Chapter 113

Chapter 113

A foreboding intuition, like a lingering dark cloud, weighed on Evan, telling him his journey home would not be peaceful. That faint unease, like a flickering ghost light in the darkness, pricked at his nerves from time to time. But Evan, this chivalrous young man, knew a true knight should be like a rock standing firm in a gale, daring to face any surging difficulty. He slowly closed his eyes, his chest rising and falling deeply as he took a long breath of the air tinged with the faint dampness of the washroom, then exhaled slowly, as if expelling the anxiety from his heart. Once his emotions had settled and his expression returned to its usual calm, he reached out, grasped the cold door handle, slowly pushed open the washroom door, and stepped out.

When Evan returned to the compartment, the blond little boy was sitting idly in his seat. His little legs swung back and forth aimlessly, his eyes vacant as he stared ahead, filled with endless boredom. The storybook he had been holding earlier was now casually tossed onto the sofa beside him, its pages half-open, as if silently lamenting its neglect.

Inside the compartment, the middle-aged wealthy merchant remained immersed in his own world. He held a cigarette between his fingers, its tip glowing and dimming intermittently, wisps of smoke carrying the unique scent of mint and tobacco curling upward. Even though the compartment window was slightly ajar, with the outside wind occasionally blowing in and dispersing much of the smoke, that faint, elusive odor stubbornly lingered, clinging to every inch of the air.

Everything seemed so ordinary, without the slightest hint of abnormality. However, the moment Evan closed the compartment door, he keenly sensed Pastor Campbell's gaze settle upon him. That gaze, though it lingered only briefly before withdrawing, felt like a sharp needle piercing his heart. Immediately after, Pastor Campbell silently made the sign of the cross on his chest, lowered his eyes, picked up *The Bible* again, and his lips moved slightly as if reciting scriptures in a low voice.

Evan returned to his seat, his gaze falling on the long table before them. At some point, a train attendant had visited again, placing a bottle of warm water and four glass cups. In the transparent glass bottle, the water lay still, its surface without a single ripple.

In this world, drinking hot water was not the custom. Even in the biting cold of winter, a cup of warm water was considered a rare blessing. Evan's eyes fell on the bottle. At first, it was just a casual glance, but then his gaze suddenly sharpened. He noticed that within the clear water, besides its original transparent color, there was also a faint, special red hue, extremely difficult to detect with the naked eye. That red was like a danger signal hidden in the darkness, instantly alerting him. His intuition told him this water was likely poisoned.

Without hesitation, Evan set aside the suspicious bottle. He reached into his backpack, rummaged for a moment, and pulled out a palm-sized aluminum flask. He gently unscrewed the cap, the friction of metal against metal making a soft sound. A faint aroma of wine instantly escaped, spreading in the air. It was a light, low-alcohol table wine. Ordinarily, it might have been just an accompaniment to meals, but now it could temporarily replace drinking water. Evan had brought it just in case, never expecting it to come in handy at such a critical moment. He tilted his head back, brought the flask's mouth to his lips, and took a few sips. The slightly sweet liquid slid down his throat, relaxing his slightly tense nerves a little.

The train moved along rhythmically, the "clickety-clack" sound like a monotonous lullaby. Soon, the little boy Tom could no longer resist the invasion of drowsiness. His head nodded bit by bit until he finally rested it on the arm of the sofa and fell asleep. His breathing was even and steady, his face still bearing the innocence unique to a child. Seeing this, the middle-aged wealthy merchant gently stood up, carefully draping his own overcoat over the little boy, his movements so soft as if afraid of disturbing his sweet dreams. Then, the merchant smiled at Evan, a smile that held a worldly kindness. He took a menthol cigarette from his exquisite cigarette case, offered it to Evan, and said, "God has brought us together in this train compartment. How about a cigarette?"

In the Sala Empire, adult men seemed to have an innate affinity for tobacco and alcohol. According to custom, when many boys turned fifteen, officially coming of age, their fathers or elder brothers would take them to taverns to let them experience the taste of wine and the swirl of smoke. Evan's own fifteenth birthday had been spent in such an atmosphere. Back then, he was naive and curious, following his father and brother into a tavern, feeling the lively yet somewhat intoxicating air.

However, the present Evan, having recovered memories of a past life and undergone six months of specialized and rigorous military training, was now of a completely different mind. He felt an instinctive wariness towards things offered by strangers. Like an alert hunting dog, he constantly sniffed out potential dangers around him. So, he politely shook his head and said softly, "I'm sorry, I don't smoke." With that, he reached into his backpack again, this time pulling out a notebook and a fountain pen. He intended to use this relatively quiet time to start writing a new novel.

Evan's first novel, *Henry's Adventure*, after being printed in the *Backlund Curiosities Newspaper*, had received unexpectedly positive feedback. Letters from readers had poured in like snowflakes, filled with love and praise for the story. Just a month ago, the newspaper had even published a standalone edition. When Evan held that beautifully bound book, his fingertips rubbing the pages, his heart was full of excitement and pride. Along with it came a fairly substantial manuscript fee and royalties, which were not only recognition of his writing talent but also tangible encouragement. In early December, his editor, Mr. Vero Yinshute, had written a special letter, earnestly asking when he could start writing the second part of *Henry's Adventure* and informing him that the manuscript fee had been raised to 25 Copper Huote per thousand words. For a novice writer who had only published one work, such treatment was quite good. Precisely because of this, Evan had no intention of giving up this side job. Writing had already become an indispensable part of his life.

And now, the quiet environment of this compartment happened to be perfect for him to immerse himself in creation. He lowered his head slightly, the pen tip lightly touching the paper, and began to write: "Henry stepped off the steamship. Before him lay the New World, the Empire's colony, which he had previously only known through hearsay. Looking at the port filled mostly with dark-skinned natives, Henry took a deep breath, picked up his suitcase, and walked into the crowd..." As the words flowed from his pen, Evan's thoughts involuntarily drifted far away, to the Empire's vast colonies. The Sala Empire's homeland was not large in area, roughly comparable to France in his previous life. However, its colonies were extremely vast. In the New World, seven states belonged to the Sala Empire. Each state was far larger in area than the homeland, featuring mysterious rainforests, expansive plains, towering mountains, and customs and cultures completely different from those of the homeland.

Evan thought that perhaps one day, he too would set foot on those unfamiliar lands, to see with his own eyes those legendary sights and experience different cultures and atmospheres. So lost was he in thought that he remained completely unaware several small insects, which should not have survived in winter, were silently crawling on the blanket. Those little insects, concealed by the blanket's long fibers, were inching closer and closer to him, as if weaving an unknown, mysterious adventure...