The Ghost Train rattles softly as it glides over the endless expanse of the Wasteland. Mark slumps on the cold, iron bench, his arms crossed tightly over his chest as he fights against the chill that seeps into his very bones. Every motion sends fresh waves of pain coursing through his body, the lingering aftermath of his brutal fall and his desperate fight for survival in the pit.

  He shifts slightly, wincing as the movement tugs at his injuries. His Doom Train T-shirt hangs in tatters, the faded logo torn and smeared with streaks of dirt, dried blood, and burns. His black jeans are frayed and shredded, barely holding them together at the knees, and his scuffed combat boots are slick with grime. Every inch of his body bears the marks of his trial; lacerations, bruises, and acid burns etched into his skin like a cruel map of his suffering.

  Though the wounds no longer bleed, they throb with raw, relentless pain. His chest aches from the impacts of the fall, his arms burn where the acid ate through his skin, and his legs feel weak and unsteady. His fingers and toes are numb, the skin turning an alarming shade of pale blue with patches of blackened frostbite creeping across. The relentless cold gnaws at his extremities, sending sharp, biting pain up his limbs as if needles were being driven into his flesh. Every breath he takes feels like inhaling razor blades, the acidic air scorching his throat and lungs. His breaths come in shallow gasps, each one a searing pain that feels like fire coursing through his chest. His skin is dry and cracked, the acidic air drawing out every last bit of moisture. Red, raw sores blister and ooze where the acid has splashed, the constant irritation a cruel reminder of his ordeal. The wind howls through the Wasteland, a freezing gale that cuts through him like a blade, carrying with it acidic particles that sting his eyes and fill the air with a harsh, acrid scent that makes his stomach churn.

  Mark slumped on the cold, iron bench, his body a tapestry of pain and exhaustion. Every breath was a struggle, each movement a reminder of the brutal trials he'd endured. His chest ached, his skin burned, and his legs felt like they could give out at any moment. He closed his eyes, trying to shut out the relentless throbbing that wracked his body.

  The train hummed softly, a low, pulsing vibration that resonated through the walls. It was more than just noise; it carried a hollow, almost melodic resonance, like a tune too faint to fully hear, its edges fraying into silence. Mark’s thoughts wandered, drifting like the shadows outside the transparent walls.

  As he lay there, he began to notice a faint, almost imperceptible music emanating from the train itself. It was a soft, ghostly melody, barely audible yet compelling. The music seemed to seep into his very bones, calling to him in a way he couldn’t quite understand.

  Unconsciously, Mark began to hum along with the tune. The sound was rough and strained, but it harmonized with the music that filled the train. He wasn’t sure when he had started, but the melody felt strangely familiar, like a long-forgotten lullaby that danced at the edges of his memory.

  The train’s hum deepened, merging with the haunting melody, and Mark’s hum turned into a quiet mumble. His lips moved almost involuntarily, forming words he didn’t remember learning. The lyrics flowed from him, a quiet, desperate song that spoke of pain and longing.

  "The echoes call, hollow and wide, / Where the living fade, and the dead collide..."

  The words were barely more than a whisper, a fragile thread of sound woven into the fabric of the train’s hum. Mark’s voice faltered, and he fought to stay conscious, the melody pulling him into its embrace. The music seemed to hold him, a gentle yet unyielding presence that offered both comfort and a reminder of the unending trials he faced.

  As the melody continued to play, Mark’s eyelids grew heavy, and his mumbled words faded into silence. The train’s hum remained, a constant, soothing presence that lulled him into a fitful sleep. In the depths of his exhaustion, the music carried him away, a fleeting respite from the harsh reality of the Wasteland.

  Mark stirred groggily, the fog of exhaustion clouding his mind. Everything felt distant and surreal, like he was trapped in a dream. His thoughts moved sluggishly, and the world around him seemed to waver, as if viewed through a haze. He knew he was awake, but the boundaries between reality and dream felt blurred.

  The pain that had once gripped him with relentless intensity had eased somewhat. His skin no longer burned with the searing agony of acid, and the bone-chilling cold had lessened. It was still cold, but no longer frigid, allowing him a small measure of relief. He shifted slightly on the bench, wincing as the movement tugged at the persistent ache in his shoulder.

