it—each tiny vibration transmitted through his frame like a thousand faulty axle bearings screaming for maintenance. His SYSTEM's Laug reserves ticked down past 39.8%, the numbers burning crimson across his vision like a semaphore signal stuck at DANGER. *This is worse than the Great Western's 'coaling incident of '23,* he thought hysterically, recalling museum placards describing how an entire shed of locomotives had starved mid-shift.
The lead Frostwyrm's mandibles screeched against his buffer beam, spraying frozen saliva across Kengo's blade with a sound like ice shearing off a dining car's roof. Johnathan's pistons hitched—38.2% Laug remaining—as he performed an emergency steam reversal that'd make any sane engineer question their career choices.
*Chuff-CHUFF-BANG!*
His drive wheels spun phantom gravel, kicking up bioluminescent algae in prismatic arcs as the Frostwyrms recoiled from the sudden maneuver. The SYSTEM pinged urgently—[WARNING: PRESSURE DROP DETECTED]—but Johnathan was too busy channeling his inner *City of Truro* to care.
Dansei's rune-smeared fingers clawed at his sandpipe, sketching unstable mana glyphs with the precision of a sleep-deprived signalman. "G-Gresley!" he wheezed, "your engine's steam valves—"
"Are about to become *very* interesting!" Johnathan's steam-formed words morphed into the Great Western Railway's coat of arms mid-sentence—a pretentious flourish he'd seen on museum plaques. His blast pipe screamed like a whistle at Paddington Station during peak hours as he channeled every scrap of Victorian engineering audacity left in his boiler. The Frostwyrms' mandibles froze mid-snap, their bioluminescent underbellies strobing in confusion as Johnathan's ejector steam hit Dansei's glyphs with the precision of a Swiss watchmaker sabotaging a timetable.
The resulting plasma arc bisected the lead Frostwyrm with a sound like tearing sheet metal—followed by the wet *thump* of chitinous segments hitting cavern floor. Johnathan's SYSTEM blared like a grade-crossing alarm: [LAUG RECLAMATION FROM CRYSTALLIZED MANA-CORPSE FLUIDS: +2.9%]. His pressure gauge needle leapt from 37.1% to 40.0% in a single glorious spike—the mechanical equivalent of finding an untouched coal bunker during a blizzard.
Kengo's blade flashed silver through the steam, her armored boots skating across Johnathan's running board with the grace of a dining car waiter during sudden braking. "Engineer-san!" Her swordtip traced the exact path of his steam-cutter's afterglow—severing a Frostwyrm's sensory antennae in a shower of frozen lymph. "Your unorthodox tactics—" The creature's thrashing body crashed against Johnathan's couplers, spraying ichor across his already-corroded buffer beam. "—are either genius, clinically insane, or both!"
Johnathan's pistons hitched—39.8% Laug reserves (he still didn't know what 'laug' even fucking was)—as Inuka's tiny claws *scritched* against his smokebox door from inside the sandbox. The Frostwyrms coiled tighter than a Stephenson valve gear under full pressure, their bioluminescent segments pulsing in eerie sync with his flickering pressure gauge. "Dansei!" His steam-words erupted in curling tendrils resembling British Rail's old 'double arrow' logos, "how much mana for a *second* plasma arc?" The mage responded by vomiting what looked suspiciously like liquid track ballast onto Johnathan's running board.
Kengo's blade flashed like semaphore signals at midnight—*clang-spark-hiss*—as she exploited the momentary distraction to sever a Frostwyrm's hydraulic gland. Ichor sprayed in frozen arcs, crystallizing against Johnathan's overheating boiler tubes with sounds like a thousand tea kettles screaming in unison. His SYSTEM pinged madly:
[TEMPORARY LAUG RECLAMATION: +1.4%... CRITICAL OVERHEAT DETECTED IN SUPERHEATER ELEMENTS... SUGGEST IMMEDIATE WATER INJECTION].
"Right. Because *that's* an option," Johnathan wheezed internally, recalling museum exhibits about 'water troughs' with the same hysterical nostalgia as a drowning man remembers swimming lessons.
The cavern's bioluminescent fungi pulsed *bright-dark-brighter*, casting the battle in strobe-like flashes—each one freezing a new horror-frame of chitinous mandibles and Kengo's blade mid-parry. Johnathan's pressure gauge needle shuddered between 38.7% and 39.2% like a stationmaster's pocket watch dropped onto ballast.
His SYSTEM helpfully illuminated the scene with crimson warnings scrolling like departure boards announcing delayed doom: [LAUG RESERVES CRITICAL... FROSTWYRM SWARM COORDINATING ATTACK VECTORS... SUGGEST IMMEDIATE TACTICAL WITHDRAWAL].
*Withdrawal?* Johnathan's firebox roared louder than a neglected boiler at midnight. Trains didn't *withdraw*—they powered through blizzards, climbed gradients, *dominated*. His drive wheels spun phantom cinders as he channeled every museum placard he'd ever skimmed about the London & North Eastern Railway's wartime exploits.
