Chapter 111

In the endless night, within a crude shelter built of earth and dusty yellow rock, Kup would recall the twilight moment when Kraft had left him with hasty instructions.

……

Kup pried open his slightly stinging eyes and forced himself awake.

The cotton wick flickered, emitting the acrid stench of burned fiber mixed with oil; staring too long made the black smoke from the flame seem to sting his eyelids, causing sharp pain behind his eyes, forcing him to squint.

But as soon as he squinted, sleep seeped from the corners of his skull, flooding his awareness and pushing his forehead toward the table.

He needed a topic—anything would do—as long as it kept him from falling asleep during watch. Peter, responsible for the second half of the night, was already asleep and couldn’t be disturbed; the only other person still awake was a colleague who hardly counted as one.

“Mr. Kraft said it’s best not to read in dim light.”

As someone with no intention of long-term academic development, Kup firmly followed the “good enough” principle, yet Yin Feng’s habit of flipping through her booklet at midnight still filled him with inexplicable pressure—and stirred an urge to join her in this self-inflicted torment.

He glanced sideways at the booklet: twisted characters followed what seemed to be crude stick-figure drawings; the girl’s instinctive frugality made her writing cramped, lacking guide lines, and her beginner’s hesitant strokes unintentionally created an extra layer of encryption.

Though their study progress was synchronized, Kup couldn’t find a single word he recognized on this page.

Yin Feng clearly didn’t want to listen to his lecture; seeing him look over, she naturally closed the booklet—just as she had for weeks, now a habit—“When did he say that?”

“About…?” Kup hadn’t expected her to take him seriously; he hesitated, then noticed the girl casually reopening the booklet.

No, you can doubt me, Kup, but Kraft really did say that. He couldn’t bear the accusation of “falsely quoting Kraft,” not even in thought.

Kup strained to recall for a moment, and just as Yin Feng was about to turn the page, a fragment of memory surfaced: “It was around the time we reached Comfort Harbor, shortly after you arrived.”

Her gaze shifted from the booklet, studying him with suspicion.

“I remember it was night—Father Adrian lit only one candle, and it didn’t reach the whole table.” His tone began uncertain, then quickened, as if his lips were moving on their own, shaped by the words themselves: “Mr. Kraft said it then. We were all there.”

Conversation had worked—he felt himself temporarily shaking off drowsiness, his mind stirring with thought, reconstructing the crumbling remnants of that memory.

He had a faint recollection, like the vague, uncertain recognition of two words when Kraft had asked him; he blurted it out, then immediately doubted himself.

“Ah.” Yin Feng opened her small mouth, uttering a breathy exclamation tinged with surprise—perhaps, maybe, perhaps there had been such a thing; only now, with the reminder, did she dredge up a sliver of memory.

For Kraft’s sake, she closed the booklet and tucked it into her small bundle.

But she hadn’t yet decided what to do next; she’d long outgrown the infantile habit of constant sleep, and wasn’t exhausted like an adult. Even her young mind sensed something major had happened—she couldn’t sleep.

Too young to help, her energy could only be spent on the one “real task”: after putting down the booklet, she squirmed restlessly in her chair, unable to sit still.

Kup adopted a paternal tone, continuing the conversation—though what he really wanted to say was that this wasn’t new: “You have plenty of time. No need to rush. Kraft isn’t a man without patience.”

Besides, he probably never intended to give you any work at all, Kup thought. He’d met people from the Academy; the youngest, Lu Xiusi, was roughly his own age.

Considering Yin Feng started late, “learning medicine” was a demand only Kraft would accept; teaching her to read and write from scratch would take at least one or two years—how long before she could “help” he dared not imagine.

The time and money invested would be enormous; few small merchant families would give such education to their own sons. Yet Yin Feng, speaking without filter, had dared to ask—and Kraft had actually agreed.

The pace now, whether fast or slow, meant nothing compared to the long-term investment; there was absolutely no need to hurry.

Now that he thought of it, if he’d said back then, “I want to learn too,” would Kraft have agreed?

