Holy Demonslayers, why was no one paying attention to him?! On the train, at least half the folks were Colhaunians who get all suspicious about anything demonic, but it was like this passenger didn't even exist for everyone else! Nobody was interested in his looks, his clothes, or the very fact of his presence in this not-so-cheap dining car.

Malk glanced at his friends, but they, too, seemed oblivious to the strange dwarf in rags. And this was despite Helavia's curiosity and Tolfan's tendency to speak out immediately! It was strange, very strange...

Malk looked back at the dwarf, who continued to stare at him with an openly cannibalistic smile. A sudden urge washed over him to approach the damn freak, cursed by all the Saints, and ask why in Yorrokh's name he was staring. It took all of Malk's self-control to resist the malicious impulse. And he had always considered himself the epitome of calm!

If he had the time, Malk would still have approached the strange fellow traveler and tried to clarify the situation, but he was distracted.

Helavia's sharp elbow dug into his side as she emotionally asked:

"Are you even listening to what Tolfan is saying?! His father hired a technical school graduate from the neighboring province for his new factory, and for the kind of money that not every Bachelor gets! Bachelor!!!"

"Uh... What?" Malk flinched, turning to his girlfriend with a somewhat vacant expression. "Sorry, I missed the part where you stopped praising the School and started admiring mechanics."

"Missed?!" Helavia, for some reason, took her boyfriend's admission with considerable irritation and was clearly about to show everyone around the less pleasant sides of her character, but Tolfan interrupted her.

"Malk, you don't get it. We're not admiring mechanics; we're amazed at how, in just a hundred years, the profession of a mage has been overshadowed by those far removed from the world of subtle energies," the fatty said amicably.

"Are you serious?" Malk began to grasp where the conversation was heading and decided not to adopt his friend's tone. "Overshadowed? Just because engineers and some mortal craftsmen started earning on par with lower-tier mages doesn't mean they've overshadowed anyone! Better tell me what happens if an ungifted person, no matter how skilled, seriously offends even a Junior Magister?"

Tolfan sighed:

"No need to bring up Magisters... To cause trouble for a mortal, a simple Bachelor is enough..."

The fatty, whose relatives without a Gift had once clashed with the interests of a powerful mage Family, clearly lost his desire to argue. But not Helavia!

"Malk, dear, I don't want to offend you, but... are you really the one to talk about the ungifted and low-tier mages?" his girlfriend said coldly. "With your talent, or rather the lack of it, enrolling in a Magic School means dooming your future. Why chase the impossible when you could achieve a lot in another field? Enroll in a technical school! With your brains, you could easily graduate with honors, get a good job, and in five or six years, you might even become an engineer." Helavia, sensing she had gone too far, softened her tone. "And then, once you're stable, you can think about awakening your Gift... If magic calls to you that much!.. Tolfan, you tell him, am I not right?"

The fatty grunted in agreement.

"Of course, you're right, and I'm saying this not just as a friend but as a merchant's son and grandson. Becoming a mage always requires money, a lot of money... Arcane Arts, medicines, stimulants, study materials, spells—everything needs drachmas. And the less talent you have, the more you'll need. Sorry, Malk, but... your purse is empty, and your talent is even worse. So, buddy, you're a bad investment! And as your only friends, we have to try to push you onto the right path!"

"Well, thanks, fatty bro! No one has ever called me that before," Malk forced a smile, fully aware of his not-so-rosy prospects, yet still believing in the correctness of his chosen path.

"Oh, you know what I mean..." the fatty spread his hands, but was interrupted by Helavia.

The girl managed her emotions and now addressed Malk with much more empathy:

"Malk, think it over again, okay? You're just as good at calculating as the fatty. Besides, remember the Gifted Tax, all the other 'benefits'... Okay?"

At the last words, Helavia moved closer to Malk and gently kissed him on the lips, prompting Tolfan to mutter some jokes in his usual manner. However, the topic was too painful, and the choice too difficult for Malk to give in to persuasion so easily.

