Apocalypse: I Built the Infinite Train
Chapter 354: Dawn City and the Phoenix Society

September 9, D103, 3:45 a.m. At the edge of Luling Forest, under the starlit night, a colossal mobile mechanical city stood still in the wilderness. Its mountain-sized ground treads had crushed two massive ravines into the withered black forest. The multi-layered deck structure of the mech city was outfitted with countless radars and self-operating offensive-defense systems on 24-hour alert. Optical targeting systems and patrol drones swept through the surroundings, while mounted weapon bases, high-voltage defense grids, and anti-climb plasma-cutting lines stretched along the outer decks. Four massive rail-mounted Quake Cannons rested in low-frequency standby on both flanks. Together with legions of sentinels, surveillance operators, and armed personnel, they formed a defense system like an iron wall.

Lin Xian stood on the upper deck with KIKI and Chen Sixuan, at the steel outpost perched high on a windy ridge, hundreds of meters above ground. The wind howled in their ears. One side of their view was the vast plains in the dark, and the other—Abyss Zone No. 5—loomed at the horizon like a raging storm, a twisted and unpredictable scar that cut through the land.

“There’s a giant canopy screen ten kilometers above ground, but you can’t see it with the naked eye.” KIKI looked up at the sky and said, “I heard Dawn City launches aerial vehicles every so often trying to break through it, but they all fail.”

“Originally, we thought communication got disrupted because of the Abyss or the Dark Invasion,” Chen Sixuan said gravely. “Back in Yubei, I remember Wei Kexue saying flight was even more dangerous than land travel. I assumed it was because there were more terrifying monsters in the sky...”

“In a situation full of unknowns, flying is extremely risky.” Lin Xian gripped the cold rail, gazing down at the massive ship and the dark forest lit up by searchlights. “Even for floating cities like Silent City and Phoenix City. But the main issue is—where would you fly to?”

Nowhere in the world is truly safe. Without a destination, everyone’s just running from the expanding Polar Night. Flying faster, flying higher, or hovering in the sky is still not as safe as hiding underground. That’s why even though Silent City has anti-gravity capability, it mostly chooses to stay on land.

And frankly, outside of Silent City, no one else even has such a massive land vehicle. Even Dawn Center’s mobile base vehicles can’t compare.

A familiar voice rang out.

Lin Xian turned to see Shi Diyuan, Ning Jing, and Qian Dele with Monica. They had all been invited by Mochizuki Shinji to the Sky District’s central tower for a strategy meeting and intel sync.

“This city is insane—life support, industry, agriculture, medicine, weapons—it's got its own manufacturing ecosystem. A real doomsday fortress.”

“I took a stroll through the city earlier. Pretty impressive—clean, organized, efficient. Just shows what can be done when you’ve got the numbers.” Qian Dele wore a casual suit, clearly relaxed after escaping the Abyss. His shiny shoes and black sunglasses were back in full force.

“It’s not that simple,” Ning Jing said helplessly. “Do you know how much supplies a population of 100,000 burns through daily? Keeping a city this size silent in the darkness is no easy task.”

Shi Diyuan chuckled. “Exactly. You left all your convoy logistics to Xiaomeng. If we gave you a whole city to run, you’d quit in a week.”

Qian Dele frowned but responded without hesitation. “Yeah... better not.”

Shi Diyuan took a deep breath and looked across the ship decks filled with floating vessels. “I heard they’ve got dozens of ship fleets—big and small. They head into cities and hubs consumed by the Polar Night to salvage Federation reserves, restock cargo, hit transit points and ports... That’s how they keep the materials flowing. Feeding this many people is no joke. My Dragon Mountain No. 1 has just over a thousand, and that already gives me headaches.”

“Large numbers bring scale, but small groups have flexibility,” Monica chimed in. She had shed her exosuit and wore a sleek teal silk dress that hugged her curves, topped with a luxurious fur-lined coat. Her presence was striking. She looked Lin Xian in the eye and smiled.

