Industrial Cthulhu: Starting as an Island Lord

Gwen soon boarded the train. When the Expeditionary Army soldiers in charge of the station saw the slip of paper in her hand, they didn’t hesitate—they dragged two people off the carriage to make room for her.

“This... isn’t really proper, is it?” Gwen was startled. She had thought there would be empty seats, not that she would be cutting in line.

“Relax, these people are all nobles being sent for trial. Boarding later just means being judged later. They’re probably happy about it.”

Gwen nodded and carried her luggage toward the platform.

“Come this way for inspection. Open these two suitcases,” one Expeditionary Army soldier instructed.

Gwen didn’t have many personal belongings. She had spent most of her time fighting alongside the Expeditionary Army; aside from her own life, there was little she could keep—and sometimes, even that life had nearly been lost on the battlefield.

But this time, she had brought quite a few large bags.

“This is my armor, and this is my sword,” Gwen said, handing over a wooden chest with one hand. The inspector took it casually, only to stagger under the weight, nearly falling over.

“Why is it so heavy?!”

“Is it?” Gwen tilted her head, lifting it easily again. “It’s only about a hundred pounds, not heavy.”

A hundred pounds.

A full suit of plate armor usually weighed less than seventy; anything more would quickly drain stamina. Gwen’s chest being that heavy was already pushing human limits.

The inspecting soldier’s face twitched. Gritting his teeth, he used his full strength to take the chest. “Hmm... the armor’s fine. Well-maintained, too.”

“Of course! I’ve loved this set since I was little—I wear it everywhere!” Gwen puffed out her chest proudly.

Since she was little?

The soldier suddenly felt something was off, though he couldn’t quite put a finger on it.

“Wait, you can’t carry weapons onto the train!” the inspector suddenly remembered.

“Oh, I have special authorization from Archbishop Alexei.” Gwen lifted the document in her hand.

“Alright, then. Please open this one too.”

Gwen opened another case. The inspector stared silently at what was inside—Nora.

“Uh... that’s also under Archbishop Alexei’s authorization.”

“...Fine.”

Wiping the sweat from his forehead, the inspector hesitantly pointed at the last trunk. “This one doesn’t have anything prohibited, right?”

“No, no! Absolutely nothing!” Gwen said quickly, opening it herself.

Inside lay a polished Gatling Gun, gleaming faintly in the light.

The inspector’s face turned from pale to green, then slowly to black.

“This one... also authorized by Archbishop Alexei?”

“This one’s not—this one’s authorized by the Lord.”

Seeing the inspector’s face turning red-hot, Gwen quickly rummaged through her pockets and handed over a small booklet.

“A firearm permit—personally signed by the Lord. It allows me to carry this gun.” Gwen was still a bit unaccustomed to calling Hughes the Lord. She and the other White Raven refugees had been wandering for so long they were used to belonging nowhere.

The train attendant flipped through the permit, double-checked it several times, and finally closed it, returning it with a complicated expression.

“The papers check out. You can carry the gun.”

He hesitated a moment, then couldn’t help asking, “Honestly—whether in Blood Harbor or on this train, there’s no shortage of Gatlings. Why do you insist on bringing your own?”

A hand-cranked Gatling Heavy Machine Gun weighed nearly a hundred kilograms—over two hundred pounds. Even with the tripod or wheels removed, it still exceeded seventy kilograms—far too heavy for one person to carry.

But in Gwen’s hands, it seemed light as a feather. She could fight in full plate armor, a sword at her waist, Gatling in hand—and still bounce along like some kind of White Raven superwoman.

Gwen patted the heavy machine gun in the case and smiled. “She has separation anxiety. She doesn’t like being apart.”

Inspector: “...”

Nora: “...”

Nora blinked. “Wait—where did you even learn the term ‘separation anxiety’?”

“Didn’t Mr. Richard come by recently to treat the people at the Silent Sanctum? He and the Lord studied it for a while and gave that diagnosis.”

“Richard’s a doctor, isn’t he? He diagnoses guns now?”

Gwen scratched her head, puzzled. “Is... there a difference?”

“Of course there is! Does a stoker need a medical license too? When he argues with the boiler, is that a doctor-patient dispute? Are salvage ships at North Harbor considered corpse recovery vessels now? How can that be the same?”

“R–really?” Gwen looked utterly confused. She glanced down at the Gatling in her arms and smiled foolishly. “It’s fine. I like carrying it anyway.”

Nora fell completely silent. She glanced at the dazed inspector and suddenly had a feeling—

This trip to Castel, Gwen might not go mad.

But she herself probably would.

After some minor chaos, they finally boarded the train.

With a long whistle, the steam engine roared to life, and the train began to clatter forward. Gwen leaned out the window, looking out over the wasteland stretching to either side.

It was her first time leaving the Northlands.

Castel, Blood Harbor—those southern islands had no endless snowstorms, nor the rough stone churches of the North.

Gwen’s heart was filled with both anxiety and excitement. She reached her hand out the window to feel the cold northern wind, the corners of her mouth lifting unconsciously.

The train rumbled along the railway, the plains flashing by on both sides. Sometimes, coyotes chased after the cars before falling behind.

Gwen, like an overgrown child, poked around every corner, dragging a glassy-eyed Nora who had long given up trying to stop her.

After exploring several carriages, Gwen reached the front of the train—where the armor plating was thickest. Along with the machine-gun turrets on the roof, the front also housed the steam engine that powered it all.

The stoker was shoveling coal when he saw her. He grinned knowingly—clearly briefed about this unusual passenger—and stepped aside, leaning on his shovel so Gwen could get closer to the engine.

Gwen thanked him and, full of curiosity, peered at the steam engine. She set Nora down beside her and reached out to the boiler, trying to “communicate” with it.

“How is it? Did you feel the machine soul?” the stoker asked with a grin, folding his arms.

“I did. It said it’s busy and told me to go play somewhere else.”

The stoker blinked in surprise. “That’s... quite an elaborate message.”

“Not really,” Gwen said cheerfully. “It basically just said—‘scram.’”

“...”