The devil snapped his fingers.
A slow crackle of red and black flame erupted beneath Ultima's feet. Not hot cold, like embers from a long-dead fire. It coiled around his legs, his waist, then up his chest and arms like a tailor working with shadow and ash.
When the flames finally dissipated, Ultima was no longer in his ordinary clothes. He looked down at himself, inspecting the new outfit with narrowed eyes.
A long crimson coat draped over his shoulders, trimmed in black stitching that shimmered faintly, like veins filled with molten obsidian. It clung to his frame perfectly sharp and regal, yet undeniably cursed. The fabric was too smooth, too perfect. Like it had been sewn from guilt itself.
Black gloves covered his hands. On the back of each glove, an insignia shimmered a crimson eye on one hand, a broken hourglass on the other. His boots were polished and silent, made for walking across timelines, not earth.
And then there was the hat.
The devil handed it to him with theatrical flair. "Your crown," he said mockingly.
It was a conductor's cap, but twisted colored deep black with a crimson band above the brim, and a small silver emblem at the center: a cracked mirror. A subtle reminder that reflection meant nothing if you couldn't change what you saw.
Ultima placed it atop his head, his expression unreadable.
"This outfit," the devil said, circling him with an air of satisfaction, "was worn by no one. Because it was made for you. It is stitched from the cloth of every consequence. It will not protect you, nor will it redeem you. It simply is what it is an echo of the blood on your hands."
Ultima adjusted the gloves, straightened his coat, and said nothing.
The devil's eyes sparkled. "Not even going to ask about a weapon?"
"I don't need one," Ultima muttered, though he half-expected to be handed a blade, maybe a cursed gun, something extravagant.
Instead, the devil snapped his fingers again, and with a sudden clang, a rusty shovel landed against the floor between them.
Ultima blinked. "A shovel?"
"Yes." The devil grinned, clearly amused. "You'll dig through time with it, in a manner of speaking. Or maybe just your own grave, over and over."
Ultima stared at it. The shovel's handle was blackened like charcoal, the blade chipped and scarred. It wasn't elegant. It wasn't even sharp. It was workman's metal. Earth-born. The kind used to bury things you wanted to forget.
Still, he picked it up. It was heavier than expected, but well-balanced. And he didn't question it further.
"I thought you'd protest," the devil said, folding his arms.
Ultima slung the shovel over his shoulder. "I've buried enough people with my hands. This just makes it official."
The devil laughed, a deep, rich sound that echoed far too long in the ruined station.
Without another word, Ultima turned to the train. Its door remained open, the light from inside casting long shadows over the cold concrete.
He stepped in.
The moment his boots touched the floor of the train, a low hum ran through the entire vehicle. Lights flickered to life, illuminating the corridor with a dim, sepia glow. The seats were arranged in classic pairs, one beside the other, stretching deep into the carriage. Velvet red. Polished wood.
And every seat was filled.
Ultima froze.
There were no ordinary passengers here.
Every person in the car wore a familiar face—some angry, some vacant, some horrified. But all of them were dead. Or rather, they had once been.
Children. Soldiers. Strangers. Friends. Family.
All the lives he had destroyed sat neatly in rows, staring straight ahead as though awaiting judgment.
Ultima's breath caught in his throat. He recognized them all. The woman whose husband he'd blackmailed into suicide. The friend he betrayed for power. The younger sibling he abandoned in a fire he caused. He walked slowly between them, the shovel scraping faintly against the metal floor.
None of the passengers reacted.
He waved his hand in front of one the old man whose village Ultima had razed in his youth for strategic gain. No response. The man simply sat, his eyes blank, his posture stiff.
"They can't see you," came the devil's voice from behind.
Ultima turned. The devil had appeared beside him inside the train without a sound.
"What?"
"They're not really here," the devil explained, tapping one of the passengers on the head. The man didn't move. "Think of them as... memories carved in wax. You're not supposed to speak to them. You're supposed to see them. They are your burden. Each face a reminder. Each seat a consequence."
Ultima turned away, continuing his slow walk through the train.
"They won't scream," the devil continued, "they won't cry. But they'll ride with you. For as many loops as it takes."
Ultima stopped beside a young girl perhaps no older than ten who stared ahead with a hollow expression. Her hands clutched a stuffed rabbit that was scorched at the edges.
He remembered her.
"I didn't mean to kill her," he said quietly. "She... just got in the way."
The devil offered no response. Only a faint, cruel smile.
Ultima stepped past the final row and into the next car. More passengers. More faces. All unmoving. All frozen in time.
"How many cars are there?" he asked.
"One for each sin," the devil said. "Some you remember. Some you don't yet. But don't worry. The train will remind you."
Ultima looked ahead. The hallway stretched endlessly.
He gripped the shovel tighter.
"No turning back now?" he asked, without emotion.
"Oh no," the devil replied, standing beside him once more. "The train doesn't reverse. Not unless you make it. Welcome aboard, Conductor."
---
The train screeched to a halt.
No voice called out the station name. No doors opened with ceremony. The lights dimmed, the hum of motion died, and the air grew heavy.
Ultima stood. The conductor's hat cast a long shadow across his face. The shovel stayed slung over his shoulder as he stepped out of the car.
The station was empty.
