The iron doors rattled open, and about twenty soldiers poured out of the cargo hold as if bursting forth. Their faces were devoid of expression—faces that had suppressed even the signs of exhaustion from the long journey. A few wordlessly entered the birch forest to relieve themselves, while others twisted their stiff bodies to stretch. The rest naturally gathered in one spot and lit cigarettes. Red embers flickered like dots in the thin air.
The border was not far. As if the train knew this, it remained quiet, catching its breath—like a beast momentarily straightening its back at the end of a long, arduous journey.
It was not snowing. No wind blew. That fact alone should have been a relief. However, the soldiers' military jackets were not fur coats. The sharp cold burrowed into their sleeves, chilling their entire bodies as if biting into their flesh. Even standing still made their teeth chatter.
Nevertheless, the military jackets issued by Government R served as a minimal shield. Among them were several old fubaykas—worn-out padded coats thickly stuffed with cotton and densely quilted, said to have been worn by the R-army in past wars. While they couldn't completely block the wind, they barely managed to hold onto the escaping body heat. Those clothes, which looked like something out of a movie, were equipment directly linked to survival here.
The iron door of the freight train groaned low once more. From the gap, a North Korean officer, appearing to be the commander among the soldiers, revealed himself and slowly stepped down.
He scanned the surroundings for a moment before reaching inside his jacket. What he pulled out was an object far too sophisticated for a soldier departing from a battlefield: a pack of Sobranie, luxury British cigarettes, and a Dupont lighter. A brief flame flickered to life, and with a practiced motion, he transferred the fire to the tip of the cigarette.
From R’s Khasan Station, the Tumen River was just a stone's throw away. The moment one crosses that single river, the very air of the land ceases to be the same. As if he knew this fact better than anyone, the officer’s gaze lingered for a long time toward where the river would lie.
The scenery leading to Khasan was unbelievably beautiful. Forests where birch, oak, and conifers intertwined stretched on endlessly; once past the woods, flat snowy plains unfolded. This was the land known as the 'Ussuri Taiga.' In winter, snow settles thick upon every branch, shrouding the world entirely in white. Not a single human footprint marked the plains—only the occasional tracks of a great beast cutting across the snow. They were footprints so large and deep one might think they belonged to a tiger.
The officer took another drag of his cigarette.
The air of this land was romantic. It was cruelly silent and beautiful.
However, the moment they crossed the Tumen River ahead, such sentiments would become utterly meaningless.
An aide approached the North Korean officer, straightening his back and saluting. His breath scattered in white mists.
"Comrade Major, thank you for your hard work during this long-distance movement. We have traveled a staggering 9,300 kilometers by train. Once we pass through Tumen River Station, it’s only about fifty kilometers left to Rason."
The officer lifted his eyes slightly.
"You’ve worked hard as well, Comrade."
"Thank you. I will re-check the condition of the soldiers and see to the Major’s vehicle loaded in the freight car."
The aide turned and barked at the soldiers.
"Everyone, fall back in! Board the freight cars immediately!"
The scattered soldiers tossed their cigarettes into the snow to extinguish them and scrambled back up.
The officer stood in silence, looking toward the end of the long, stretched-out train. On the snow-covered tracks, the black mass of iron extended without end.
His gaze drifted far away. Memories of living through the 1900s flickered faintly in his mind.
============
February 1909.
It was a time of invasion and suffering at the hands of Japan; a time when the motherland was being trampled. Twelve independence activists gathered in a shabby inn in Kraskino. They cut their left ring fingers and swore an oath in blood. An Jung-geun, Kim Ki-ryong, Baek Gyu-sam, Hwang Byeong-gil—a total of twelve men wrote the four characters for "Korean Independence" (大韓獨立) in large strokes on the national flag with the blood flowing from their severed fingers. Because of this resolve, the ring finger was missing even in An Jung-geun's famous photographs. People called this the Dong-ji Alliance (The Alliance of Cut Fingers).
The North Korean officer slowly looked down at his left hand.
The fingers now were all intact. Not a single scar remained.
It was true: this current body was not the body from that time; he possessed a different physical form.
'Comrades... It was here, not far from this station, that we all made our resolve...'
The words he could not speak aloud echoed only within his chest.
He dropped his cigarette onto the snow. With his military boot, he crushed it, extinguishing the embers.
Just then, his adjutant shouted:
"Comrade Major! Please board quickly! The train is departing!"
The officer turned around without a word.
Clank— Clank— Clank—
The man grabbed the door handles with both hands to climb into the freight car.
Clank, clank, clank... The freight train began to move.
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That man was not a being who could be explained by a single name.
He was the Asian man who had recently proposed a mercenary contract to Kerensky, and he was the NK soldier who had secretly assisted Vadim on the front lines. Simultaneously, he was another persona altogether, created by cloning the brain of Jun-ho, who lived somewhere in South Korea.
Lillik was the same. He was another self branched off from the existence of Illik. Like branches growing from the same root but twisted in different directions. The brain was a universe unto itself—a world infinitely dividing and infinitely varying.
Even if the DNA is identical, if the body is different, the air one breathes is different, and the environment one inhabits is different, they become entirely different people. Just as the music changes when the performer changes, even if they are given the same sheet music. Their patterns of behavior and their attitudes toward life shifted accordingly.
Yet, they were not completely severed. In the depths, at a level difficult to explain in words, their philosophical stances and ways of viewing the world overlapped faintly. Like people dreaming the same dream across different timelines.
The man was suddenly seized by the feeling that he no longer knew whose memories were fueling his very breath.
=============
The train crawled across the iron bridge as if groaning in a low voice. Below, the dark currents of the Tumen River flowed by.