“We’ve been out here for a while. Haven’t had the chance to thank our little hero face to face. Captain Lin—train jump, spatial transfer... can he get any more miraculous?”

Ning Jing smiled wryly. “People do strange things when cornered. That colossus that dragged you in somehow ended up spitting you back out. Honestly, we should thank the Deep Crimson World for that.”

“Pfft—those freaks only do disgusting crap,” KIKI said with disdain. “If you guys ever run into them again, be ready for some bad news.”

Then she turned to Monica. “By the way, Zhou Lei—is he still locked up? How’s he doing?”

Monica shrugged, a bit amused. “When we first brought him out, he was sobbing. But after realizing he wasn’t dead, he perked right back up. Now he just eats whatever I give him.”

“That guy said he’d die outside the Abyss, right?” Qian Dele frowned. “Was he bluffing, trying to trick you into bringing him out?”

“The aura on him definitely matched the Forbidden Item,” Lin Xian said, looking at Ning Jing. “A Bai said he felt the same energy on him and on your body, Lin Team. So I doubt he was lying about that. But the guy is cunning—how much of what he says you can believe, I don’t know.”

Ning Jing’s gaze flickered. “If White Candle really exists... either someone from Holy Revelation lied to me, or the flame wasn’t extinguished. That guy just got lucky.”

“Speaking of which…” Monica glanced at Hao Ming. “How long does he plan to keep me here?”

“Not my call,” Hao Ming said, looking toward the Sky Tower in the distance. “Let’s go. Mochizuki Shinji is waiting. How often do you get invited to a billionaire’s private banquet?”

“Right. Let’s get business done first.” Chen Sixuan added, “A guy like that survives on leverage. If he has anything useful, Mochizuki’s probably more interested than we are.”

Hao Ming nodded. Though it was technically a banquet, it was more of a leadership summit among core teams to plan the next steps. So Ning Jing only brought KIKI and Qian Dele. The others went off to rest in the lower districts. Grace, Dancer-1, and a few PX05 maintenance bots remained behind for routine servicing of the Infinite Train.

Just then, a reception robot arrived to escort them to the Sky Tower. As Lin Xian stepped forward, Monica’s voice came quietly by his side—soft, almost like a whisper meant only for him.

“Neon cuisine is too light and tasteless—can’t hold its own at a top-tier banquet. Real elites eat dragon cuisine or French. If you’re serious, I’ll treat you to a real taste of Dragon Country someday.”

Lin Xian raised a brow and looked back at her. She was still looking ahead.

“In this apocalypse, there’s still something like gourmet food?” he asked.

Monica smiled faintly and walked faster, leaving behind a cryptic line:

“In my car.”

Lin Xian was momentarily stunned. Did she actually stash high-end ingredients during the end times?

But he quickly dismissed the thought. He wasn’t much of a foodie. He’d rather devour Monica’s mech, Monica Queen, and maybe hit LV.6 to complete his Mechanical Awakening.

That was the real goal. Lin Xian reminded himself that now that he was in Silent City, he needed to take full advantage of this chance—expand his limited mechanical theory and blueprint library, and power up his abilities.

They followed the escort bot up an elevator to the upper deck of the Sky District—the top layer of the floating city. The entire deck was designed as a hidden private space, resembling a serene Neo-Japanese haven in the clouds.

When the mechanical doors opened, under the retractable steel canopy was a massive neon-themed courtyard. A clear pool lay in the center, paved with milky white jade gravel, reflecting bamboo fences and stone lanterns. Several ornamental stones stood by the pool like distant mountains—a perfect imitation of a Tsukiyama-style garden. A bamboo shishi-odoshi dipped and knocked rhythmically on a rock, creating a gentle echo.

Deeper inside, a full-holo sky showed changing seasons—spring cherry petals, summer fireflies, autumn crimson leaves, winter snow blanketing the courtyard. Light and shadow danced over moss and raked sand, creating a surreal, dreamlike illusion.