"No talent, no talent... You just keep harping on like you know it all! I can always switch to mechanics later, and an awakened weak Gift won't be a hindrance there," he grimaced, carefully distancing himself from Helavia. "Whereas checking if those exercises our mentor gave us were worth anything is a must!"

Malk's words made his friends frown and then noticeably sadden. And it wasn't just about the stubbornness of a certain "dud." He mentioned Reslan Skom, their natural science teacher at the boarding school, who always singled out their trio among the other students and who had become more than just a teacher to them—he was a mentor. A man who opened the door to the world's mysteries and introduced them to... real magic.

"Wait, are you still messing with that Yorrokh's Rain of Pain?" Tolfan whispered, leaning over the table.

"And you?" Malk asked with a smirk, leaning his chest on the table as well.

"I quit!" Tolfan leaned back in his chair and rubbed the back of his head. "As soon as all that trouble with Skom started, I quit. And after the 'chats' with the gendarmerie, I grew even more convinced it was the right decision..."

The fatty spoke quietly, but the topic was dangerous enough for Helavia, the most cautious among them, to get agitated:

"Tolfan!!!"

"Alright, alright, I'm quiet..." the friend waved off and looked expectantly at Malk and then at Helavia. "So, about Rain of Pain, you still practice it? Despite everything?"

"I don't!" the girl replied with a categorical tone.

The very tone she used when she started talking to Malk, intending to hide something from him.

"Well, sometimes I spend ten or twenty minutes on it," Malk hemmed, making his face as open and honest as possible. After a brief pause, he added, "And it's the least I can do in memory of our mentor... May the Saints keep his soul!"

Malk finished his tea. The others, after a brief pause, did the same with their cups. Reslan Skom was indeed worthy of being remembered. Even if it was just by his three wayward students...

During the rather unpleasant conversation, Malk had somehow forgotten about the dwarf, the night demon, and other troubles. His head was already swollen with heavy thoughts, leaving no room for anything else that didn't pose an immediate threat. It didn't help that his girlfriend and only friend were trying to make him reconsider his earlier decision instead of offering support. So when the conversation finally died down, Malk turned to the window and began watching the approaching platform—they were arriving at another station.

However, he didn't get to sit quietly. The train hadn't even fully stopped when Tolfan reminded friends of his presence again.

"Oh, look at that gentleman in the green frock coat. The one talking to the station master," the fatty whispered excitedly. "See him?! Now, look at the case in his hand..."

"Tolfan. Now is not the best time for your silly jokes and dumb riddles," Helavia said in a weary voice. "What's bothering you?"

The fatty looked at Malk as if seeking support, but the latter pretended not to understand.

"Nothing special," Tolfan sighed and continued, "It's just that when my father had... a tough period, you know... he was forced to smuggle weapons for a while. And he used cases like that to transport his goods. So, I..."

"Ordinary weapons or combat artifacts?" Malk asked, unexpectedly intrigued.

"How could you even ask! The latter, of course. And to be precise, sparkthrowers—expensive and totally banned toys," Tolfan chuckled. "According to him, that case can hold exactly five. And the wall thickness is enough to keep any erg of charge from leaking out."

The fatty realized what he had just said and fell silent, his face serious. Helavia, who was quicker to catch on, asked incredulously:

"Are you saying that someone is about to board our train with a case full of banned combat artifacts?!"

"Helavia!" Tolfan said with a slight irritation. "I'm saying that the gentleman has all the means to do so. Nothing more!"

The conversation was starting to devolve into a typical argument between Helavia and Tolfan. Malk used to try to intervene and quell the conflict early on, but over time he realized it was easier to let things be. It was better for his nerves, and he wouldn't end up being the scapegoat. Plus, their arguments never escalated into serious fights. So...

Malk turned away and, remembering the dwarf, quickly glanced in that direction. However, he couldn't catch the demonic freak off guard. Once again, his gaze locked with those inhumanly attentive eyes. The owner of the frog-like mouth continued to stare at Malk, now almost bouncing in his seat with impatience, even clapping his hands silently on his knees.

