The palace bell tower tolled in heavy, crashing notes through Darsha. Every toll bore not just sound but history's weight. Two years had passed since the world had been remade by iron, stone, and toil. Two years of tunnels dug under cities, rails laid over mountains, and stations built like industry cathedrals. What had existed as sketches and debates on mountaintop tables now stood, alive and thundering.
The Sharath's capital subways were the first to be opened. Travelers went down marble staircases illuminated by crystal lanterns, their eyes growing wide as they entered spacious halls where steel serpents of iron were waiting. The trains were polished and magical against rust, their fronts topped with Darshan gold emblems.
Kids shrieked as doors glided apart. Families entered with awestruck nerves, holding on to the seats as the train started up. Then—like a charm—the floor rumbled, the carriages groaned, and the darkness of the underground became a blur.
"Underground travel," a farmer breathed to his wife as they held hands. "As if we were birds taking flight through the earth."
The dwarves were not lagging far behind. Marcel's realm had bored its tunnels with savage efficiency. Where the Darshan subways were bedecked with murals and mosaics, the dwarven lines were uncompromising might—arcs of blackstone braced by runes, walls coated with pulsing crystals, tracks so massive they could support giants' weight.
By the second year, the projects were converging. The international routes, running along plains and valleys, through forests and mountains, now connected three empires. They were the arteries of a new era.
The Opening Ceremony
The huge square in front of Darshan's Central Rail Station hummed with voices. Tens of thousands filled the steps, straining necks to catch a glimpse of the platform. Banners waved, bewitched to shine with light, featuring emblems of Darsha, the dwarves, the elves, and the beastmen.
Sharath stood on the podium, no longer mere emperor, but builder of a new world. At his side, Marcel, clad in dwarven ceremonial armor covered in gears and runes, his beard bedecked with silver wire. To Sharath's left, the envoys of the elves in robes of leaves, and to his right, beastmen dignitaries with the scent of oil and smoke on them.
Behind them lay the first international train. It was enormous—its front figure-carved with both Darshan and dwarven designs, a testament of collective pride. Steam puffed gently from its pipes, as if a dragon waiting to bellow.
Sharath held up his hand, and silence descended.
"Two years ago," he started, his voice booming throughout the square, "it was a dream. Two years ago, roads were slow, walls were borders, and distance was a chain around our necks. Today, those chains are broken."
A roar of approval arose like thunder.
Marcel moved forward, his voice ringing out deep and sonorous. "Our people hacked the mountains open. His people constructed the engines. Together, we made the world smaller—and the future larger."
He lifted a hammer, radiant with magic, and slammed the ceremonial gong. Behind them, the train awakened to a scream of steam.
Wheels whirled, steam burst forth, and inch by inch—before the gaze of empires—the very first international train moved ahead.
The Journey Begins
Sharath himself rode on the first train, accompanied by Marcel, ambassadors, and selected members from each empire. The carriages were plush, adorned with magical lamps, plush velvet benches, and brass that shone. Tables had sweets, meats, and fruit from all over the realms.
As the train left Darshan's capital, the throngs gathered outside applauded, racing alongside until the iron monster left them behind. Flags were waved by children, elderly men cried, and women hoisted infants so as to behold the wonder of steel on the move.
The first part of the trip took them to the dwarven realm.
To the Mountains
The train roared into the dwarven tunnels, rails softly aglow with rune-light. Condensation dripped from the walls, but the stone stood firm, powerful enough to withstand even earthquakes.
At the end of the tunnel, Marcel stood up. "Here I leave," he growled, grasping the arm of Sharath. "The subway in my realm comes to an end, and I have to lead the final hammer blows. But heed my words, Sharath—we've cut the first trail. Let others come after, but the dwarves and Darsha will ever be at the front."
He went down the platform amidst thunderous shouts of his folk, disappearing into his city of rock.
The Beastmen's Plains
The train roared across the plains, where grass curved under its path. Here, beastmen had constructed new stations—broad but unassuming, made of wood and stone, adorned with claw and fang banners.
But most impressive to Sharath was not the stations. It was the scent.
The air was filled with a pungent taste of oil and smoke. Refineries speckled the plains, spewing columns of fire and steam. Sharath's initial bargain had been taken by the beastmen and surpassed in enormous ways. They no longer sold raw oil. Petroleum, kerosene, tar, and lighter oils were their new trade, sold at carefully calculated prices to each empire's requirement.
A barrel of petroleum here, a cart of kerosene there—the beastmen were now oil traders of the world.
Envoy Ronan's son met Sharath at the station, holding out a ledger. "We sell now to dwarves and elves both," he boasted. "Your tricycles, your carriages, your balloons—they all sip from our wells. Without us, the fire burns out."
Sharath suppressed his grin. He had a good idea how perilous this reliance would grow—but for the moment, he nodded, slapping the young beastman on the shoulder. "Then you have the blood of industry in your hands. Use it well."
The Elves' Forest Roads
The following section took them into the elves' territory. Here, the tracks appeared to disappear into green tubes. Trees grew on either side of the tracks, carefully planted, magic-enchanted to grow high and straight. Their branches crossed above, creating a leafy cathedral.
Birdsong accompanied the train as it moved under. At stops, elven youths blew flutes, and druids blessed rails with soft spells of growth and healing.
The Elven Queen herself came aboard the capital stop, wearing robes made of vines threaded with silver. She smiled at Sharath, her green eyes shining like the lamps.
"Your rails chain us, Sharath," she whispered, "but our trees will prevent the rails from mutilating the world. Our roads will be not of stone only, but of iron and nature combined."
She presented him with plans: roads radiating through her empire, each of them lined with trees, to keep the land as green as it was quick.
Sharath examined them and considered: she had glimpsed the center of his dream and given it beauty.
The Return
Finally, after weeks of ritual and journey, the first train came back to Darsha. Citizens swarmed the capital again, their voices hoarse from cheering. Sharath descended onto the platform, raising his hand in greeting, his heart heavy but proud.
The iron web was woven. From Darsha to dwarf, from dwarf to beastman, from beastman to elf, the world was linked. Space dissolved. Commerce flowed. Thoughts traveled faster than ever.
The New Systems
The dwarves and elves had already started implementing Darsha's identity system. In their own territories, golden cards tied to magic sigils now indicated citizenship. Upon entering another empire, a temporary permit was stamped on their card—similar to a passport.
Elven traders flashed dwarven gates their cards, passes radiating green light. Dwarven craftsmen journeyed upon red-sealed cards into elven woods. The system caught on like fire, providing security, order, and liberty with equal measure.
The beastmen, in turn, profited from their oil, no longer ridiculed as crude sludge. Every type of oil had a price attached to it—petroleum being the cheapest, kerosene more expensive, purified magical mixtures selling like jewels. Barrels were transported across borders by merchants, stamped with seal of identity for taxation.
The world was not the same.
Epilogue of the Chapter
One night, Sharath stood on the balcony of his palace, the darkness thrumming with the background rumble of subways beneath and the far-off roar of global trains. The world had been warped into his vision. Iron roads stretched across empires. Trees sprouted along tracks. Oil flared in furnaces.
But when he looked out at the horizon, a shiver of unease clawed at him.
Progress was a flame—and fire burned brightly, but it destroyed.
And far away beyond his iron web, in darkness under mountains, another fire was growing.