Chapter 370: The Jet-Black Mysterious Train 12
The rhythmic clatter of the Bell Tree Express against the iron tracks did little to soothe Conan Edogawa's racing mind. He mentally sifted through the passenger manifest of the Mysterious Train, noting how nearly everyone aboard seemed to harbor their own shadowy agendas. He considered enlisting Kaitou Kid's assistance. The phantom thief's penchant for theatrical escapes would be incredibly useful right now, but that plan hinged entirely on Conan's ability to break out of this sealed carriage first.
He chewed on his lower lip, running through the murder case again. Based on his deductions, Anton had to be the one who killed Murobashi. The logic was sound. Yet, Amuro hadn't found the crucial mirror at the scene. Without that prop, how exactly had the killer managed to create the optical illusion that misled the conductor? Conan's brow furrowed into a tight knot. The missing piece of the puzzle stubbornly eluded him.
Several cars away, the atmosphere carried a far more dangerous edge. Vermouth, currently wearing the burn-scarred face of Shuichi Akai, casually adjusted her collar. She had just incapacitated Masumi Sera after a seemingly accidental encounter in the hallway. After unceremoniously dumping the unconscious high school detective into an empty cabin and locking the door, Vermouth stepped back out into the narrow corridor.
Her boots clicked softly against the carpeted floor until she crossed paths with Yukiko Kudo. The former actress had boarded the locomotive at her son's behest, stepping right into the crossfire. As their shoulders nearly brushed in the confined space, Yukiko's voice drifted over, quiet but firm.
"If we gain the upper hand this time, then please, you must really stop. Don't target that child anymore."
They parted ways without another word, the heavy silence lingering in their wake. Vermouth's lips curled into a faint, knowing smirk beneath her latex mask. Yukiko clearly saw right through the Scar Akai disguise, and it was obvious the woman intended to interfere with the Black Organization's hunt.
Anticipating this, Vermouth had already taken countermeasures. She had tracked down Yukiko's luggage—specifically the heavy suitcase containing all of her complex disguise materials—and unceremoniously chucked it out a window, letting it tumble into the forested abyss blurring past the train. With those tools gone, no one could create a decoy. No one else could disguise themselves as Sherry.
Vermouth knew the runaway scientist's psychological profile inside and out. If Sherry realized that the Organization was tearing this train apart just to find her, her guilt would force her out of hiding. She would offer herself up on a silver platter to protect the innocent bystanders.
Vermouth's assessment of her prey was entirely accurate. Upon receiving the threatening message, Sherry had fully intended to surrender. However, the Organization's master of disguise had failed to account for a series of massive, unpredictable variables.
First, Sherry had nearly jumped out of her skin when Subaru Okiya cornered her, only to discover the enigmatic graduate student was actually an FBI agent. Then, the situation spiraled completely out of control. Her true identity was casually laid bare by two entirely different threats: Shikanoin Heizou of the elusive Teyvat Organization, and Cointreau, a high-ranking operative of the Black Organization itself. Yet, instead of a death sentence, they dropped a bombshell that shattered her entire worldview—her sister was still alive.
The sheer whiplash of terror, shock, and overwhelming relief had completely drained her. By the time she finalized a tense, secretive deal with Heizou and Cointreau, the paralyzing dread she usually felt toward the Black Organization had evaporated. The Teyvat Organization needed her alive and functioning. They would never allow Vermouth or Gin to drag her back into the darkness. All she had to do was follow their instructions: stay perfectly quiet, remain hidden in her designated spot, and let the adults handle the bloodshed.
Blissfully unaware of Cointreau's treasonous backdoor dealings with a rival faction, Vermouth believed her web was tightening perfectly. She stood near the end of a carriage, staring out the reinforced glass window, picturing that suitcase of disguise tools shattering against the gravel miles behind them.
"You always were too confident, Sharon."