As before, the strange behavior of the fellow traveler was completely ignored by the rest of the passengers.

And Malk couldn't take it anymore.

"Listen, let's get out of here. I'm starting to really hate this place," he told his friends, realizing he no longer wanted or could bear to stay there.

He expected some objections, either from Tolfan or at least his beloved, but both readily supported his suggestion. The ever-hungry fatty immediately stopped his half-sentence directed at Malk's girlfriend and attacked the remaining pastries, while Helavia focused on her now almost cold tea. So when Malk gestured to the waiter to bring the bill, no one interfered...

The train set off, and the roadside bushes and small groves began to rush by the window once more. The departure coincided with the arrival of two officers in Colhaun Railway uniforms, accompanied by a pair of girls in revealing dresses. The newcomers took the neighboring table and noisily demanded sparkling wine.

"Yeah, we picked the right time to leave," Helavia whispered.

Malk nodded silently, and Tolfan hummed something approvingly. Or he started to, but suddenly his eyes widened and he began to cough.

Malk looked in the same direction and saw another new visitor in the dining car. It was the same man in the green frock coat and with the travel case that, according to Tolfan, was perfect for storing sparkthrowers. Malk, who had recently developed a strong dislike for coincidences, frowned.

"What's the matter?" Helavia asked, confused.

But neither Malk nor Tolfan had a chance to respond. Events began to unfold so quickly that there was no time for discussion.

The man in the green frock coat, as soon as he entered, froze for a moment, looking around, and then purposefully approached the table near the entrance—the one where the craftsmen or students were sitting and where the strange dwarf was acting up. In complete silence, he placed the case among the dishes, opened it, and... began taking out banned sparkthrowers. Moreover, the group accepted this behavior as normal, and each of them, upon getting their hands on a dangerous artifact, immediately began fiddling with the control rings. The only one who didn't get a magic scepter was the dwarf, but compared to everything else, it seemed like a minor detail!

The story, having started as an idle conversation, unexpectedly came to life, and in a worse way than one could imagine...

"Yorrokh!" all three of them exhaled simultaneously, absolutely clueless about what to do next.

Surprisingly, the ones who had no questions about what to do next turned out to be those who had been making the most noise, seemingly paying the least attention to their surroundings. The officers at the neighboring table suddenly exchanged glances, as if on cue, and then one of them—the one sitting between the two girls—reached for the holster on his belt, while the other abruptly stood up, either to shout a warning to the man in green or to retreat further into the dining car, but... he didn't have time to do anything. The only girl among the "students" suddenly turned towards the officers and fired her scepter.

A blob of green fire buzzed across half the restaurant and hit the first officer, tearing his chest apart and splattering blood on both girls. Even if he was Gifted, he didn't have time to defend against the attack and died on the spot. This, however, bought some time for his comrade, who immediately after the shot turned around and dashed to the other end of the car. The second blob of fire missed its target, grazing the bar counter.

There was a fleeting hope that the officer might escape, but then the man in green took action. Without even thinking of using a sparkthrower, he pulled a small short-barreled revolver from the lapel of his frock coat, aimed, and pulled the trigger. A deafening bang, the smell of burnt gunpowder, and a puff of gray smoke followed. The subsequent dull cry and sound of a body hitting the floor confirmed that the shooter had not missed.

And it was precisely then that the stupor seemed to lift from everyone in the dining car. Women started screaming, and some men followed suit. The companions of the slain officers were especially loud, wailing like sirens heralding Yorrokh's Night, wringing their hands, and smearing the blood on their faces. Nobody was willing to follow the example of the dead—no one stood up or made threatening gestures towards the "students."

Malk and his friends' table had become a little island of calm. Neither he, nor Helavia, nor Tolfan succumbed to fear, maintaining at least the appearance of composure.

"If you want to live, stay in your seats!!!" the killer of the first officer shouted, overpowering the rising din. Then she ran down the aisle and, stopping next to a blood-soaked table, used two swift blows of her sparkthrower to bring order, knocking out both girls. "And shut up, all of you, now!!!"