Thanks to top-tier soundproofing, once the roof sealed, all mechanical hums outside vanished. Only rustling bamboo and the trickle of water remained. It didn’t feel like they were in a mech city—it felt like a luxurious villa out in the scenic wilderness.

At the far end of the hallway, a familiar figure stood smiling, as if waiting all along.

Senju Shun.

“Looks like you’ve recovered well,” he said with a smile to Lin Xian.

“You too.”

They had both faced the terrifying gaze of the Lionfish Colossus for several minutes. With help from Silent City’s Blood Camellia and Shiori, they survived. But Shun’s calm demeanor now showed just how strong his mental resilience truly was.

He turned. The door behind him opened.

“Please.”

Inside was a vast hall in traditional style. Tatami flooring, a five-section-long zelkova banquet table, rosewood seat cushions, Wajima lacquerware and Bizen sake sets at each seat. At the far end stood Mochizuki Shinji in plain robes.

Artificial wind fluttered through, scattering cherry blossoms into tea bowls. The chaos of the floating city felt utterly sealed away in this quiet sanctuary.

“Don’t be shy—please sit,” Mochizuki said warmly. Seeing their curious expressions, he added, “Don’t get me wrong. I don’t particularly care about aesthetics. This place was built for an old friend to stay.”

Everyone turned to look where he indicated. Beside the pool outside, an elderly man with white hair and a hunched back sat fishing with a bamboo rod, motionless like he’d fallen asleep. Ripples spread gently across the water.

Lin Xian stared at the man’s back, then looked at Mochizuki. A realization struck.

“Is that... you?”

Everyone else’s expression changed at once.

Mochizuki smiled calmly. “No, he’s him. I’m me. We’re both independent. If I had to explain... before the Digital Life Act was passed, I couldn’t legally inherit his identity. But functionally—we’re teacher and student.”

That was when they realized—the old man by the pool was Mochizuki Shinji.

“I thought Mochizuki Shinji was in his 50s or 60s. So this younger version of you... is your pre-upload self?” KIKI asked.

Mochizuki nodded. “Correct.”

He gestured for them to sit. “He prefers peace and quiet. The messy stuff is ours to deal with now.”

Lin Xian and the others exchanged glances. For some reason, his words stirred something indescribable—like someone saying farewell to their own life. Seeing the elderly fisherman and the composed younger figure of Mochizuki Shinji stirred mixed emotions in their hearts.

“No wonder the Digital Life Act didn’t pass. In peacetime, this form of existence is hard to accept,” Chen Sixuan said softly after sitting down.

Mochizuki chuckled. “In philosophy class, I’m sure you’ve heard of the Ship of Theseus thought experiment…”

“You must’ve heard of the Ship of Theseus in your university philosophy classes,” Mochizuki Shinji said with a smile. “It’s about a wooden ship on an expedition. As time passes, its parts rot and are gradually replaced. Eventually, all its components are replaced. So the question becomes—is it still the same ship? If yes, why? If not, when did it stop being the same?”

Chen Sixuan nodded. “I remember that one. It’s a classic question of self-identity in philosophy.”

“Exactly,” Mochizuki said. “Human lifespan is tied to the renewal of cells. There was once a claim that the human body renews all its cells every seven years. Of course, that’s a misconception…”

He shrugged lightly. “Different cells regenerate at vastly different rates. But whatever—let’s go with that seven-year idea for the sake of argument. The question is: are you still the same person you were seven years ago?”

“I’m still me, obviously,” Shi Diyuan said, frowning. “At least my brain, body—those are still mine, right?”

Snap. Mochizuki snapped his fingers and looked at Shi Diyuan meaningfully.

“Exactly. If we think of humans as machines, all your organs are the hardware. And hardware gets updated. Whether through cellular regeneration or irreversible damage—if your limbs fail, you can get prosthetics; if you go blind, get synthetic eyes; even heart, liver, lungs, kidneys—everything can be replaced. But once you’ve swapped it all out, are you still the same person?”

