The taiga slowly dissolved into sprawling moss-crusted switch yards outside Maasuitia Tidofiru, where tracks spiderwebbed between floating mana reactors humming like overtaxed station clocks. Johnathan's SYSTEM helpfully translated the city's glow into [TERMINUS ACQUIRED: 3.2KM] while Johnathan looked at the other trains around him and up ahead.
They all looked old.
Not in age, but in style.
Like late Victorian Era, early Edwardian Era. Except without the coal dust and smog, just clean energy trailing off their smoke stacks—a fantasy metropolis fueled by crystallized mana reactors that pulsed like the heart of a grand terminal station. The city's skyline was that of a typical Medieval European city—except with rails where the stone roads should be.
Johnathan's SYSTEM pinged—[URBAN RAILWAY SYNCHRONIZATION: INITIATED]—as Maasuitia Tidofiru's terminal towers loomed ahead, their Gothic ironwork dripping with mana-fed ivy that glittered like signal lamps. The city's rail-roads thrummed beneath his wheels, their polished steel humming a pre-war march from some long-dead empire's railway regiment. Through the buffet car's now-sentient porthole (which kept whimpering in C-sharp whenever Kengo glared at it), Johnathan watched steam-powered trams rattle past—each puffing out geometrically perfect smoke rings that formed tiny Midland Railway crests before dissipating.
Then he noticed everyone was staring at him—well, at the locomotive, which was him—but still staring.
"What is that?"
"I think it's a train?"
Johnathan's boiler pressure spiked—metaphorically—as the crowd of railworkers and mana-tech priests gawked at his chassis. Their oil-stained coveralls flapped in the wind like semaphore flags, each stained with grease patterns that suspiciously resembled Southern Railway logos. A child pointed at his smokebox, where residual Frostwyrm ichor had crystallized into something resembling the Flying Scotsman's nose art if it had been painted by a drunken cubist.
"Impossible," muttered an engineer clutching a glowing wrench, its head shaped like a miniature buffer. "How can a train be so... massive?"
"Perhaps a Lord or Lady from one of the Southern Dominions?" mused a grease-streaked engineer tapping a mana-powered clipboard that kept extruding tiny timetable scrolls. The crowd parted before him like the Red Sea.
"A Lord or Lady, please, it must be a King or Queen," muttered a laundry maid clutching a bundle of starched napkins imprinted with tiny rail insignias. The crowd's murmurs crescendoed into reverent gasps as Johnathan's polished buffers caught the afternoon light—the reflection warping into a perfect BR coronet across the station's soot-stained windows. A signalman dropped his glowing lantern, its shattered mana core forming miniature tracks that slithered toward Johnathan's wheels like worshippers prostrating before a deity.
Inuka only smiled out the window, her fox ears twitching at the whispered reverence of the crowd. "They think we're royalty," she mused, swiping a spectral cucumber sandwich that squeaked like a brake cylinder when bitten. The buffet car's chandelier—now a floating cluster of bioluminescent signal lamps—dimmed in protest as Kengo systematically dismembered a floating pork cutlet with her sword.
Dansei groaned awake, his cheek-glyph pulsing in sync with the city's mana reactors. "Are we... being worshipped?" he slurred, watching a trackside priest kneel before Johnathan's sanding gear. The locomotive responded with a precisely-timed steam release that formed the illusion of a top-hatted conductor tipping his hat—a maneuver requiring *three* emergency pressure valve adjustments and *zero* dignity.
Outside, Johnathan was nearing the station platform, his wheels slowing to a ceremonial crawl as mana-powered signal flags flipped in unison—each embroidered with heraldic locomotives whose smokestacks puffed real steam. A brass band of automaton musicians wheezed to life near the water tower, their pipework playing a jaunty rendition of "The British Railway March" with suspiciously accurate vibrato.
Slowly he came to a stop at the station platform as the automaton brass band crescendoed into a triumphant finale—only for the tuba player to over-pressurize and launch its own valve cap like a celebratory firework. Johnathan's SYSTEM pinged [CROWD SENTIMENT: AWE 89%], confirming what the sea of dropped jaws and trembling signal flags already suggested: nobody in Maasuitia Tidofiru had ever seen a locomotive with polished brass rivets that gleamed like a knight's armor, or one so large either.
A stationmaster in a top hat woven from mana-infused rail ties scurried forward, his polished boots clicking against the platform like a metronome set to "prestissimo." He bowed so deeply his hat nearly touched the tracks. "Most Exalted Rail Sovereign," he wheezed, "your arrival blesses our humble terminus!" Behind him, a gaggle of engineers dropped to their knees, their wrenches crossed over their chests in a gesture suspiciously resembling the LMS coat of arms.
Johnathan responded by speaking in thier minds as he always did while the trio was inside the train.
"Ah yes," Johnathan pulsed through the carriage speakers with the practiced cadence of a station announcer who'd definitely forged his safety certifications. "Standard procedure for visiting dignitaries." His steam vents emitted a perfectly timed plume along with it.
