The return to Locomotive 09 was made under a heavy silence. The Heretics and the Machinist's men carried the crates of medical supplies and Bosnian fabrics with a grim urgency. The Specters had vanished back into the foliage as if they had never existed, leaving only a trail of greenish smoke and the weight of an unspoken warning.

  Henry walked in the rear, feeling the object Major Ghost had handed him weighing in his blue jacket pocket. It was an ammunition casing, but not like the ones the Crusaders worshipped. The metal was dark—a tungsten-polymer alloy with no factory markings and a tip that seemed to house a thermal charge core.

  As they reached the tracks, the train’s yellowish headlight cut through the forest's gloom. Vassily, Volkovich’s trusted pilot, was leaning against the cabin door, smoking a hand-rolled cigarette that smelled of tar. He straightened up as he saw the group emerge from the woods heavily laden.

  "You took your time," Vassily said, his raspy voice muffled by the low rumble of the locomotive. "The underground radio is nothing but static. The Machinist is impatient. He doesn't like leaving the engine running in open territory."

  "We had company," Henry replied, signaling Kane and Elena to board with the cargo. "But the deal holds. 70% for us and the people; the rest goes to Arthur’s boilers."

  Vassily spat on the ground, watching the movement. "And what else did you find out there?" The pilot's eyes gleamed with greedy curiosity. "The old man said that bird was carrying top-tier tech."

  Henry stopped on the first step of the wagon and pulled the cartridge from his pocket, holding it between his thumb and forefinger for the pilot to see. Vassily, who had spent his life surrounded by scrap metal and heavy tools, turned pale as he recognized the sophistication of the piece.

  "That... that’s not from around here," the pilot whispered, forgetting his cigarette. "Not even the armies of the Fourteen Nations used this kind of ammo before the Fall. This is the work of someone with power to spare and cold labs."

  "It’s what brought the plane down," Henry said, tucking the projectile away. "And whoever fired this took the most valuable thing in the vault. The Machinist will want to see this."

  Vassily climbed into the cabin and pulled the pressure lever. Steam hissed aggressively, clearing the forest air. "If there are people with that kind of caliber roaming Oregon, Henry... then the Machinist is no longer the master of the castle. Get in. If the shine of that ammo attracts whoever fired it, I don't want to be standing still when they arrive."

  The train jolted, steel wheels grinding against the rails as they began the journey back into the bowels of the world. Henry lingered on the rear platform for a moment, watching the plane's carcass shrink into the distance.

  He knew that the era of machete-and-saw factions was about to endure a reality check.

  The cargo wagon swayed gently as Locomotive 09 plunged back into the darkness of the tunnels. The faint light from the oil lantern reflected off the polished metal of the unknown cartridge in Henry’s hands.

  Kane, sitting on a bale of medical gauze, wiped sweat from his face with a grimy rag. He looked at the high-tech projectile and let out a dry, ironic laugh.

  "You know what I think?" Kane began, leaning back against the metal wall. "Maybe the woman in the tunnel was right. Maybe it’s those 'Night Reapers.' Eleven men, skull masks, and the power of thunder. All that’s missing is for them to show up now and ask for change for that cartridge."

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  Elena, who was organizing bottles of antiseptic, gave a discrete smile, though her eyes remained fixed on the shadows of the door.

  "The world is big, Kane. And it’s gotten very empty in the last ten years," she replied, tucking a knife into her boot. "Maybe they really do exist, hidden in some luxury bunker. But honestly? I don’t want to meet them. We already have enough trouble with fanatics who take pleasure in pain and Spaniards who’ve turned into brush. We don’t need ghosts with tungsten ammo."

  Henry didn't join the banter. His fingers traced the contour of the ammunition, feeling the coldness of an engineering that did not belong to this age of scrap and improvisation.

  (Maybe Solomon knows what weapon this belongs to), Henry thought, his gaze lost in the darkness of the tunnel. (He served before the Fall; saw things I’ve only heard in stories. If anyone can identify this trail of death, it’s him).

  After a few hours of traveling in absolute silence, the train finally slowed down. The smell of ozone and grease announced they were re-entering the heart of the Travelers' territory.