Kup shook his head, dismissing the absurd thought. He never believed he was cut out for it; his momentary recall of two words had been luck. As an adult, there was no point comparing himself to a child.

“Don’t rush,” he repeated earnestly. “No one’s going to take anything away from you.”

Yin Feng lowered her head in silence. Sometimes, what drove her was a persistent insecurity Kup could faintly sense—most children in Salt Tide District who lost parental care early were like this, obsessed with proving their “value.”

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The most obvious manifestation was comparison—any activity, as long as there was a visible standard.

This couldn’t be resolved with a few words. He moved his chair to the wall, leaning against its dusty surface to ease his back.

“Thank you,” the girl said after a long silence. “But I still want to do something. Can you tell me what’s really happening?”

“As you see, Captain William got lost in the mountains. Mr. Kraft has to go find them.” That was the official version—though the actual execution differed slightly.

Yet he held blind faith in Kraft—he couldn’t say where it came from, whether from witnessing that writhing light, or from Kraft’s everyday words and actions seeping into him.

“There’s no need to worry.”

Because worrying wouldn’t help.

He gazed up at the narrow window high above: the night sky held no stars or moon, no reference points—he had no way to tell if it was still the first half of the night. He hoped Peter would wake up on his own to take over.

Kup yawned; sleep grew heavier, yet he didn’t want to fall asleep. That face wouldn’t fade—it lingered in his memory, as if it might emerge at any moment from some shadowed corner.

And the face on the rock painting—the boy’s face—repeatedly surfaced in his mind during moments of relaxation, shifting in indistinct images, sometimes overlapping.

For a moment, he felt the boy resembled one of the broad, flat faces in the rock art; though their shapes were vastly different, there was a resemblance like blood kin—like a middle-aged, bloated father standing beside his son.

“That’s strange.”

“What’s strange? I feel like you haven’t told me everything…” Yin Feng held her hands suspended in front of her chest—an action that seemed to mimic Kraft, who did this when idle and with nothing to hold; yet with her frame, it lacked the prayer-like solemnity Kraft carried.

“Thud-thud-thud!”

They exchanged glances, then turned together toward Peter, certain the sound hadn’t come from inside.

“Thud-thud!” The knocking interrupted their talk again—this time from the door: “Is anyone awake? I left something at home.”

They recognized the voice: the original owner of the house, the sturdy woman who swung her pickaxe without effort.

Yin Feng moved to open the door, but Kup rose swiftly and held her back; she turned, puzzled, to see him pressing a finger to his lips in a “be silent” gesture.

【Go there】

He pointed to the space beneath Peter’s bed—a narrow, easily overlooked spot where half their luggage was piled; the rest was too tight for an adult, but barely enough for a child.

“What did you forget? Where?”

Kraft disliked singing, and Kup had his own dislikes—noisy doors and windows at night topped the list. The knocking had banished all drowsiness; his breath caught.

Coincidence? The house’s former owner, who’d just moved next door, happened to have forgotten something essential.

Only in darkness did such thoughts grow so active, driven by fears he barely noticed, blending with the irrational, the occult totems, spiraling toward the worst possible conclusion.

He turned toward the back, only then realizing belatedly he’d been seeking someone’s opinion. Outside was a tide of darkness—the deep night could hide all his worst memories and their associations.

【Now this place is beyond my reach】

“Damn it,” Kup muttered. Since the gate last dropped, he was in charge here.

Quick! He mouthed the word to Yin Feng, then moved to the bedside, pulling out Kraft’s cluttered pack and making space for her.

Peter stirred awake as the bed shifted; Kup clamped a hand over his mouth. A delayed reply came through the door crack: “Firewood. I need some firewood.”

The guide stared out at the night sky, shaking his head—rejecting the possibility of local custom.

“Please, open the door. I just need to get some firewood. I won’t disturb you long.” The voice now carried a pleading tone—it was unmistakably the woman who’d guided them up the mountain.

“Alright, wait—I’ll just put on my clothes.” Kup unslung his page hammer, glanced around, and handed Peter a stool.

This time, Kraft couldn’t be bothered with this side—but the good news was his hands weren’t shaking.