The stationmaster's eyes widened further at the "voice from nowhere," mistaking the PA crackle for some royal sorcery. Behind him, three junior conductors fainted in unison, their striped waistcoats deflating like punctured boiler tubes.
Soon Kengo, Inuka, and Dansei walked out of the carriage—Dansei was still being held up by Kengo—as the trio faced the stationmaster, who bowed again, his hat nearly falling off his head. "Your Grace," the stationmaster wheezed, "your *magnificent* locomotive has graced our humble rails!" His hands trembled as he gestured toward Johnathan's smokebox, where residual Frostwyrm ichor had hardened into crystalline filigree resembling a royal crest.
The crowd gasped in unison—a sound like a thousand steam valves releasing at once—as Johnathan's SYSTEM pinged [DECEPTION SUCCESS RATE: 92.4%]. Kengo's sword hand twitched toward the blade at her hip, her knuckles whitening as the stationmaster addressed *her* next: "My Lady, your armored retinue is most impressive!" She blinked, momentarily derailed by the assumption she was nobility, before recovering with a glare sharp enough to cut rail ties.
Meanwhile, Inuka—still clutching the spectral sandwich—took a theatrical bite, her fox ears perking as the bioluminescent jam dripped onto the platform with a *sizzle*. The stationmaster paled. "A—a royal *fox*!" he stammered, mistaking her for some exotic familiar. Dansei, still half-conscious, mumbled something about "third-class tickets" before slumping further against Kengo, his cheek-glyph pulsing in time with the city's mana reactors.
"Actually sir, this locomotive belongs to the driver." Dansei gestured over to him.
"Uh yes! Now I do need to be going, may you all excuse me—" Johnathan lied, whistling a shrill note that sent steam billowing in perfectly-timed distraction as he *carefully diverted* power to the carriage doors. They hissed shut with aristocratic finality while the crowd gasped at his "departure"—blissfully unaware the "driver" had just trapped himself inside his own locomotive via *extremely* committed method acting.
The stationmaster clutched his chest like a man witnessing divine intervention. "Wait! I have so many questions!"
But Johnathan had already chuffed away, pretending not to hear him.
The stationmaster's frantic cries faded into the rhythmic *clack-clack* of wheels on rails as Johnathan rolled deeper into Maasuitia Tidofiru's labyrinthine railyards. His SYSTEM helpfully pinged [URBAN NAVIGATION: ENGAGED] while overlaying his HUD with glowing tracks that branched like veins through the city's underbelly—some pulsing blue with fresh mana, others rust-red and disused.
Meanwhile the stationmaster looked back at the trio—Kengo's sword now halfway unsheathed, Inuka licking jam off her claws, Dansei swaying like a drunk commuter—and bowed so low his hat brushed the tracks. "Your Grace's... *eccentric* retinue is most—"
"Not retinue," Kengo snapped, her blade *hissing* against the scabbard. "We're passengers. He's the driver." She jerked her chin at Johnathan's retreating cab, where his shadowy "driver" figure (a clever projection of steam and stray glyphs) waved jauntily before vanishing into the locomotive's glow.
The stationmaster blinked. "But—the *polished rivets*! The *heraldic smokebox*! No mere *driver* commands such—"
"Compensation?" Inuka chirped, swallowing the last spectral sandwich whole. It *squeaked* indignantly in her throat.
"I... I mist know his name, please, on the three full faces of Ranul, tell me you know his name!"
The stationmaster clutched his clipboard like a lifebuoy in the sudden silence. Kengo blinked—slowly—before ejecting Dansei into his arms like excess baggage. "His name is Johnathan Gresely."
"Johnathan Gresley?" The stationmaster repeated, commiting it to memory.
"Yes sir, now if you excuse us, we have to be going to go to the local Adventurer's Guild." Kengo said, dragging Dansei away from the starstruck stationmaster who was already scribbling "Johnathan Gresley" across his timetable with ink that smelled suspiciously like axle grease.
Soon after, Kengo, Dansei, and Inuka were walking down the street to the local Adventurer's Guild, only having a vague idea of where it was—when suddenly, Inuka sniffed the air and pointed toward a passing tramcar advertising "ADVENTURERS' GUILD BRANCH #1829" in glowing mana-glyphs.
The tram's smoked glass windows flickered with animated illustrations of warrior trains battling Frostwyrms—clearly meant to inspire recruits, not display accurate combat tactics.
"Finally!" Kengo groaned, hauling Dansei aboard just as the doors hissed shut with the petulance of a delayed express. The interior smelled of ozone and overcooked mana pastries, their wrappers littering seats embossed with tiny rail insignias. Inuka's nose twitched at a particularly aggressive jam stain shaped like the Flying Scotsman.
"Please hold tight," chimed an automated voice. "Next stop: Adventurers' Guild Branch #1829—where dreams depart on time!"
"Yeah, let's hope so."