When Amon pushed open the compartment door, his movements paused for a moment.
The room was empty. The cold light of the Siberian wasteland outside lay across the vacant seats. Where Rigerif had been sitting, only a faint indentation remained. A trace of her scent still lingered in the air, but she herself had vanished without a trace.
He raised a hand and habitually adjusted the Monocle over his right eye, feeling its icy touch.
"Tch." A soft click of his tongue, devoid of any discernible emotion, slipped from his lips, followed by a low sigh that scattered into the monotonous rumble of the train wheels.
"Though I never expected it to be this easy—but a First Generation Dragon weakened to such a state really is—"
He shook his head without finishing the sentence, but the unspoken meaning clearly carried a hint of shame for the title of Dragon King.
Amon shut the door behind him without showing the slightest urgency. He walked straight to the seat by the window, adjusted himself into a comfortable position, slowly leaned back against the soft seat, and actually closed his eyes, as if he were merely taking an ordinary nap during an ordinary journey.
Right above his head, separated only by a layer of steel and insulation, another scene was unfolding.
A man dressed in dark green combat gear that nearly blended into the color of the train's exterior clung to the roof in an almost impossibly difficult posture. Using specially made suction gear, he hung upside down, head below and feet above, like an enormous gecko.
Half his body extended past the window, and he steadily gripped a pistol fitted with a silencer. Just as when he had ambushed Rigerif earlier, except this time, his gun would not fire tranquilizer darts, but