Chapter 639: The City and the Wilderness (Part 1)

Before stepping onto this island, Schiller had seen its condition from afar—it was a mid-sized oceanic island near Mexico, but nowhere near the size of the surrounding large islands.

But this island had one very distinctive feature: it was far removed from all nearby islands, at least too far for any human to swim to.

This could truly be called a solitary island at sea, and like other tropical islands, it boasted white sandy beaches, coconut trees, seabirds flying around it, and above all, the ever-present scorching sunlight.

The tropics barely distinguish seasons, so although it was only April, the vicious sun hung high overhead, bringing excessive heat to all life here; as Arthur walked across the sand and entered the tropical jungle, he looked at Schiller with envy, who held a black umbrella.

Now he understood the purpose of the professor's umbrella—it wasn't just for rain, but also for shade.

But clearly, the umbrella Schiller held was a single-person one; even if Schiller offered to let Arthur join under it, the umbrella couldn't cover both, so Arthur stopped walking and said, "Professor, wait a moment—I'll make an umbrella."

Schiller stopped, confused about what he intended to do, and Arthur hurried over to a nearby tree.

The tree grew strangely—short but with a thick base, covered in many fan-shaped leaves, its overall shape round, each leaf composed of numerous green strip-like structures; as Arthur climbed, he said, "This must be some kind of palm tree, but I don't know the exact species."

He climbed up, plucked several leaves, straightened the green strips, and began weaving.

Despite his large, muscular frame, Arthur's weaving skills were remarkably refined; in moments, he wove three fan-like leaves together into a strangely shaped straw hat, saying, "Children from Broodhaven all know this skill—besides palm leaves, you can use dried seaweed or tree bark cut into fibers."

Arthur placed the hat on his head, and the two continued forward, moving farther from the beach; the landscape here resembled a tropical rainforest—plants densely packed, trees towering, many leaves nearly blocking the sun, slightly reducing the heat, but the more lethal dampness made skin feel intensely uncomfortable.

Fortunately, after arriving for vacation, Schiller had swapped his conservative suit for shorts, a T-shirt, and a short-sleeved jacket, which suited the environment better.

Arthur needed no such adjustment—he simply stripped off his shirt, reverted to his fishing stance on the boat, casually snapped off a fern, used its root as a walking stick, and trudged deeper in uneven steps.

At the island's highest point lay a cliff; descending its gentle slope revealed a clear, babbling stream, where plants rarely seen in ornamental gardens thrived vigorously in narrow rock crevices.

Between shrub branches, a small bird with colorful feathers flapped its wings and leapt to another bush, pecking at the lower part of a flower's core, seemingly searching for fruit.

Suddenly, a flash of light shot past—startling the birds and butterflies in the shrubs—then a thud as the arrowhead embedded itself in the ground; beside it, a sizable lizard instantly vanished into the undergrowth.

A sigh came from afar, as if in disappointment over this failed hunt.

Shoes wrapped in leaves stepped into the stream's current; a hand grasped the arrow, trying to pull it from the soft soil, but with a slight tug, the fragile stone arrowhead detached from the shaft.

The man holding the shaft stood up; his upper body wore a strange garment made mostly of palm leaves, held together by white fabric with delicate patterns—likely cut from a shirt, and judging by its smoothness, an expensive one.

His lower half wore shorts cut from a suit trouser, with palm leaves bound around his calves and feet, the soles wrapped in thick green strip-like material identical to the fan leaves Arthur used for his hat.

Looking upward, he had a wild, full beard, his eyes hidden beneath a leaf.

His head bore a crude hat made of banana leaves, completely covering his upper face, yet sunburn and peeling skin were clearly visible along his lips and neck.

He strained to snap the arrow shaft, but couldn't break it—he was too weak.

Beneath his palm- and coconut-leaf clothing, white strips wound from his left shoulder to his armpit, then wrapped several times across his chest, stained with blood—he had clearly just been injured and was now in a weakened state.

Suddenly, his ears twitched; he instantly crouched, ducked into the shrubbery, and crouched beside a lush plant, peering through its leaves at two figures approaching.

He widened his mouth in shock, about to rush out, but paused, then crouched again, squinting at the two.

Arthur dipped his feet into the clean stream, rinsing off sand from the beach, saying, "Anyone who's survived this long here must have access to water—if we follow the stream upstream, we'll find him."

