Electric Light

The roar of internal combustion engines was reshaping Backlund's pulse at an unprecedented pace.

Once, the city's background noise had been the crisp clatter of hooves on cobblestone streets, the high-pitched calls of coachmen, and the occasional curse. Now, a deeper, more penetrating "putt-putt-putt" was spreading through the city.

The morning mist had yet to disperse when a sleek, jet-black sedan glided silently along Queens' main thoroughfare like a ghost. It belched no irritating black smoke, and the only sound it made was the faint friction of tires against the road—a stark contrast to the crude roaring of the trucks and early passenger cars around it that were still in their breaking-in period.

This was the vehicle Edwin had crafted for himself using his Alchemist abilities.

Coachman John tightened the reins. His old companion, Gray Wind, pawed uneasily at the ground, great clouds of white vapor pouring from its nostrils.

When that smooth steel monster drove past, the sense of oppression it brought far surpassed that of those noisy freight trucks.

John watched the car vanish into the distance, leaving only an elegant curve in its wake. He spat, his expression a mixture of jealousy and bewilderment.

"Damn tin can..."

He muttered under his breath, yet his grip on the old whip in his hand tightened unconsciously.

He knew that for coachmen like him, the good days were probably truly coming to an end.

In the eastern part of the city, old Phil's carriage company had been completely transformed.

The enormous wooden sign had been taken down and replaced with a brand-new metal one.

The stables, once filled with the scent of hay and horse dung, now reeked of pungent engine oil and gasoline.

Old Phil had his signature pipe clenched between his teeth, but even the smoke seemed unable