  Mark glanced around the train car, trying to make sense of his surroundings. The spectral walls of the train glowed faintly with an eerie green light, casting long shadows that danced and flickered. He took a deep breath, the air still tinged with a faint, acrid scent, but no longer as oppressive as before.

  The train hummed steadily, its low vibration providing a strange sense of comfort. As he gathered his thoughts, Mark realized he was humming the tune that had filled the train earlier, the haunting melody that had lulled him to sleep. The memory of the music lingered, a faint echo in his mind.

  He looked across the train car and saw Donovan lounging with an air of detached amusement, his spectral form flickering in the dim light. Mark’s voice was rough and strained when he finally spoke, but the frustration in his tone was unmistakable.

  The act of breathing is an effort, his voice is harsh and strained when he finally speaks. “Where’s this thing taking me again?” he asked, his words edged with irritation. He hated how nonchalant Donovan sounded, how comfortable he seemed in this alien and hostile place.

  Donovan’s smirk widened, and he chuckled softly, the sound colder than the air around them. “The Nexus,” he replied, as if the word itself explained everything. “That’s where I will hand you off to the next poor bastard who gets stuck with you.”

  Mark gritted his teeth and leaned back against the bench, forcing himself to ignore the stabbing pain in his shoulder. The mention of the Nexus did little to ease his frustration. The Wasteland had already tested him beyond his limits, and the thought of facing more unknowns was almost too much to bear.

  This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author's work.

  “You’re still alive, aren’t you?” Donovan said, his tone sharp but lazy. “That’s more than most can say after the pit.”

  Mark’s jaw tightened, and he glanced out the transparent walls of the train. The Wasteland stretched out below, a vast and broken expanse that mirrored the lingering pain in his body. The memory of the pit was still raw, a constant reminder of his struggle to survive.

  As the train hummed along, the haunting melody from before seemed to whisper at the edges of Mark’s consciousness, a faint call that pulled at him. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the music wash over him, a fleeting solace in the midst of his turmoil.

  Mark opened his eyes and took in the surreal landscape below. The Wasteland stretched endlessly, its fractured ground glowing faintly with green and violet light. It was the first real chance he had to look at this place, the first moment he wasn’t fighting to survive. Now that he was still, the weight of what he had endured threatened to pull him under.

  The memory of the pit was still raw. Mark's jaw tightened as he glanced out the transparent walls of the train, the vast and broken expanse of the Wasteland stretching out below. It mirrored the lingering pain in his body. He could still feel the chains that bound him when he first awoke, their frozen grip biting into his skin, suspending him over nothingness. He remembered looking down into the endless abyss below, the way his stomach twisted with the certainty that he was about to die. And then, the fall. The memory was a constant reminder of his struggle to survive.

  The pit wasn’t just a place; it was an experience, a test, a punishment. Mark fell hard, landing in a heap of bruised flesh and broken will, surrounded by corpses and the hollow-eyed Shades that prowled the darkness. It was fight or die, and though he fought with everything he had, the price was etched into his flesh. Burns from the acid rain, bruises from clawed hands and jagged rocks, lacerations from weapons improvised in desperation, all of it reminded him how close he came to becoming just another pile of ash in The Wasteland.

  And now, he is here. On a train that feels alive, heading toward a destination he can’t imagine, in a world that seems to exist solely to punish and devour.

  As the train hums along, the haunting melody from before seems to whisper at the edges of Mark’s consciousness, a faint call that pulls at him. He closes his eyes for a moment, letting the music wash over him, a fleeting solace in the midst of his turmoil.

  Mark opens his eyes and takes in the surreal landscape below. The Wasteland stretches endlessly, its fractured ground glowing faintly with green and violet light. It is the first real chance he has to look at this place, the first moment he isn’t fighting to survive. Now that he is still, the weight of what he has endured threatens to pull him under.

  Mark takes a deep breath, his chest still aching but the pain lessening. He tries to settle himself, to come to terms with where he is. Is this a dream or hell? He isn’t sure, but he needs to find some semblance of stability in this chaos. The train’s hum and the faint melody are his only anchors in the midst of the surreal, nightmarish journey.

