NOVEL WEB Chapter 8: Arrival
Blade arrived at what looked like an underground train station — quiet, dimly lit, and meant only for people like him.
He stepped up to the ticket window and didn't say a word. Just flashed the pocket watch like he did at the restaurant. The ticket man glanced at it, nodded, and handed him a red ticket.
"Track 3," he muttered, pointing down the tunnel.
Blade made his way to the bench and sat down to wait.
Next to him were two cleaners — one clearly a rookie, the other a supervisor. The older one was bald and wore thick glasses. The rookie had messy red hair and dark circles under his eyes. Both were loud as hell.
The supervisor coughed through a sore throat.
"First time going international, huh? You're lucky. A commoner like you getting sent out."
The redhead muttered tiredly, "Yeah, yeah, I know… If I'm not from Vailhom, I'm not pure-blooded. Whatever."
The supervisor clicked his tongue.
"Listen up, newbie. This place ain't for civilians. We're in the underground train system — used only by cleaners, hunters, and officials. These lines connect hideouts and hubs all over the world. That's how we move between countries. Regular folks don't even know this exists."
He nodded down the tracks.
"Most countries have their own hunters, sure. But a lot of 'em? They're actually from Vailhom. We send units out, base them in hideouts worldwide. Some stay put, others move — full squads, nomads, freelancers. And us cleaners? We tag along with the big ones. Especially the units with two or three heavy-hitters. We clean up what's left after the devils drop."
He cleared his throat, leaned in.
"You probably think Vailhom's some cursed country. Secret experiments, devils in cages, fog and gloom?"
The redhead blinked. "That's what everyone says."
The man scoffed.
"Idiots. Vailhom's a normal country — if killin' devils is your idea of normal. It's warmer than you'd think. Got beaches, gardens, food. Sure, it's strict — but it's home."
He tapped his chest.
"You won't find streamers there. No wannabe rappers or YouTubers. You work a real job — cook, doctor, politician — or you're a cleaner or a devil hunter."
The redhead looked away.
"Doesn't matter. I'm not from there. I'm just here to clean, do my shift, and go home."
The man snorted.
"Most cleaners started like that. Civilians who saw something they shouldn't have. Got two choices — forget everything or become a cleaner. Not much of a choice, really."
He leaned back.
"But if you're good enough, you might train with the hunters. Go international. You ever heard of the Paragon of Death?"
The redhead raised a brow. "That bedtime story?"
The man smirked.
"He wasn't pure-blooded either. Didn't need blood to fight blood."
The rookie rolled his eyes.
"Sure. Just a myth for cleaners who dream too much."
Blade didn't say anything. He'd been listening the whole time, even if he acted like he wasn't. That quote — "You don't need blood to fight blood." He said that once. Long ago.
Didn't go how he expected.
The train pulled in. Blade stood, slung the coffin on his back, and boarded without a word. He sat alone, far from the others, leaned into the window, and shut his eyes.
Two missions. No sleep. His body gave out fast.
A robotic voice echoed through the speaker.
"Citizens, we have arrived at Vailhom — First Station."
Blade opened his eyes slowly. His wide-brimmed hat still cast a shadow over his face. No surprise. No reaction. Like he'd done this a thousand times.
He saw the two cleaners still arguing as they got off the train.
He ignored them.
And walked out of the station.
There's nothing like home.
Vailhom wasn't gloomy like the stories said. Sure, the skies were gray and the winter breeze bit hard, but it had life — people in suits heading to work, kids running to school. No one stood still. No one wasted time.
No one in Vailhom was idle.
Blade flagged a taxi and leaned back.
"I'm going home. Got paid. Let's see how my lovely motorcycle's doing," he muttered, a tired smirk tugging at his lips.
The driver dropped him at the foot of a hill. At the top sat a cabin, hidden between forest and sea.
He walked up slowly, taking in the salt air and scent of pine.
Finally — peace.
He threw his coat on the sofa. Underneath, just a black T-shirt, stretched across a lean body carved by years of fighting. His skin pale, but strong. His goatee, streaked with white and brown. His eyes, hazel and restless, shifted gold to green with the light.
He sighed.
"No missions. No screaming. Just peace."
The train ride had been long. He left at 7 AM. It was now 8 PM.
And his stomach was howling.
He opened the fridge — spotless and nearly empty. One sad tuna can sat inside.
"Guess that'll do…"
After changing into jeans and a fresh black shirt, he threw on a leather vest.
"Alright, baby. Time for a ride."
He stepped into the small garage beside the cabin.
There it was — a '90s black motorcycle, gleaming like polished obsidian. Thick rims, long handles, engine growling low like a beast waiting to run.
He cracked the throttle, smiled, and rolled out into the night.
Maybe he'd hit a diner.
Maybe a gas station.
Didn't matter.
He'd earned it.