The subway station during rush hour was always so crowded that it made one question life itself.
The way people were crammed into the train created an illusion that perhaps everyone in the city was trying to squeeze onto the same subway—if he could, Song Cheng would truly prefer not to take the subway at this time.
But there was no other choice.
Under normal circumstances, the train would only arrive during the peak morning hours, and while there had been reports of sightings at other times, they were all unpredictable.
Song Cheng, with his robust physique, found himself among a mass of bodies in the train compartment.
As the train pulled away from the station, he felt its gradual acceleration and observed the hurrying crowd of office workers, the gaps between people filled with a blend of scents—
A cage made of iron was packed tightly with flesh, roaring through the dark underground, diving into concrete tunnels, transporting people from one place to another.
Artificial lights could pierce through the darkness within the “tunnel,” but beyond it, in the soil, darkness and the unknown reflected the true nature of the underground world.
Song Cheng lightly closed his eyes, constantly repeating these thoughts in his mind.
He imagined this iron "meat-carrying cage" burrowing through the soil like a grotesque, blind worm, feeling the suffocating dampness and the cold, earthy smell of decay.
Still with his eyes shut, he slowly maneuvered through the throng in the carriage—though it was still crowded, people unconsciously made way for him.
At his comfortable pace, he reached the back of the compartment and opened his eyes to take a look.
The door displayed that it was the end of carriage two, with carriage three ahead.
The noise from the carriage behind him had gradually waned, and only faint conversations occasionally broke the silence, sounding as though they were coming from behind a thick wall.
Without looking back, Song Cheng took out a piece of sheepskin parchment from his pocket, which had already been treated with a bit of ointment.
He stuffed the parchment into his mouth, savoring the strong, stimulating chilly taste that rushed to his head, then took a step forward.
Passing through the door to carriage two, he arrived at a vacant new carriage.
The preceding carriage was still packed with early morning commuters, yet this one was completely empty.
A few old newspapers lay on the somewhat worn seats, but their dates showed tomorrow's date.
Turning back, Song Cheng saw the automatic door labeled as carriage sixteen.
The potent taste in his mouth was starting to diffuse, so he turned around and continued forward, entering through the doors of carriage sixteen.
The next section of the train was rusty, with dirty windows on both sides.
Occasionally, dim light flickered outside, resembling strange eyes watching this rush of an iron worm through the dark soil.
This was carriage twelve.
Song Cheng continued walking, verifying the carriage numbers along the way, and with each step he took, the carriages became increasingly bizarre—some were filled with plastic models, others grew mushrooms, and some even had no roofs or walls, only a bare floor, racing through the ever-wriggling earthen tunnels.
All the carriage numbers appeared randomly between one and twenty-one, utterly devoid of order.
A warm flickering candlelight suddenly caught his eye as he entered the next carriage, where the subway structure was no longer visible.
He stepped into a large wooden carriage, where several exquisitely dressed women sat on either side, deeply engrossed in conversation, often erupting into melodious laughter.
Outside the carriage, a light fog floated by, and occasionally, a streetlight illuminated the path of an unfamiliar city's streets.
One glamorous lady noticed the sudden intrusion of Song Cheng and stood up in surprise, stepping forward to inquire about his presence.
However, Song Cheng ignored her completely and merely glanced back at the door, which bore the number twenty-three.
He turned and walked back.
A “normal carriage,” identical to those on regular subways, came into view.
The carriage was spacious, bright, and clean, the seats neatly arranged.
Only one passenger sat in the middle near the window, holding a newspaper that obscured their face.
Song Cheng turned back for a quick look and, upon seeing the door labeled twenty-two, let out a breath, striding toward that lone passenger.
The passenger wore a pitch-black coat with a matching black suitcase at their feet and a black umbrella hanging from the seat’s railing.
Everything from the coat to the suitcase to the umbrella had a strange, rubbery feel.
Song Cheng sat down beside the passenger and gently tapped the newspaper in their hands.
At last, the passenger placed the newspaper down and looked at Song Cheng.
It was a smooth face, reflecting light slightly like rubber—a gaunt middle-aged man wearing a stiff, old-fashioned black bowler hat.
“Hello,” the oddly-shaped passenger nodded at Song Cheng.