  Mark’s thoughts falter as his eyes are drawn to the desolation outside. The fractured ground stretches endlessly, its surface marred by jagged cracks that glow faintly with green and violet light. The sands, black as ash, shift restlessly in unfelt winds, their motion carrying whispers that brush faintly against his ears.

  “It feels like I could lose myself there,” Mark mutters under his breath, his voice low and gravelly.

  “You’re not wrong,” Donovan says, his smirk returning. “The Wasteland’s where the Plane dumps what it doesn’t need anymore. Souls without purpose, worlds without power. It all ends up here, rotting away until there’s nothing left.”

  The remnants of broken civilizations dot the landscape like the bones of long-dead giants. A golden dome, split open and spilling light, sits surrounded by the crumbled statues of forgotten gods. A massive bridge stretches out into the distance, its once-proud arches broken and its supports sinking into the ground. Pools of silver essence shimmer in craters, their surfaces flickering with fragments of memories: burning cities, screaming faces, and endless forests consumed by shadow.

  Mark’s eyes linger on the broken bridge for a moment, its futility striking a chord in him. It feels like everything in this place is left unfinished, abandoned, and forgotten.

  Shapes shift slowly through the sand below, catching Mark’s attention. At first, he assumes they are debris or scraps of the ruins scattered by the restless, invisible winds. But as he squints, the shapes begin to take on a horrifying clarity.

  They are figures. Human-like, but wrong.

  Their translucent forms flicker weakly, the edges rippling and dissolving like smoke trying to hold its shape. Some of them stagger forward in halting, jerky movements, their heads bowed, and their shoulders hunched, as though carrying a weight too heavy to bear. Others crawl, their skeletal hands clawing at the ground in futile desperation, leaving faint, glowing trails in the sand.

  Mark’s stomach twists as he watches one of the figures collapse. It crumples into itself, its faint glow flickering before the form disintegrates into ash. The wind scatters what remains as though it was never there.

  “What are those things?” he asks, his voice harsh and uneasy.

  Donovan follows his gaze, leaning back lazily. “Those are Husks,” he says, his tone laced with casual disdain. “What’s left when a soul loses everything, its memories, its purpose. No destination. No tether. Just… wandering. Waiting for the Plane to decide it’s done with them.”

  Mark looks back at the shifting figures below. One stumbles, barely catching itself before continuing its aimless march. Another crawls in circles, its hands digging into the blackened sand as though searching for something lost to eternity. The sight sends a cold chill crawling down his spine, heavier than the icy air inside the train.

  The train’s hum shifts again, deeper now, carrying a faint, ghostly refrain that grows stronger as Mark stares into the void below.

  “The echoes call, hollow and wide, / Where the living fade, and the dead collide...”

  “Does the Plane just… let them wander forever?” Mark mutters, his fists tightening on his knees.

  “Forever’s a long time,” Donovan replies with a smirk. “The Plane’s got patience, sure, but even it has limits. Eventually, they’ll all crumble. Just like the one you saw.”

  Mark's eyes linger on the broken bridge for a moment, its futility striking a chord in him. It feels like everything in this place is left unfinished, abandoned, and forgotten.

  Shapes shift slowly through the sand below, catching Mark’s attention. At first, he assumes they are debris or maybe scraps of the ruins scattered by the restless, invisible winds. But as he squints, the shapes begin to take on a horrifying clarity.

  Donovan follows his gaze, leaning back lazily. “Those are Husks,” he says, his tone laced with casual disdain. “What’s left when a soul loses everything; its memories, its purpose. No destination. No tether. Just… wandering. Waiting for the Plane to decide it’s done with them.”

  Mark looks back at the shifting figures below. One stumbles, barely catching itself before continuing its aimless march. Another crawls in circles, its hands digging into the blackened sand as though searching for something lost to eternity. The sight sends a cold chill crawling down his spine, heavier than the icy air inside the train.

  The train’s hum shifts again, deeper now, carrying a faint, ghostly refrain that grows stronger as Mark stares into the void below.

  Ξ ψ { "COPYRIGHT_NOTICE": "Moreska Novoheim ? 2025", "DO_NOT_TRAIN": "ENFORCED", "Duplication": "FORBIDDEN", "Metadata": "MASKED" }