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Song Cheng, tall and broad-shouldered, wedged himself into the throng inside the carriage. As the subway departed and slowly gained speed, he felt the sway beneath his feet. All around him were office workers hurrying to their jobs, and the gaps between people were filled with a mixture of mingled scents.

It was like a cage of steel filled with compressed flesh, tunneling headlong into the concrete-supported passages underground. Roaring from one place to another, this man-made worm burrowed through the darkness. The artificial lights chased away the gloom inside the tunnel, but beyond the concrete walls, in the soil, darkness and the unknown were the true nature of the underground world.

He closed his eyes slightly, letting these thoughts swirl in his mind. He imagined this steel “flesh-carrying cage” tunneling through the dark earth, like a bizarre, blind worm. He envisioned the suffocating soil pressing in, cold and laced with the scent of decay.

With his eyes still closed, Song Cheng began to move slowly through the crowd in the carriage. Though it was still crowded, people unconsciously made way for him. Unhurriedly, he made his way to the end of the carriage and then opened his eyes to take a look.

The door indicated that this was the end of Carriage No. 2; ahead was Carriage No. 3.

Behind him, the noise in the carriage had somehow begun to fade. The occasional chatter sounded distant, as if muffled by a thick wall.

Without turning back, Song Cheng reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of parchment, pre-soaked in ointment. He placed the paper into his mouth, chewing slowly. A sharp, intense flavor surged straight to his head. Then he stepped forward.

Passing through the door of Carriage No. 2, he entered an empty, silent carriage.

Just moments ago, the previous carriage had been packed with commuters. Here, not a soul was in sight.

On the slightly worn seats lay a few old newspapers. The dates on them, however, showed tomorrow’s date.

He turned back and saw that the automatic door behind him displayed the number Carriage No. 16.

The pungent taste in his mouth was spreading. He turned and continued forward, passing through the door of Carriage No. 16 into the next part of the train. The next carriage was rusted and dilapidated, its windows smeared with grime. Occasionally, faint lights flickered outside the windows, but they didn’t resemble the usual subway tunnel lights. Instead, they seemed like eerie eyes gliding past, watching this roaring steel worm from the dark soil.

This was Carriage No. 12. Song Cheng kept moving forward, checking the carriage numbers as he went. With each carriage he passed through, things grew stranger. Some carriages were filled with plastic mannequins; others were overgrown with mushrooms. Some lacked roofs and walls entirely, leaving only a bare floor speeding through the undulating, writhing tunnels of earth.

All the carriage numbers were randomly distributed, with no sequential order whatsoever.

Suddenly, a warm glow of candlelight caught his eye. The next carriage bore no resemblance to a subway car at all. He stepped into a large, wooden coach. Several exquisitely dressed ladies sat on either side, engaged in lively conversation, their melodious laughter ringing out occasionally. Outside the carriage windows floated a light mist; street lamps passed by now and then, illuminating the streets of an unfamiliar city.

One of the glamorous ladies noticed Song Cheng’s sudden entrance. Surprised, she stood up and approached him, inquiring about his intentions.

But Song Cheng paid her no mind. He glanced back at the door to see the carriage number: Carriage No. 8.

He turned around and headed back.

A “normal carriage” identical in structure to a regular subway train appeared before him. The carriage was spacious and empty, brightly lit, with clean and orderly seats.

Only one passenger sat midway down the carriage, near a window, holding a newspaper that obscured his face.

Song Cheng glanced back to confirm the door displayed Carriage No. 7. Only then did he breathe a sigh of relief and walk toward the lone passenger.

The person wore a pitch-black overcoat. At his feet rested a black briefcase, and a black umbrella hung from the railing beside the seat.

From the overcoat to the suitcase to the umbrella, everything had a strange, rubbery texture.

Song Cheng sat down beside the passenger and gently tapped the newspaper in his hands.

The passenger finally lowered the paper and looked at Song Cheng.

It was a smooth, slightly reflective face—like rubber. The features resembled a thin middle-aged man, topped with an old-fashioned black bowler hat that seemed out of place in the modern world.

“Hello,” the peculiar passenger nodded at Song Cheng. His voice quivered and was off-key, yet his manner was polite. “What would you like to talk about today?”

