When Lin Jie and Sergeant William stood beneath the vast glass dome of King's Cross Station, a wave of heat, thick with steam and the clamor of the crowd, washed over them.
This was the heart of the Empire on Which the Sun Never Sets' sprawling railway network. Here, steel behemoths let out satisfied hisses, carrying countless passengers like blood to every corner of the empire.
Their destination was the distant Inverness-shire, Scotland, and in the late nineteenth century, the journey took a great deal of time.
The Association had reserved two seats for them in a first-class carriage, sparing them the overcrowded, foul-smelling conditions of third class.
Guided by a train conductor in a crisp uniform, they found their compartment, furnished with heavy velvet curtains and comfortable leather seats.
With a long, mournful whistle, the steam train known as the Flying Scotsman shuddered and clanked its way out of London.
The vast city, shrouded in fog and intrigue, raced past the windows, its outline eventually fading into a hazy gray silhouette on the horizon.
Lin Jie leaned back in his soft seat, watching the scenery change outside the window as an indescribable feeling welled up within him.
Just half a month ago, he had been a vagrant struggling to survive in the gutters of Whitechapel District. Now he was riding in a luxurious train, a symbol of the greatest achievements of industrial civilization, as a "professional."
The strangeness and unpredictability of fate had never been more apparent.
The train soon left the city behind and entered the broad English countryside.
Outside the window, crowded rows of terraced houses and towering chimneys gave way to emerald-green fields divided into countless plots by low stone walls.
Flocks of sheep grazed leisurely, and here and there, pointed Gothic church spires and ancient manor houses stood quietly atop distant hills.
It was a world utterly unlike modern society.
The steam train was not particularly fast, giving Lin Jie plenty of time to admire the passing landscape.
Unlike Lin Jie, who felt relaxed and curious, Sergeant William remained as steady as ever across from him.
He neither watched the scenery nor closed his eyes to rest. Instead, he wiped every part of his Winchester M1873 lever-action rifle with a piece of linen.
His movements were rhythmic, as if he were not maintaining a cold instrument of death, but speaking with an old friend who had been at his side for years.
"The Zulu War..." Lin Jie finally broke the silence in the compartment as he looked at the rifle in William's hands, with its distinctly Western and colonial style. "I've read about it in books. It must have been... a very difficult experience."
William's hand paused briefly as he wiped the bolt.
He glanced up at Lin Jie, then returned his gaze to the parts in his hands. "It was a war. There's nothing 'easy' about war."
His answer said nothing at all.
But the fact that he was willing to speak was, in itself, an invitation to talk.
Lin Jie didn't give up.
He knew that earning the trust of someone as reserved as William, a man with so many stories buried inside him, meant finding the key to the hardest wall around his heart.
"I read an account of the Battle of Isandlwana," Lin Jie said, choosing a more specific angle. "Thousands of British soldiers, equipped with the most advanced Martini-Henry Rifles of the time, were defeated by a Zulu army armed only with spears and cowhide shields. That must have shocked the entire empire."
This time, William stopped wiping the rifle altogether.
He slowly raised his head. His eyes held an immensely complicated emotion, a mix of pain, resentment, and deep-seated awe.
"You're right, lad." William's voice had grown hoarse. "The historians and newspaper reporters only blamed the defeat on the commander's stupidity or a failure to supply ammunition."
"But they were wrong. Everyone on that battlefield knew we hadn't been beaten by savages with spears. We'd been beaten by... a force we couldn't understand."
He paused, as if remembering the nightmare that had haunted him ever since.
"The Zulu war cry... it wasn't just a sound. It was something that struck right at your soul. It stirred up the deepest fear inside you, made your hands tremble uncontrollably, and left you unable to perform even the simplest motions to reload."
"Their witch doctors—the Sangomas—held bloody rituals before battle. On the battlefield, they were covered in symbols we couldn't understand. And their eyes... there was nothing human in them."
"They were part of the Underworld, just like us," Lin Jie said, voicing the crucial conclusion for him.
William let out a long sigh.
He reassembled the rifle with a crisp click, then solemnly put the well-maintained weapon back in its case.
"After that war, I understood something." He looked at Lin Jie, his eyes sharp. "The deadliest enemies in this world are never the knives and guns you can see in front of you. They're the things you can't see, can't understand, and can't explain with common sense."
"So when I saw you at that warehouse, using just a few deductions to throw a monster into confusion—a monster that left Marcus and me, the so-called 'elite,' helpless—I knew..."
"You and I are the same kind of person. I use a gun, and you use your head."
That was the highest praise the taciturn veteran could give.
It completely dispelled the last of the distance between them, born of their different backgrounds and stations.
They had both faced the raw terror of supernatural forces, and both had survived such desperate situations in their own way.
That shared experience was a bond no words could match.
After their brief but meaningful conversation, the atmosphere in the compartment shifted.
Silence remained the norm, but it no longer came from unfamiliarity. Now it was the silence of unspoken understanding.
Lin Jie took the complete translated edition of the Cartographer's diary from his luggage and began reading quietly.
He saw the journey as his final chance to expand his knowledge before entering a new battlefield.
William closed his eyes and began to rest in earnest.
His body was relaxed, but at the slightest disturbance, the experienced old wolf could become the deadliest hunter once more.
The train continued north, and the scenery outside gradually changed.
England's gently rolling countryside gave way to rougher, more desolate highlands.
The sky grew wider and gloomier, while stretches of heather painted the moors a melancholy purple.
They were entering the ancient Scottish Highlands, where Celtic legends and clan feuds lingered in the air.
In the evening, a well-dressed conductor brought dinner to their compartment: roast lamb chops, buttered potatoes, and a bottle of red wine from Bordeaux, France.
Such service would have cost a small fortune in the mundane world, but for I.A.R.C. agents traveling on business, it was all covered by the Association's comprehensive logistical support.
As Lin Jie enjoyed his dinner, he reviewed in his mind the descriptions of various "aquatic UMAs" in Karl's diary.
They were about to face an ancient secret lurking beneath the waters of Scotland's most mysterious loch.
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