If there had been a bridge for people and vehicles to cross freely, they wouldn't have had to take such a long, circuitous route. Here, however, the only practical way to cross the border was the railroad. The iron bridge spanning the river looked less like a simple means of transport and more like the sole artery connecting two different worlds.
Typically, the railway gauges of R and North Korea differ, requiring a change of wheels or a transfer of trains to cross the border. However, the section leading to Rason was built with dual-gauge tracks—a peculiar railway where two different systems run side-by-side. Thanks to this, the freight train could head straight into the North Korean city of Rason without stopping.
The soldiers inside the cargo hold were men who had departed from the front lines of U. The scent of combat still clung to their uniforms. Their silence wasn't merely due to exhaustion; they knew exactly what this train was carrying and where it was headed.
They were escorting "something special."
The man responsible for this escort was the North Korean officer, Major Min.
At a glance, Major Min stood out from the typical impression of a North Korean officer. He was nearly 180cm tall—rare for his nationality—and his sharp, well-defined features were handsome enough to remind one of a South Korean movie star. At only thirty-two, as an officer who had graduated from a top-tier university, he was already an object of secret admiration among the young women of Pyongyang.
Had he wished, he could have remained in Pyongyang and walked a stable path—a city where power and privilege congregate, the city furthest from the war. Yet, he left. He chose the front lines himself, and he chose the path back just as deliberately. He had sought out actual combat experience, a choice that had earned him the profound trust of the Party.
Now, he was heading back toward Pyongyang. As the train crossed the Tumen River and pierced deep into northern territory, his face was faintly reflected in the carriage window.
Meanwhile, from somewhere in Earth's orbit, this sluggish movement was being watched. U.S. intelligence reconnaissance satellites tracked the trajectory of the train crossing the border in real-time through cold lenses. However, they had no idea what was loaded inside or what mission the men were returning to fulfill.
The situation on the Chinese side was no different. They had identified the freight train moving along the border, the presence of some troops on board, and the route returning north. But there was no "why." The intelligence existed only in fragments; the full picture was nowhere to be found.
China formally requested cooperation from R’s intelligence agency. But the reply that came back was short and dry.
–
"We do not know either."
It was, in effect, a refusal to share information. Contained within that single sentence was both a warning not to cross the line and an insinuation that something was already in motion. The train passed through Tumen River Station and delved deeper into the northern territory. After running for about an hour and a half over the dark tracks, it finally arrived at Rason Station.
As the brakes shrieked like a dying animal and the train came to a halt, the doors of the cargo hold opened one by one.
The rank-and-file soldiers disembarked first. Without a moment to loosen their bodies stiffened from the long journey, they formed a line. In unison, they offered a salute toward Major Min.
"Loyalty!"
It was a short, heavy shout.
Major Min accepted the salute in silence. Not even a flicker of emotion crossed his eyes.
The soldiers immediately dispersed and moved toward their quarters away from the station. This was a special unit that Major Min had personally selected and managed—troops with extensive combat experience whose contact with the outside world was strictly controlled.
Above all, they owed their absolute, personal loyalty to Major Min. All that remained on the platform now was him and a few cargo crates that had yet to be opened.
The night air in Rason was even colder than at the Tumen River.
Now, only Major Min and the non-commissioned officer (NCO) remained on the platform. The commotion from just moments ago vanished like a lie, leaving only the low whistle of the wind brushing past Rason Station.
The NCO spoke first.
"Comrade Major, I will bring the vehicle. Please wait a moment."
A moment later, the headlights of a military SUV cut through the darkness, gliding alongside the platform. As the NCO skillfully brought the car to a stop, Major Min silently opened the passenger door and climbed in.
His destination was Pyongyang. However, from here in Rason, Pyongyang was nearly 800 kilometers away. The road conditions were poor, but the greater problem was the sky rather than the distance. To evade the surveillance of U.S. reconnaissance satellites, they had to change their routes and vehicles multiple times.
Major Min spoke in a low voice.
"Sergeant, we head to Chongjin first."
Chongjin was the largest industrial city in the north—a strategic stronghold with massive steel mills and a port that did not freeze even in winter. It was about 100 kilometers from Rason, but the treacherous roads meant the trip would take at least two hours.
The NCO smiled and pulled his seatbelt tight.
"Understood, Comrade Major. We are heading out. Hold on tight; the road is quite rough."
There was a strangely excited edge to his voice. He was the type of soldier who enjoyed tension and excitement simultaneously.
It was then.
"Wait... stop."
Major Min suddenly opened the door and stepped out.
Without a word, he walked toward the rear of the vehicle. The sound of his combat boots crunching on the gravel echoed clearly in the night air.
The NCO turned his head from the driver's seat to watch him.
"Min... I am Jun-ho."
Inside Major Min’s hand, the empty air trembled minutely.
A silver sphere floated above his palm. However, it was invisible to the ordinary eye. Hidden behind a transparent shield, it lurked in the air like an object whose very existence had been erased. Neither the aide nor the soldiers on the freight train had ever perceived it.
The surface of the sphere pulsed with a faint, rhythmic glow.
And from within it, a voice from far away flowed out.
It was a communication.
Jun-ho, living another life somewhere in South Korea, had placed the call.
Major Min closed his eyes for a moment before opening them. The cold night air of Rason seeped deep into his lungs.
"It’s been a long time..." Min's voice was low, almost devoid of emotion.
A brief silence followed from beyond the silver sphere.
A silence stretched between two beings who existed in different bodies, different times, and different nations, yet shared the same memories.
In the distance, the NCO waited, idling the engine.
But in those few seconds, it felt as though the world had folded inward, centering solely on the two of them.
The one who had crossed the Tumen River, and the one in South Korea across the Armistice Line.
Two lives, branched from the same brain, were reconnecting.