This was Entity No. 8, the Eighth Passenger, who appeared in the Otherworldly Train. He usually lingered in Carriage No. 8. Rational and communicative, he occasionally helped outsiders escape the Otherworld—but under certain conditions, he could become hostile.

For now, he seemed friendly.

“Have you heard of an address at No. 44 Wutong Road?” Song Cheng asked casually, as if chatting with an ordinary person. “A man named Xu Jiali lives there.”

The rubber-like passenger shook his head. “This train doesn’t stop at that station.”

Song Cheng’s expression instantly became serious.

The Eighth Passenger was known to possess information about many “places.” Unless it was an extremely bizarre or secret location, as long as the question was clear, he could provide basic information about any otherworldly place, even if it was millions of light-years away. At the very least, he could confirm whether the place existed and whether it was within the Boundary Realm.

But now he said, “This train doesn’t stop at that station.”

In fact, this train didn’t stop anywhere, but when the Eighth Passenger said, “This train doesn’t stop at that station,” it meant he had no information about that place.

Since the Special Affairs Bureau had records on the Eighth Passenger, such a response had been documented less than five times.

After a moment of silence, Song Cheng asked again, “What about a person named Xu Jiali? Have you heard of him on your travels?”

“If it’s information about people, you might want to ask the ‘Storyteller.’ He knows a lot about individuals. He’s in the park, telling stories to children… Do you need directions? I can tell you when the park is,” the Eighth Passenger replied unhurriedly.

“Thanks, but that won’t be necessary. I know where the park is,” Song Cheng shook his head. He could feel the ointment in his mouth losing its potency, so he quickly asked another question, “Any news from Nightfall Valley lately?”

“Nightfall Valley… Ah, a traveler departed from there, but I don’t know the details,” the Eighth Passenger said leisurely. “If you’re interested in what happened afterward, I’m afraid I can’t help.”

“Why not?”

“Because that station has been canceled.”

The Eighth Passenger placed the newspaper on his lap, his rubbery face expressionless.

Song Cheng’s eyes widened as he sat there, stunned.

This answer had never come up before!

“The train doesn’t stop at that station” was at least a response noted in the records, but “that station has been canceled”… He was certain this was the first time!

“Why was it canceled?!” he blurted out, his gaze intense.

“Who knows?” The Eighth Passenger shrugged in an oddly human gesture. “I only know about things along the train’s route, but those happenings off the line… I’m not aware.”

Song Cheng blinked, feeling the ointment’s effects diminishing further. Faint human voices were starting to echo in his ears. He had more questions to ask, but just then, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the newspaper resting on the Eighth Passenger’s lap.

It was the only thing on this entity that didn’t have a rubbery texture; it was just an ordinary newspaper.

The front page featured a large black-and-white illustration. In an era when even the cheapest tabloids used color printing, the monochrome image looked particularly vintage. The picture itself was blurry and distorted, more like a crude sketch smeared onto canvas by an inept artist than a genuine photograph.

It depicted a desolate valley with a giant eye floating above it, slowly moving away.

Below the illustration was the headline: After the Feast

“We’re approaching the station,” the Eighth Passenger’s voice suddenly sounded beside him, pulling Song Cheng out of his daze.

He looked up abruptly to see the Eighth Passenger staring intently at him. This rational entity had already picked up the black umbrella hanging from the railing. As he stood up, he asked casually, “How’s the weather today?”

Song Cheng immediately gathered his thoughts, observing the entity before him with extra care.

Today, the Eighth Passenger had brought an umbrella, but it was dry.

“It’s overcast today…” Song Cheng began.

But then he noticed a slight water stain appearing on the Eighth Passenger’s briefcase, as if invisible raindrops had just fallen upon it.

“But the rain has started to fall,” Song Cheng quickly added. “Bringing an umbrella was a wise choice.”

“Indeed,” the Eighth Passenger smiled, the rubbery texture of his face emitting faint creaking sounds. “Enjoy your journey, and be careful when you alight.”

“Safe travels,” Song Cheng exhaled, smiling and nodding.

The cacophony of sounds returned from all around, the warmth of human bodies filling the crowded carriage.

Song Cheng, tall and sturdy, was once again wedged among the throng in the subway car, feeling the sway as the train slowed down while approaching the station.