Dust filled the air like old smoke, the ceiling lights cracked and flickering. Broken benches lined the wall, each stained with time. Moss crept through the cracks of the tile floor. Vines had grown over the signage, obscuring names he didn't want to read.
He knew this place. Not because of the location but because of the weight it carried.
He walked forward. With each step, the train behind him faded into fog, vanishing from view.
And then it hit him.
His head jerked.
His breath caught.
A violent pull like falling underwater in reverse. His vision twisted. The world turned inside out.
And just like that.
He wasn't Ultima the conductor anymore.
He was back.
Back in the body of his seventeen-year-old self.
His hand was mid-swing.
And it was about to crush someone's skull.
A boy cowered beneath him in a corner of the school hallway. Frail, glasses askew, a bloodied lip trembling. The crowd of "friends" around Ultima jeered, phones raised, laughing like animals.
Ultima's fist was centimeters from the nerd's face when he stopped it frozen in midair. His body locked. A shiver ran through his young frame.
"No.." he whispered.
He stepped back. His glare, sharp and sudden, cut through the laughter around him.
His so-called friends paused, confused.
Ultima turned his eyes toward them cold, sharp, unforgiving. Something in them shifted. Not fear. Not yet. But unease.
"Don't. follow. me." he muttered.
He turned and walked away.
The crowd didn't know what to say.
Inside, he was already shaking.
He barely made it to the bathroom.
The stall door slammed open. He fell to his knees.
And puked.
Violently.
His stomach turned inside out his lungs heaved with dry sobs. He clutched the toilet rim like it was the only anchor in a storm. His entire body trembled, drenched in sweat.
Images poured into him. Not memories..
Sins.
Faces. Screams. Flames. Blood. Cold eyes. Warped smiles. That little girl clutching the rabbit. The man he knifed behind the warehouse. The girl who begged. The friend who cried as Ultima pushed him away for power.
Every action.
Every cruelty.
All flooding in at once.
He collapsed against the stall wall, his fingers twitching.
"So this is what I was," he whispered hoarsely. "This is who I used to be."
A bell rang in the distance. Distant. Hollow. Echoing through the school halls.
Ultima wiped his mouth and stood.
His reflection in the cracked mirror looked young. But those eyes... were old.
Too old.
He found the boy later hours after school, outside the back of the building. Still shaken. Still holding a broken pair of glasses. The nerd sat with hunched shoulders, knees to his chest, bruised but breathing.
Ultima walked toward him slowly.
He remembered this moment.
He remembered what should have happened.
He remembered the knife.
He had dragged the boy here, humiliated him, and in a burst of cold fury, stabbed him just beneath the ribs. Not to kill no. He had wanted him to suffer. To remember. To fear.
But not today.
Not in this loop.
He walked past his past self's hidden stash spot. The knife wasn't there anymore.
He sat down beside the boy. Said nothing.
The boy looked at him with terror. But Ultima only offered silence.
"You're not gonna... hurt me?" the boy whispered.
Ultima shook his head.
The boy burst into tears.
That night, Ultima followed the boy home from a distance, just to make sure he got back safe. The streets were dim, littered with trash and flickering signs. He watched him disappear into an apartment building.
And then he turned.
Something felt off.
He walked a few blocks further his steps carrying him toward a park he vaguely remembered.
There was a scream.
A woman.
A drunk man with a knife. A mugging gone wrong.
Ultima reacted instinctively. He rushed forward no shovel this time, just fists. He tackled the man, shoved him down, kicked the blade aside. The woman ran.
But the man pulled a second knife from his boot. Ultima didn't see it in time.
A slash across his shoulder.
He cursed and struck back blood in his eyes.
He wasn't fast enough.
The woman gone.
But someone else..
A kid. Maybe nine. Stepping out from the bushes. Wrong time. Wrong place.
Ultima screamed. "No!"
The blade was thrown and struck flesh.
The kid dropped, soundlessly.
Ultima dropped to his knees, clutching the bleeding child.
"No, no, no dammit, NO!!"
He tried pressure.
He screamed for help.
None came.
His hands, slick with blood, trembled.
He hadn't meant for this.
He'd saved someone.
And someone else died.
The fog came quickly.
He barely had time to register the stillness before the ground trembled beneath him.
The air shimmered.
The world bent.
Then.. He was back on the train.
Older again..
The coat returned to his shoulders. The hat rested heavy on his brow. The shovel, warm in his hands.
He stood in the corridor breathing fast.
Sweat clung to his skin. Blood real or imagined seemed etched into his gloves.
The devil sat casually on a seat near the door, sipping something dark from a teacup.
"So," it said. "How was your first stop?"
Ultima didn't answer.
"Let me guess," the devil went on. "You tried. You saved someone. Maybe you thought a good act would count. But redemption," he said, swirling the drink,
"doesn't work on a scale, Conductor.."
Ultima glared.
"Someone else died," he said flatly.
The devil's smile widened.
"You've learned the first truth. Atonement isn't about intent. It's about result."
Ultima stepped forward. His jaw clenched.
"I'll get it right next time."
"Oh?" the devil chuckled. "Did I forget to mention? You're in a loop."
The train lurched.
Ultima blinked and the world twisted again.
The same screeching halt. The same station. The same dust. The same sin.
Only this time...
It was harder.
And they were waiting.
---
End of Chapter Two.