Schiller said nothing, merely walking farther from the stream, gazing ahead.

The deeper they entered the rainforest, the more animals appeared—vividly feathered birds, unnamed frogs, lizards darting past their feet, seabirds flying overhead…

This place teemed with life, yet was perilous; heat and dampness weren't the most deadly threats here.

Arthur stopped in the middle of the stream and said, "I heard the whales calling…"

They squinted, focused, crouched, and placed their hands in the stream, sensing the information carried from the ocean.

"Damn, we need to find him fast—the fish tell me a storm's coming!" Arthur's voice grew grave. "I read in a fishing magazine that the Caribbean sees frequent storms; this area's near Mexico, with similar climate—tropical storms can hit anytime…"

Schiller's idea of a storm was merely amplified Gotham night rain, but Arthur denied it: "Tropical storms are nothing like ordinary storms…"

"Tropical storms have immense destructive power—everything they pass through is utterly wrecked. Even if we aren't blown away and crushed like in a tornado, we must beware falling plants—they could kill us."

"In a storm, even a single palm leaf torn loose could become a killing blade."

Hearing this, Schiller walked faster than Arthur; though he wouldn't face mortal danger in the storm, anyone could imagine being tossed about like a dog without a safe shelter.

Schiller was here on vacation, not to experience nature's cruelty—he only wanted to quickly find that unlucky guy, repair the boat, and leave.

His plan was sound—but heaven disagreed.

Within barely a minute, the sky darkened; the blazing sun vanished, thick rain clouds swallowed all light, thunder rumbled in the distance, wind swept through towering trees, carrying the earthy, musty scent of wet soil against their faces.

Just as Schiller prepared to dissolve into mist and begin wide-area reconnaissance, Arthur suddenly stopped, turning toward a nearby thicket, saying, "Don't hide—I see you!"

"Don't come closer!"

A figure emerged from behind the shrubs, holding a homemade bow with a crude arrow nocked—the arrowhead looked as if it had a grudge against the shaft, ready to bolt at any moment.

Schiller studied the man; even though most of his face was hidden under palm leaves, his exposed hands showed fine skin and well-kept fingers—he didn't look like a fisherman, but clearly a privileged, wealthy man.

Arthur was stunned by his appearance; he'd only heard a vague tale from fish, never met a real Robinson Crusoe. Then Arthur realized: "No, calm down—we're here to save you…"

But the man remained on guard, still pointing the bow at them both: "You're with the others who came before, aren't you?"

"Relax, don't be tense," Schiller stepped forward.

The man glanced at Schiller, then fixed his gaze on Arthur; Arthur said, "I'm a fisherman from Broodhaven…"

He looked down at himself—his massive frame and arm tattoos seemed to scream "criminal." Arthur sighed and said to the man, "Whether you believe me or not, we truly came to save you."

"How did you get here?" the man asked.

"I sailed here," Arthur replied.

"We flew to California first, landed in Haibincheng, then took a boat…"

The man grew even more wary, sneering: "You sailed from California to here? Do you think I'm an idiot? Do you know how far that is?"

"Uh… I'm pretty good with boats—the sea helps me. Look, put the bow down—the storm's coming, we need shelter fast, or we're in danger!" Arthur tried to reason, but clearly wasn't skilled at it; the man grew more suspicious.

Schiller closed his umbrella and poked Arthur with the tip: "You mentioned on the plane you had other abilities besides talking to fish—show us one."

Arthur hesitated, then said, "I can't fully control it… but alright, watch closely…"

He extended a hand, closed his eyes, frowned, and concentrated; the man didn't know what he was doing and stepped back slightly.

Then something astonishing happened—the water in the stream slowly rose; a water dragon lifted its head from the stream and formed a shield around Arthur.

Arthur opened his eyes, exhaled, waved his hand—the shield dissolved back into droplets, splashing onto the ground.

Feeling the cool spray, the man finally lifted his head, removed his palm-leaf hat, and stared directly at Arthur: "Who are you?"

"I said—I'm a fisherman. I was born able to communicate with sea creatures. I learned of you from the fish. I came to save you."

Schiller interrupted them, looking up at the sky—dark clouds churned, lightning flashed—and said:

"Let's go—the storm's coming."