“But the brain is different!” KIKI argued. “The brain is the core of thought and self-awareness!”

“Bingo.”

Mochizuki smiled and folded his hands into his sleeves, slowly sitting down again.

“So here's the real question: are you you because of your memories, or because of your thinking?”

“Well of course it’s...” KIKI paused mid-thought, realizing the answer wasn’t so simple.

Mochizuki continued: “When the brain degenerates and cognitive abilities decline—say with Parkinson’s or amnesia—if we see the brain as a machine’s core processor, then a malfunction means degraded output. Now say we preserve someone’s memories but switch to a new processor. Brain vs. quantum computer—different logic, different speed. But does that mean the person is no longer them?”

Lin Xian nodded slowly, exhaling deeply. “I know you’re right... but I still can’t fully accept it.”

Mochizuki’s gaze sharpened. He looked directly at Lin Xian and said:

“That’s because you know—after uploading your consciousness, that version of you… has nothing to do with you.”

Then, with a faint smile, he stood up and extended his arms wide.

“But do you know what the most fascinating part is?” As he spoke, vivid holograms burst to life across the entire room, showing the arc of human civilization—from tribal societies and agriculture to modern science and space exploration.

“Human history is a long process of trial and error—civilizations rise, fall, and rebuild. Every era brings scientific breakthroughs. But here’s the problem: a civilization’s ceiling is directly limited by the lifespan and memory capacity of its individuals.”

He turned, pointing at one hologram of a scientist.

“The simplest example—say a top scientist wants to work on cutting-edge research. They must be at least 35 or 40 to gain enough expertise. That means two-thirds of their life is spent relearning what others already knew…”

“All knowledge starts from something as simple as 1+1, and then repeats. But as the technological tree of this world grows more complex, no one person can grasp it all. So what do we do? We keep splitting fields—subdividing and subdividing again—like multithreading, until we have thousands, tens of thousands of disciplines!”

“But the human brain functions at its peak between the ages of 15 and 20. That’s where the contradiction lies. The minds of deceased genius scientists can no longer think, while new minds have to rebuild their worldview from scratch. The problem is—society, politics, family, environment, disasters, the internet, religion... all these things make that iterative process increasingly risky and unpredictable. So in the end, civilization’s development will always be limited by lifespan and cognitive capacity. But has anyone ever considered this? Processors have evolved from bulbs, vacuum tubes, semiconductors, to quantum units—why not the human brain?”

“That’s why, once humanity completes the transition from biological consciousness to digital consciousness, both lifespan and thought boundaries become limitless. That’s the true key to a civilizational leap.”

No one spoke. Monica, intrigued, rested her chin on her hand at the table. “I’ve heard a theory like that too. That humans are just another kind of machine. All phenomena in the organic world can be explained mechanically. The only barrier is societal acceptance and the pace of civilizational transition.”

As she spoke, she gestured out the window at an old man fishing. “Like that.”

Lin Xian couldn’t help but laugh. “Genius scientist Shinji Mochizuki may not live forever, but the you who inherited his knowledge can iterate endlessly.”

“Smart.”

Shinji Mochizuki smiled, then looked out at the aged figure and said quietly, “He and I aren’t the same person. But the reason I am who I am—and he is my teacher—is because during ‘Human-in-the-Loop’ learning, we need to refine emotional errors.”

“Well then, enough philosophy—let’s eat.”

Shinji tapped the table. The holographic display vanished, and the door opened as servant robots entered with trays of beautifully plated dishes. The spread was stunning—fresh vegetables and meats. The lush greens looked so crisp and fragrant they seemed to glow.

In a place as large as Silent City, Lin Xian wasn’t surprised they had a plant cultivation base. But what stunned him was the meat—there was chicken, beef, even fresh sushi made from sea fish!