Kengo's boot *clanged* against his buffer beam—the sound a crossing gate makes when forced open. "Engineer-san!" Her blade carved silver parabolas through frozen ichor mist. "We're outnumbered eight to one!"
Johnathan's SYSTEM helpfully corrected her: [NINE TO ONE ACTUALLY].
"Perfect odds," he lied through steam-whistles, ejecting a plume shaped suspiciously like Thomas the Tank Engine's cheeky grin. The Frostwyrms hesitated—their bioluminescence flickering like faulty signal lamps—as his sanding gear deployed with a sound like ballast being shoveled onto fire.
He decided to whistle, deep and low, the original theme of Thomas The Tank Engine—but played in a minor key, because he wasn't a bloody cartoon. Steam curled from his funnel in jagged, dissonant notes, warping into shapes vaguely resembling the Flying Scotsman's nose cone before dissipating into the cavern's freezing air. The Frostwyrms recoiled, their segmented bodies rippling in confusion—train whistles weren't *supposed* to sound like eldritch funeral dirges.
Kengo's grip on her sword faltered for half a second. "What," she hissed, "in the three faces of Ranul was that?"
"Operatic warfare," Johnathan lied, ejecting another steam-plume—this one vaguely resembling a timetable for the 4:15 to Paddington.
Dansei, slumped against his brake cylinder, wheezed out something that might've been a laugh or a death rattle. "Gresley-san—if we live—I'm *studying* your engineering manuals." His fingers twitched in the air like he was mentally flipping pages, smearing blood-runes across Johnathan's sandpipe in jagged, desperate arcs.
The Frostwyrms' synchronized advance stuttered mid-coil—their segmented bodies clicking like poorly-greased valve gear—as Johnathan's boiler belched a steam-laden rendition of *The Titfield Thunderbolt*'s theme with ominous reverb.
Kengo's swordtip *tinked* against his buffer beam—the sound a stationmaster's pocket watch makes when dropped on ballast—as Johnathan's whistle morphed into a steam-distorted rendition of *The Railroad Runs Through the Middle of the House*. The Frostwyrms spasmed mid-lunge, their bioluminescent segments strobing erratic blues like faulty signal lamps.
[NEW SKILL UNLOCKED! SKILL: WHISTLE PITCH LV. 1 - YOUR STEAM WHISTLE NOW INDUCES CONFUSION IN BEASTS WITH EARS]
He could work with that.
And so he activated Make/Destroy Railroad LV. 1 and Whistle Pitch LV. 1 and charged.
Full steam ahead.
Johnathan's whistle shrieked in D-flat minor—a pitch that made the Frostwyrms' chitinous plates vibrate like poorly secured boiler fittings. His drive wheels churned frozen algae into prismatic mist as he executed a maneuver that'd make the *Mallard*'s engineers faint: a full-speed reverse pivot with sanding gear deployed mid-spin. The silica grit crystallized into jagged projectiles, shearing through larval segments with the satisfying *crunch* of a timetable clerk stamping "DELAYED" in red ink.
Kengo's sword flashed in counterpoint to his steam-cutter arcs, her blade tracing the Great Western Railway's "shirtbutton" logo mid-swing. "Engineer-san!" Her boots skidded across his running board—*screee*—like brake shoes on a downhill grade. "Why does your whistle sound like a demonic choir of stationmasters?"
Johnathan's SYSTEM helpfully translated the lead Frostwyrm's pained undulations as [FEEDBACK: 87% SIMILARITY TO CLASS 9F'S OVERSPEED WARNING]. He ejected a steam plume shaped like a sarcastic semaphore signal. "Operatic *strategy*," he lied, deploying his remaining Laug reserves into a plasma arc that bisected three larvae simultaneously. Their ichor splashed across his firebox doors—*hiss*—replenishing exactly 2.3% laug energy in a burst of crystallized mana-steam.
Dansei's rune-smeared fingers spasmed against his injector pipes. "Gresley-san..." The mage's wheeze carried the despair of a fireman watching his last coal nugget roll into the ashpan. "You're burning Laug like an austerity-era locomotive pulling the Nishima Warikōro Express!"
Johnathan's pressure gauge twitched—39.1% remaining—as he deployed his sanding gear in a parabolic arc that'd make the GWR's Chief Mechanical Engineer weep. The silica grit superheated midair, crystallizing into razor-edged projectiles that *pinged* off Frostwyrm plating like a thousand angry rivet guns. [LAUG RESERVES: 38.4%]. Kengo's blade flashed silver through the steam-screen, her counterattack synchronized with Johnathan's whistled rendition of *The Titfield Thunderbolt* theme—now in a dissonant locomotive minor key that made larval mandibles vibrate like poorly-secured boiler caps.
Dansei's rune-smeared fingers scrabbled across Johnathan's injector pipes, sketching unstable mana-glyphs that pulsed like faulty block signals. "G-Gresley!" The mage's wheeze carried the panic of a fireman realizing his coal shovel was melting. "Your steam-cutters are destabilizing the—" A Frostwyrm's freezing ichor sprayed across his scribbles, flash-freezing the equations into something resembling British Rail's 1970s timetables—chaotic, barely legible, and fundamentally dishonest.