  When the workshop doors opened, the scene was one of readiness. Arthur Volkovich stood in the center of the platform, surrounded by more men than usual, all wielding sledgehammers and pipe wrenches as if expecting an invasion.

  The train stopped with a sigh of steam. Vassily jumped from the cabin even before Henry.

  "They’re back, Machinist!" the pilot shouted. "And they brought the cargo... but they brought something that’ll make you want to bolt every entrance in Oregon."

  Arthur walked up to Henry, who stepped down from the wagon with the cartridge in his open palm. The Russian giant looked at the object but did not touch it. He simply stared at Henry with a heavy countenance.

  "You fulfilled the agreement," Arthur said, his voice vibrating like an ancient engine. "My men will offload your share and take it to the downtown building. But that piece of metal in your hand... that is an invitation to all our funerals."

  "Do you recognize this, Arthur?" Henry asked.

  "I recognize danger," the Machinist replied, turning his back and signaling for the gates to be closed. "Go. Now. Take that to Solomon. If there is anyone left who still knows how to read the alphabet of destruction, it’s that old man."

  Henry nodded. He, Kane, and Elena left the tunnels, ascending through the elevated routes to the safety of the downtown ruins.

  They crossed Beck Volter’s security perimeters and entered the main hall of the fortified building. Solomon Vane stood before the large reinforced glass window, observing the city's silhouette. He turned when he heard Henry’s heavy footsteps.

  "You’ve returned," Solomon said, his voice paternal yet sharp with perception. "I smell blood and chemicals. And I feel the mission brought back more than just medicine."

  Henry walked to the oak table in the center of the room and set down the black cartridge. The sound of metal hitting wood seemed to echo throughout the building.

  "Major Ghost gave us this," Henry began. "It was in the plane's vault. But the vault was opened before we arrived. By something that uses this, Solomon."

  Solomon approached the table. He picked up the cartridge with trembling fingers—not from fear, but from an old memory. He rotated it under the light of a lamp and sighed, a deep sound that seemed to carry the weight of an entire world.

  "The world didn't end with gunpowder, Henry..." Solomon whispered, looking at his pupil. "It was just waiting for the silence to be deep enough for the true master to speak again."

  Solomon Vane held the black projectile against the amber light of the lamp, his fingers tracing the aerodynamic lines of the tungsten alloy. The silence in the room grew heavy, interrupted only by the distant sound of Mika Thorne practicing strikes with her naginata on the floor below.

  "This isn’t a common bullet, Henry," Solomon began, his voice falling like a sentence. "It’s a magnetic acceleration slug. It belongs to an S-8 Model Portable Railgun. I saw prototypes of this in military labs before the Fall, but never a finished, functional version. Henry, I don’t know who fired this. There are no country markings, no army crests. Whoever did this operates at a level of technology the world forgot existed."

  He handed the projectile back to Henry but quickly shook his head, forcing himself to focus on the urgency of the present.

  "But the mystery of the weapon will have to wait. We have an immediate crisis: our fresh water stocks in the south sector were contaminated by sewage seepage from the ruins. If we don’t act, the group and the civilians we protect will die of thirst before the first magnetic bullet ever reaches us."

  Solomon walked to the map and pointed to the old Willamette Water Treatment Plant, now controlled by a faction known as the Hydros.

  "Henry, take a team to the Hydros' base. They control the flow. We aren't enemies, but they are relentless negotiators. Take resources for trade, but be ready for the worst. Once you find out their price, contact us via radio."

  Henry signaled the three members chosen for this specific mission. This time, he needed strength, discipline, and reach.

  Kol Valet (The Ukrainian): The silent executioner. He sharpened the serrated blade of his fire axe. If the Hydros decided to shut the valves by force, Kol would be the one tasked with cutting a path through their trenches.

  Mika Thorne (The Weapon Master): She joined the two sections of her carbon-fiber naginata, testing the weapon's balance. In open spaces like the treatment plant, the reach of her spear would be the necessary advantage against any charge.

  Tara (The Tank): She slammed her fist against her vault-door shield. Tara wasn't just protection; she was the guarantee that the group could retreat safely carrying the water jugs if diplomacy failed.

  End of Chapter