His voice trembled slightly but was courteous, “What would you like to chat about today?”
The entity from carriage twenty-two could materialize in the otherworldly train, usually lingering in carriage twenty-two.
They had reasoning and could communicate, sometimes even assisting outsiders in escaping the bizarre realms—but under certain conditions, they could also show aggression.
Currently, he was quite friendly.
“Have you heard of the address 66 Wutong Road?” Song Cheng asked, sounding as casual as if conversing with an ordinary person. “There’s someone named ‘Yu Sheng’ living there.”
The rubber-like "passenger" shook his head. “This train doesn’t go to that stop.” At once, Song Cheng’s expression turned serious.
The passenger in carriage twenty-two knew much about places, and as long as the inquiry was clear, he could almost answer any basic questions about different realms, even if they were light-years away.
At the very least, he would inform Song Cheng whether the mentioned realm existed and if it was within the boundary of intersections.
But now he said the train didn’t go to that stop.
In fact, this train truly wouldn’t lead to anywhere, but when the passenger spoke of “the train doesn’t go to that stop,” it indicated he didn’t have information about a particular location.
Since the special bureau’s records contained intelligence on the passenger in carriage twenty-two, such a response had been documented less than five times.
After a moment of silence, Song Cheng asked again, “What about this person, ‘Yu Sheng’? Have you heard this name during your travels?”
“If it's information related to people, you might want to ask the ‘Storyteller.’ He knows a lot about anything concerning people—he’s in the park, telling stories to kids... Do you need directions? I can tell you when ‘the park’ is.”
“Thank you, but no need. I know where the park is,” Song Cheng shook his head, feeling the ointment's potency gradually dwindling.
He quickly asked another question, “Any news from Nightfall Valley recently?”
“Nightfall Valley... Ah, a traveler left from there, but the specifics I don’t know,” the passenger said slowly. “If you want to know what happened after that, I’m afraid I can’t help.”
“Why not?”
“Because that stop has been canceled.”
The passenger placed the newspaper on his lap, speaking calmly with that rubbery face.
Song Cheng’s eyes widened, shocked in his seat.
That answer had never come up before!
“The train doesn’t go to that stop” was at least a response mentioned in the records, but “that stop has been canceled”... he was certain this was a first!
“Why was it canceled?!” he instinctively asked, eyes urgent.
“Who knows?” The passenger shrugged, quite human-like. “I only know about events along the route of the train, but anything that happens beyond… I wouldn’t know.”
Song Cheng blinked, feeling the effectiveness of the ointment fade further.
He could hear faint voices around him and still had a few questions he wished to ask, but just then, his peripheral vision caught sight of the newspaper resting on the passenger's lap.
It was the sole thing on the entity that didn’t have a rubbery feel; it was genuinely just a newspaper.
The front page displayed a large black-and-white illustration—in an age where even the cheapest street newspapers were printed in color, this black-and-white image seemed wholly retro.
The picture itself looked fuzzy and distorted, like a crude sketch hastily drawn by an unskilled artist based on hearsay, rather than a live photo.
A desolate valley appeared, with a giant eye floating in the air, slowly drifting away.
Below the illustration was the headline: "After the Feast."
“We’re almost at the station,” the passenger's voice suddenly brought Song Cheng back from his daydream.
He looked up sharply, only to find the passenger of carriage twenty-two was intently observing him, having reached for the umbrella hanging from the railing while casually asking, “What’s the weather like now?”
Song Cheng immediately reined in his thoughts and observed the being in front of him with utmost seriousness.
The passenger had brought an umbrella today, but it was dry.
“It’s a cloudy day…” Song Cheng started to say.
But just then, he noticed a streak of moisture appearing on the passenger's suitcase, as if invisible rain had just fallen onto it.
“But it’s begun to rain,” Song Cheng added quickly. “Taking an umbrella was a wise decision.”
“Indeed,” the passenger smiled, the rubbery face making a slight tearing sound, “Safe travels, and be careful when getting off.”
“Safe travels.” Song Cheng let out a breath, nodding with a smile.
The noisy sounds swelled around them, the heat of human bodies swelling within the cramped carriage.
As the robust Song Cheng was squeezed among the crowd, he felt the train gradually decelerating as it approached the station.
(End of Chapter)