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

The display of force had its effect. Silence instantly fell over the car, broken only by the occasional sniffling sound—as if someone couldn't stop crying and was covering their mouth.

"Calm down. This isn't a robbery, and we're not bandits!" the man in green spoke for the first time, catching up with his companion and stopping next to Malk's table. He had already reholstered his revolver. "Our target is in the next car! And if you don't do anything stupid, no one else will get hurt. Clear?!"

At the last word, the terrorist leader suddenly turned to the trio of friends and glared at them with such malice that it seemed the next bullets would be aimed at them. Malk didn't even realize how he started nodding, noticing out of the corner of his eye that his friends were doing the same. None of them even considered playing the hero. Reality was far too different from any of their fantasies.

Having instilled enough fear, the man in green lost interest in them and continued down the aisle. The other terrorists followed—the wench, now unhinged from the blood she had just spilled, and the three guys who had yet to make a move. Last, at some distance, moved the dwarf. He didn't look like a member of their group at all, more like a curious onlooker suddenly intrigued by the impending carnage.

Seeing the dwarf's actions, Malk, already tense as a string, felt on the verge of snapping. To calm himself, he clenched his fists as hard as he could. His nails dug into his skin, blood surfaced, a dull pain appeared, and only then did his mind clear a bit...

But Malk's fears were unfounded, and nothing terrible happened. The dwarf didn't even stop at their table! All he did was flash his shark-like grin again and, pointing his fingers like a gun at Malk, mouthed a silent "bang." Then he calmly disappeared down the aisle.

May a Saint screw him! Malk stopped himself at the last moment, and the curse didn't leave his lips. But something must have shown on his face, as Helavia grabbed his wrist with icy fingers, and Tolfan began gesturing for him to calm down.

Malk responded with a short nod. After a moment of thought, he pointed to the backpack where his blunderbuss lay, then indicated where Tolfan had his "avalonch" attached to his belt. The immediate future seemed very bleak, and he wasn't planning to just sit and wait for the end.

Tolfan, for whom this pantomime was intended, clearly didn't share this view. The fatty turned pale with fear and shook his head so vigorously that his cheeks wobbled.

Idiot! Malk gritted his teeth in anger, but it wasn't easy to persuade his friend on the spot. And without his support, specifically without his folded spells, dreaming about salvation was pointless.

Suddenly, there was a rustling sound further down the train car, and two young guys, whom Malk had seen at the station while waiting for the train, charged down the aisle past the friends' table, their boots thudding heavily. They clearly had nothing to do with the terrorists and had the courage to try to get out of the restaurant car that had turned into a trap.

But their escape attempt failed. The guys were just two steps away from the coveted door when the bloodthirsty wench made her presence known again. As it turned out, she not only hadn't left but had managed to tweak the focus of her sparkthrower. A cloud of bloody-red sparks swiftly caught up with the two fugitives and then moved further to the vestibule, leaving behind two riddled bodies.

"I told you, stay in your places and no one will get hurt!" the terrorist repeated, appearing near the bar counter.

She was clearly enjoying the situation, seemingly sizing up whom to kill next.

However, what happened had the opposite effect on the trio of friends than intended. If they had previously held onto some hope of salvation by complying with the terrorists' demands, now no one believed in a favorable outcome.

And even though Tolfan was shaking like a leaf and Helavia was whispering prayers to Achont the Protector, they both looked at Malk as resolutely as they did during their boarding school canteen raids.

"Prepare a shield!" Malk whispered to the fatty, habitually taking on the role of leader in their trio.

He started carefully moving the backpack next to him, aiming the barrel of the hidden blunderbuss toward the aisle. At the same time, Malk kept his eyes on the triumphant terrorist girl, trying to look as humbled and submissive as possible.

"I figured it out, these are loyalists! No doubt about it! And if the newspapers are to be believed, they don't care about casualties," Helavia whispered, bowing her head and slouching.