That meant Silent City might have a large-scale aquaculture system—outrageously luxurious.

“Isn’t most of the water contaminated by the Dark Invasion? How the heck do you still raise fish?” Qian Dele asked as he popped a sushi piece into his mouth.

“Who says you need water to raise fish?”

Senju Shun smiled from across the table. “Just like your plant pods don’t need soil. All they need are moisture, oxygen, energy, and oxygenated gel. It’s really not that complicated.”

Lin Xian looked at the two and asked, “Has everyone in Silent City already uploaded their digital consciousness?”

“Most of them.” Shun shrugged. “Consciousness data is a valuable strategic resource now. We still screen and evaluate people. And due to computing limitations, we can only preserve them in the cloud for now. Making them fully independent requires massive industrial infrastructure—still in progress.”

“Lin,” Shinji said, turning to him, “if you’re willing, you can upload a backup of your own consciousness. You might find it useful one day.”

“Use... myself?” Lin Xian looked confused.

Shinji chuckled. “To you, it sounds weird. But to the people around you, you’ll still be you. Do you understand?”

Everyone at the table—Chen Sixuan, KIKI, Qian Dele, Shi Diyuan—looked at Lin Xian with subtle expressions.

“Haha. Just something to consider. Entirely your call.”

“Alright, back to business.” Shinji smiled gently. “Thank you all for working with Silent City through these troubled times. This gathering is partly to show our gratitude. If there’s anything you need—supplies, ammo, weapons—we can provide. It’s also to share intelligence and update you on Silent City’s upcoming plans. You might find them interesting.”

“I imagine you’re planning to go north to Dawn Center, or maybe head down the Huanxing Oceanic Line toward the Pacific. If you choose to leave, Silent City will transport you to the nearest rail line. But if you’d rather stay and join us, I’d be happy to welcome you.”

“Well, that’s tempting,” Shi Diyuan downed his sake with a laugh. “The world’s falling apart—who wouldn’t want a solid tree to lean on?”

Ning Jing took the question seriously. “So what’s Silent City’s plan?”

“I’ve mentioned it before,” Shinji said evenly. “It’s not just us—Dawn City, Phoenix Society, we all share one goal: leave Blue Planet.”

“Phoenix Society too?” Chen Sixuan frowned.

“What else?”

Shinji smiled. “The difference between Phoenix Society and Dawn City is mainly ideology. The Federation was elitist. After Apocalypse Day, the world fell into despair. You think the underground city plan was always the goal? No. That only came after the Stellar Ark Program failed—when the Federation lost its satellites, orbital systems, and South Gate. It was a last-ditch survival strategy.”

“That’s when the Federation split. One half became Dawn City, led by people like Chairman Chu Zhaonan—representing the elite and the wealthy.”

“They aim to rally remaining resources and elites to ‘protect the last ember of human civilization’. The logic fits a post-human society. But they can’t actually pull it off. Our current social infrastructure simply isn’t there. So it turns into a game of power hoarding.”

“And Phoenix Society?”

“They’re pragmatic, republican, humanist. Their priority is rescue—gathering survivors, building temporary safe cities, then slowly evacuating. More humane, which is why they’ve gained wide support. Even many in Dawn City agree with them. But survival is survival—there’s no right or wrong way to live.”

“But underground bunkers are still a death trap,” KIKI crossed her arms. “At their current location, Dawn City will be swallowed by Abyss Zones No. 5 and 8 in a month or two. What’s the point of bunkers?”

Shinji turned to her, calm as ever. “And you think Phoenix Society has a solution?”

He shook his head. “They don’t. They’re just surviving in the gaps, leading the last 20-30 million humans through doomed zones. So I say—at the end of the day, Dawn City and Phoenix Society are heading in the same direction.”

“Dawn City’s Starport launches probes every 2-3 days. All of them crash. To avoid provoking the massive atmospheric creatures cloaking the sky, they aim them far out. Phoenix Society is building the Kunlun Stellar Hub in the poles for the same reason—rescue more people, build more craft before Polar Night hits.”