Yukiko's voice chimed from behind, breaking the rhythmic hum of the train. Vermouth didn't flinch. She slowly turned around, her hand reaching up to grip the edge of the scarred latex on her neck. With a fluid, practiced motion, she peeled the false face away, letting it drop to the floor. Her striking, ageless features caught the dim cabin light, her blue eyes narrowing at her former friend.
Yukiko flashed a bright, thoroughly unbothered smile. She casually leaned against the wall, crossing her arms. "We're already a step ahead of you. That little stunt you pulled with Masumi Sera? We've already sent someone to fetch her from that empty carriage and return her safely to her own cabin."
A flicker of genuine surprise crossed Vermouth's face, her perfectly manicured fingers twitching slightly. But she smoothed her expression over in a fraction of a second, letting out a low, melodic chuckle. "Is that so? How active of you. But that young lady isn't exactly alone in that carriage right now." Vermouth tilted her head, her gaze turning sharp and mocking. "That 'helper' you sent... do you really think he can defeat the evil dragon guarding her and rescue the princess?"
Yukiko didn't lose her smile. "Sharon, I have absolute confidence in that helper. I believe that, to rescue his princess, he will definitely give it his all."
Exactly as Vermouth had hinted, the "evil dragon" was already baring his fangs. Inside the cramped confines of the passenger cabin, Cointreau was locked in a vicious, silent melee with Subaru Okiya.
The limited space forced both men to fight with brutal efficiency. Neither could afford to draw a weapon or smash the furniture, carefully restraining their movements to avoid alerting the conductor or the oblivious passengers in the neighboring rooms. Cointreau's eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. He pivoted on his heel, driving a violent, heavy punch straight toward Subaru's jaw. The sheer force of the strike sent a sharp whistle of displaced air through the quiet cabin.
Subaru brought his forearm up in a flash, absorbing the heavy blow with a muffled thud. But Cointreau didn't pull back. Taking advantage of the block, the Organization operative suddenly shifted his momentum. He flipped his wrist with viper-like speed, his fingers locking like a steel vice around Subaru's blocking arm.
Digging his thumb into the nerve cluster, Cointreau twisted violently, attempting to wrench the taller man off balance and completely lock down his movements. Simultaneously, Cointreau slid his lead foot forward. In the blink of an eye, he closed the remaining gap, pressing directly into Subaru's personal space. Cointreau leaned in close, his piercing gaze locking onto Subaru's face. His eyes darted across the graduate student's features, scrutinizing the jawline, the neck, the very structure of the skin, as if trying to rip away a physical mask with his stare alone.
Subaru reacted instantly to the invasive scrutiny. Shifting his weight to his right foot, he snapped his left leg up in a blistering, close-quarters knee strike aimed directly at Cointreau's exposed ribs.
Sensing the incoming impact, Cointreau immediately abandoned his grip on Subaru's wrist. He pushed off his back foot, his figure flashing backward just in time. The heavy kick swept through empty air, missing his side by mere inches. The two men separated, re-establishing a few feet of distance between them. They circled each other slowly in the center of the cabin, the heavy, suffocating tension threatening to crack the windows.
Subaru kept his fists raised, his brow furrowed behind his wire-rimmed glasses as he stared down his opponent. Cointreau, however, let out a soft, amused breath. He slowly lowered his guard, dropping his hands to his sides, and allowed a faint smile to touch his lips.
"Shuichi Akai," Cointreau called out, the name hanging heavy in the quiet room. "You really aren't dead."
Seeing that the Organization operative had completely dropped his aggressive stance, Subaru slowly lowered his own fists. He straightened his posture, adjusting his collar with a look of mild, polite confusion.
"Were you just speaking to me?" Subaru asked, his voice entirely steady. "If so, I'm afraid you have the wrong person. Although I am affiliated with the FBI, I am certainly not this Mr. Akai."
Cointreau raised a single, skeptical eyebrow. "Not a bad reaction. Flawless execution, really. But it's useless." He crossed his arms, his smile widening into something far more dangerous. "I am already entirely certain that you are Shuichi Akai."
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