"Even if it's all Nine Saints!" Tolfan muttered in a trembling voice. "I'm too young to die..."

He placed his tightly clenched fists in front of him, and if Malk hadn't been watching him out of the corner of his eye, he wouldn't have noticed the fatty hiding in his right hand one of the spell cylinders.

"Alright, calm down!" Malk hissed, watching the unhinged lass head to the other end of the car. "We wait! When I say so, Tolfan, put up the shield immediately. But not before!" The tension got to him, and his voice suddenly cracked. He almost choked on the last words, "Maybe we'll get lucky..."

He spoke, but he didn't believe it himself. And he turned out to be right.

They weren't lucky...

First, a not-so-weak explosion went off in the neighboring car, causing the entire train to shudder—or at least that's how it felt to the trio. Then there was a muffled buzzing, interrupted by the faint humming of sparkthrowers. Notably, these sounds lasted too long for a successful attack. It became clear that something had gone wrong for the terrorists, and the blitz attack had turned into a prolonged shootout involving mages—two waves of vibrations, the kind that made one's hair stand on end, even reached the restaurant car. To top it all off, with a hellish crash, something hit the vestibule door with such force that it tore it off its hinges, flinging inside a body that looked like a pile of bloody rags.

The sight was frankly nauseating. But neither Malk nor his friends had time to process what they saw before a bloodied man in green staggered into the restaurant car. A torn frock coat, a left sleeve dark with blood, and a face twisted with rage and malice – the terrorist leader had lost all respectability and now resembled nothing more than a common highwayman.

"Move, move, move!!!" he yelled at the lass who had run up to him. "One of the guards is a Bachelor!!!"

As if to confirm his words, a too-fast and too-well-aimed magical arrow flew from the darkness of the vestibule, only to get stuck immediately in the energy armor that had flared up on the loyalist's back. The spell lines looked blurry and shaky, suggesting the protection would soon fail.

"Where to move?! They'll either pin us down in the cars or shoot us with grapeshot as soon as we pull the emergency brake and get out!" the lass screamed back, discharging her sparkthrower at a mage Malk couldn't see. "We need a hostage!"

The man in green didn't bother to reply—he immediately lunged toward the table where the killed officers had once sat and where their companions were now trembling in fear, having just regained consciousness. He reached out to grab the nearest girl by the hair when... out of nowhere, the blasted dwarf appeared next to Malk's table and smashed on the floor a teapot the staff didn't get a chance to remove.

The loud crash instantly drew the terrorist girl's attention. Shouting something incoherent, she turned toward the sound and rushed at the trio. As for where the little pest had vanished again, Malk didn't have time to notice. But that was the least of his worries now...

"Now!!!" he yelled, shoving his hand into the backpack and gripping the musketoon's handle like a drowning man grabbing a lifeline.

His finger pressed the stiff trigger, the hammer struck a spark, the powder hissed in the closed pan... and the damn gun kicked Malk in the side like a stubborn horse. A burst of fire tore the fabric of the bag and rammed into the belly of the wide-eyed terrorist lass. Maybe if she'd had the same armor as the gentleman in green, she might have survived, but she had no protection at all. The grapeshot tore a huge hole in her body, hurling her against the opposite wall of the car, killing her instantly... at least, Malk hoped she was dead—he couldn't make out any details. Everything was shrouded in a cloud of black, foul-smelling smoke, which a moment later was cut through by a barrier of the Water Element. Tolfan had managed to handle his father's gift and shielded their table from the rest of the restaurant with a magical wall.

Just in time...

First, the fatty's shield was struck by a fist of enemy fire spell—so hard that the thin film of the barrier bent inward by a cubit—and then the attacker himself appeared. The man in green, judging by his face twisted with grief and hatred, had clearly forgotten everything else in the world, craving revenge. And the loyalist had all the chances to get it.

Instead of the useless sparkthrower, a straight, slender dagger appeared in the hand of the terrorist leader. And it was with it that he began hacking at the barrier, each swing of the blade causing a burst of magical light.