“So escape really is our only option?” Ning Jing asked bitterly. “Even after defeating S-Class monsters…”

“Miss Ning, from a humanist standpoint, I agree with you 100%.” Shinji gave a faint smile. “But let’s be honest—humanity stands no chance. Defeat an endless horde of monsters in a year? You’ve seen the Hive Mother. Even the Eerie Entities are evolving daily. And what about the 13 Abyssal Dimensions we haven’t even entered?”

“That’s why Phoenix Society is the de facto world leader—because the darkness is unsolvable. Without the Sky Veil, the Federation wouldn’t have collapsed. Humanity’s ‘seed’ would’ve already left the solar system. What’s left... is us, running east.”

The room went silent. Everyone’s expressions turned complicated. Shinji’s words cut to the core of reality.

Monica nodded, impressed. “Exactly. Only an unsolvable crisis brings unity. That’s why Phoenix Society exists.”

“And even in flight, Phoenix’s plan to build more ships and evacuate more people gives everyone hope,” Chen Sixuan added.

“But building a ship for tens of millions in a year? That’s impossible.” Qian Dele shook his head.

Lin Xian looked at him. “It’s their endgame, obviously. Like Teacher Chen said—hope creates resolve. That unites survivors. And if flight is the only way, moving millions isn’t impossible.”

He turned to Shinji, voice firm. “Because we still have the Mochizuki Planetary Ring, right?”

Shinji squinted and smiled. “Lin, you really are too sharp.”

“Correct. The Mochizuki Ring is 85% complete. It’s the largest artificial space structure in human history, designed to house 15 million people. Combine it with Unified Starships, and yes—we can do it.”

KIKI’s brows furrowed. “So all those launches from Dawn City—they’re aiming for the ring too?”

“Exactly.” Shinji’s voice was calm. “They’ve long known the underground plan won’t work. They’re now scrambling to get there first.”

“And what about Silent City?” Lin Xian asked the real question.

“I’m different,” Shinji said. “I don’t need the Mochizuki Ring. But if we’re going to travel across stars, Silent City needs a massive upgrade. That’s why we’re bypassing Dawn City to reach Yongcheng Port—once the largest starport built by Mochizuki Tech and Kehua Heavy Industries. That’s where Silent City was constructed.”

“So you’re not heading to the poles?”

“No need,” Shinji answered bluntly. “Haven’t you noticed? All 13 Abyss Zones are concentrated on land. Humanity is being pushed off the continents. Only the oceans, South America, and the poles remain. Everyone is being forced east. For us, the real enemy is the Sky Veil—so where we go doesn’t matter.”

“Lin,” he turned back, smiling. “Besides Phoenix Society, the major surviving alliances are Dawn City, Reykjavik Storm Alliance, and the North American United Front. All but Dawn cooperate with Phoenix. That includes Silent City. But only Phoenix City and Silent City can float.”

“So let’s build a supermassive mechanical starship. With your Mechanical Ability, you can use humanity’s most advanced tech to create our strongest weapons—to save more lives. Are you interested?”

Everyone’s gaze turned to Lin Xian. Not just Chen Sixuan and KIKI—Shi Diyuan, Ning Jing, Qian Dele, Monica—they were all visibly tempted.

After all, everyone’s train project had the same end goal: survival. If humanity couldn’t win before Global Polar Night, then the final objective was to board a starship and flee. And joining Silent City, the world’s most advanced floating fortress, meant an early boarding pass. Better survival odds. Why not?

Even Shi Diyuan seemed ready to abandon his mission to rendezvous with Dawn Center.

Lin Xian paused—thinking or hesitating, no one could tell. Then he looked up at Shinji, dead serious.

“Tell me, do you think South Gate and the Mochizuki Ring... are worth a damn?”

PFFT!

Qian Dele, mid-sip, promptly spat his drink all over the table.