After eight hours of deep, dreamless sleep, Fang Qiong awoke not to the crushing weight of exhaustion, but to a sharp, crystalline clarity.
The air inside her compartment was still and cool—filtered, controlled—a pocket of fragile order carved out of a ruined world. For a brief moment, she simply lay there, listening to the quiet hum of the Aetherwing beneath her. The sound grounded her. This place was different. It was hers.
She rose and moved to the small basin bolted against the wall. Water was precious—every drop counted—but this ritual was non-negotiable.
She scrubbed grime from her skin with gritty determination, the coarse soap scraping away layers of dust, dried blood, and something less tangible. The wasteland left residue that clung deeper than dirt. Each harsh stroke was a reclamation. A refusal to let the rot seep into her bones.
When she finished, she patted her face dry with a threadbare towel and looked up.
Her reflection stared back from the spotted mirror—lean, tired, but unbroken. The familiar weariness was still there, but beneath it burned something harder now. Sharper.
Resolve.
The Aetherwing was no longer just transportation. It wasn't merely shelter. It was a Home. A safe zone carved from steel and willpower. A symbol that the world hadn't won yet.
And she intended to secure it—one car at a time.
The decision had already been made.
The undead infestation inside the train was a constant threat, a festering wound in the very heart of her sanctuary. Leaving it unresolved wasn't caution—it was negligence. But beyond simple survival, something deeper stirred in her chest.
This was reclamation.
Every cleared car was a declaration. Every inch taken back was proof that chaos did not get the final say.
She dressed methodically.
The hooded trench coat settled over her shoulders with familiar weight, its reinforced fabric offering both protection and comfort. The kitchen knife—razor-edged after its upgrade—rested easily in her grip. Brutal. Simple. Reliable.
But her most valuable weapon wasn't something she could hold.
It was the skill that allowed her to vanish.
Before stepping into the second car, Qiong drew a slow breath and centered herself. Stamina was life now—every action had a cost, every mistake compounded. When she activated the skill, she felt the familiar drain, the sensation of her presence thinning, her existence slipping sideways.
She became a ghost inside her own home.
The second car reeked of death.
Seventeen undead wandered aimlessly between overturned seats and scattered luggage, their movements jerky, unfocused. They hadn't noticed her.
They never would.
Qiong moved.
The narrow confines amplified every sound—the soft scrape of her boots, the wet impact of steel meeting rotted flesh, the choking moans cut short mid-breath. The knife flashed again and again, each strike economical, precise. No wasted motion. No hesitation.
She was calm.
Focused.
Efficient.
Within minutes, it was over.
Silence reclaimed the car, broken only by her ragged breathing as she dragged bodies toward the door leading to the third car. Before her skill fully faded, she shoved the last corpse into the pile, slammed the door shut, and locked it.
The click of the bolt echoed like a verdict.
Safe—for now.
She deactivated the skill and leaned back against the wall, chest heaving. The drain hit all at once, her muscles trembling with delayed fatigue. She stayed there until her breathing steadied, then forced herself to move again.
Rest could wait. Order couldn't.
She stacked the bodies neatly at the far end of the car, then began scrubbing blood from the floor using a rag scavenged from a compartment. The task was miserable. The smell clung. The stains resisted.
Still, she scrubbed.
Cleaning wasn't just hygiene—it was defiance. A way to erase the presence of death, to reclaim the space inch by inch. When she finished, the car felt different. Not clean, exactly—but claimed.
The process repeated.
Car three.Car four.Car five.Car six.
Each one brought new challenges. Different layouts. Varying numbers of undead. Once, a mutated beast lunged from the shadows, forcing her to retreat, reposition, and strike with brutal precision.
She adapted.
She learned.
How undead turned too slowly in narrow aisles.How corners could be used as choke points.How stamina dipped faster when panic crept in.
The rhythm became almost meditative.
Activate skill.Eliminate threats.Secure the car.Clean.Recover stamina.
Grueling. Exhausting. Effective.
By the time she reached the seventh car, her body protested fiercely. Her muscles burned. Her stamina pool was dangerously low, recovering—but too slowly for comfort. She stood at the sealed door for a long moment, weighing pride against survival.
Reluctantly, she stepped back.
Tomorrow.
That night, her sleep was restless, haunted by grasping hands and hollow eyes. But even in her dreams, the image of the Aetherwing endured—gleaming, whole, defiant against the dark.
Morning brought renewed resolve.
After a quick meal of scavenged rations, she returned to work. The seventh car fell like the others, cleared with disciplined efficiency. When it was secured, she stood before the final door.
The eighth car.
The engine room.
The door was jammed, warped by impact or time. It took all her strength to wrench it open. When it finally gave way, she stepped inside—and froze.
The scene was devastation.
Wires dangled like severed veins. Pipes lay twisted and split. Gears littered the floor like broken teeth. The engine itself was a carcass—half of it missing entirely.
Despair hit her like a physical blow.
This was why the train had been abandoned. Why it was shunted onto a maintenance line and left to rot. The engineers had cannibalized the engine for parts, planning repairs that never came.
The Aetherwing was crippled.
A fortress without a heart.
She slid down the wall, the future she'd envisioned collapsing inward. A mobile sanctuary. Freedom. Escape.
All gone.
Then—
A thought.
Train is 45% better in all aspects.
The upgrade echoed in her mind, sharp and insistent.
Hesitantly, she reached out and placed her hand against the ruined engine. She closed her eyes and focused—not on machinery, but on understanding.
And she saw it.
The heart of the Aetherwing no longer resided here.
It had moved.
Shifted.
Evolved.
The true engine now sat in the nose of the train—a sleek, aerodynamic compartment that had once been empty. The damaged remains before her were obsolete, relics of an old design.
Elation surged through her chest.
The Aetherwing wasn't broken.
It had transcended.
The engine room was now a blank canvas.
Workshop.Hydroponics.Storage.
Possibility replaced despair.
Before leaving, she searched the car thoroughly, remembering the conductor's promise. She found the stash tucked away in a locker: a tackle box of fishing lures and hooks, a sturdy fishing pole, and an assortment of snacks and candies.
Strange.
Valuable.
She gathered everything and left the engine room behind, closing the door with finality.
The past was finished.
The future waited.
With the train fully cleared, Qiong spent the remainder of the day organizing. She stripped all seven cleared cars of junk, hauling salvage, supplies, and personal belongings into the second car. Everything was sorted. Categorized. Ordered.
So she could sleep without fear.
The seeds were the greatest prize.
Expired—but expiration meant nothing anymore. Tomatoes. Peppers. Beans. Lettuce. Flowers. She separated and labeled them carefully, her mind already racing ahead.
Food.Materials.Life.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, Fang Qiong stood and surveyed the Aetherwing.
No longer an infested hulk.
A sanctuary.
A beginning.
The sky no longer promised salvation—but it offered opportunity.
And she was ready.