For the barrier to collapse, scattering into a cloud of blue droplets that quickly evaporated in the air, it took only three strikes. This spoke louder than any words about the uniqueness of the weapon used. If Malk had been in the place of the man in green, he wouldn't have reached his enemy so quickly with his own knife.

However, Malk had no time, desire, or even the opportunity to admire the loyalist's weapon. As soon as the barrier fell, he threw the remnants of the bag with the blunderbuss at the terrorist and lunged after it like a hawk. In his hand, he clutched his own knife, a weapon many families in Colhaun taught their children to wield. Though Malk had grown up without a father's guidance, his mentor had taught him the necessary skills.

No, Malk wasn't a master of knife fighting, but he had learned enough to duck under the stunned enemy's blade and deliver a series of three stabs—thigh, belly, arm. In a regular fight, this might not have immobilized the opponent but would have certainly caused bleeding wounds. However, this was no ordinary fight. All three times, the knife blade sprung back, encountering the magical armor.

Yorrokh and his flur!!! Malk's heart chilled with dread...

Suddenly, a spindle-shaped fire charge whizzed over his shoulder and lodged itself in the chest of the man in green. It might not have been a full-fledged magical Arrow, but it was close enough. The spell was the final straw that broke the loyalist's defense. The energy armor flickered, rippled, and vanished as if it had never been there.

This was a chance Malk couldn't miss. And he didn't mess it up. Accelerating instantly and deflecting the terrorist's weak counterattack, he turned and literally drove the knife into the enemy's chest. The latter fell as if he were cut down. And judging by the disbelief frozen on his face, he certainly hadn't expected such an end to his life...

"Malk, are you okay?" Helavia appeared next to the heavily breathing lad as if by magic.

Her lips were trembling, and she carefully avoided looking at the loyalist still convulsing in his death throes, but her voice was filled with genuine concern for the young man.

"I'm fine, I'm fine... And thanks for the Arrow... You launched it, didn't you, not Tolfan?"

After getting a nod, he hugged the girl even tighter and gently kissed her on the temple. No more words were needed: if Helavia hadn't taken one of the spell cylinders from the fatty and risked releasing it at the enemy, Malk would be the one lying on the floor now, not the terrorist.

Suddenly recalling the start of the fight, he gently pushed Helavia away and stepped over to the killer's body.

"I'll take this as a trophy, you scum!" Malk growled, pulling the clearly enchanted dagger from the lifeless fingers and putting it in his empty sheath.

Life had shown that a trip to the cultural capital was far less safe endeavor than he had thought. And a good weapon would definitely come in handy...

Meanwhile, Tolfan finally emerged from under the table and stood beside them, earning an approving nod from Malk. Though the fatty was a bit cowardly, he hadn't let them down when it mattered. And the way he aggressively scanned the surroundings, holding two spell cylinders, didn't invite mockery.

"Is it over?" the fatty asked combatively.

"I hope so..." Malk exhaled.

Suddenly, he began to shake with tremors he couldn't suppress. At the same time, a sharp desire to have a serious talk with that accursed dwarf, damned by the Saints, arose within him. The very dwarf who had set them all up for the loyalists' attack... Yet, for some reason, he couldn't manage to locate the shorty.

"By the way, why did you smash the teapot?" Tolfan suddenly asked, elbowing Malk in the ribs. "If not for that, maybe it would've been fine..."

That question almost made Malk freeze. He had dropped the teapot?! He?! The tremors that gripped him were joined by a legion of icy goosebumps marching down his spine. It felt like he was in a bad dream where memories of reality blended with fantasies so closely that the line between them blurred, and the mind drowned in a phantasmagoria of images.

Despite the chaos around, he might have tried to ask Tolfan what he meant, but just then armed soldiers burst into the dining car. The furious grunts aimed their weapons at everyone, and a commanding voice from behind them demanded the survivors deactivate any protective spells, lay down their arms, and raise their hands.

The train attack story had received an unexpected follow-up...