Chapter 124: A Sense of Urgency

As Kraft himself believed, he could barely remember what it felt like to forget. When thinking, his consciousness wandered through the library of memory, plucking out needed files as easily as looking up a word by its first letter.

It wasn't just his memory—this also meant improved thinking efficiency, faster and more abundant indexing, aiding the formation of tight logical chains.

So when someone said "I forgot something," it wasn't like finding a book in the memory library with faded ink—it was lacking a first-letter hint to tell consciousness where to go and what to find.

In other words, at this point, it wasn't so much that he'd forgotten something as that he hadn't thought of it. A hole had appeared in the web of thought; something he shouldn't have ignored had slipped through, likely something basic.

【To be honest, I've been using Yeguo Reading to follow novels lately—easy source switching, lots of voice options, works on both Android and iOS. yeguoyuedu】

"Help me think—what did I fail to do?" One major trait of many psychiatric patients is lack of insight—they completely fail to recognize their own mistakes. Self-checking is unreliable then, but behavioral anomalies are real and observable by others.

He needed a "cue card" to trigger memory and provide a line of inquiry.

"Uh, you mean that ore?" William took back his bottle of strong liquor, sipped a small mouthful, feeling the marvelous sensation of it moistening and burning his tongue, then warming in his belly as if endless heat surged from within, dispelling the chill in his marrow.

He gently swirled the bottle—Kraft had been fairly restrained; much of the liquor remained.

Though using alcohol to prevent and treat illness had long been customary, using it lavishly to clean wounds still felt wasteful.

"Of course not." Kraft reached into his pocket; the ore lay inside—just a sample. Since the old mine shaft had now been breached, he could pick up more anytime he wished. "It's something I need to do now—or immediately."

"Like what?" Two sips down, his drunken haze steadied. William felt the small cuts from the stone shards on his face no longer hurt as much, and his hands stopped trembling.

The fear of the deep earth had slightly eased; the constant illusion of trembling beneath his feet faded—he no longer felt the ground unstable, as if some colossal thing wandered through rock and soil, ready to burst forth.

For now, the alcohol offered a false but necessary relief—even if it didn't feel as safe as being back on his own ship.

Seeing Kraft's paranoid expression, William handed him the bottle. "Have a sip?"

"No." Kraft pushed the bottle away, continuing to ponder what he'd forgotten. Alcohol wasn't good for thinking—at least not for him.

No matter how many times, William found such disregard for fine liquor incomprehensible. After being refused, he passed the bottle to Kup. "Alright, Kup—want a sip? Might ease your wound."

Kup took the bottle and cautiously took a sip.

"Cough! Cough!" Just like the first time—he'd only ever drunk weak beer and couldn't easily adapt to this liquid fire. The violent coughing tugged at his waist wound, another tearing pain—as if the newly clotted scab had ripped open again.

But Kup gained some insight from it. He patted his waist, scanning up and down, and found the only thing out of place on Kraft.

"You're injured?"

"Yes, but not serious." Kraft touched the bandage wrapped around his chin, answering casually. The jaw, neck, and face had rich blood vessels—wounds there looked terrifying, but thankfully shallow, missing major vessels.

Now only minor pain remained, throbbing with each breath near the trachea.

In the gaps between pains, his consciousness directed attention, scanning everything: the sheathed longsword, the tool box, the money pouch—nothing urgent came to mind.

It was like wearing glasses while searching for glasses, holding a phone while looking for a phone—only deeper in confusion, harder to escape alone. Everyone around him was useless. Clearly, his behavioral anomaly hadn't become obvious yet.

"Did you encounter a heretic? Or that thing?" Neither seemed capable of causing such a wound—the former lacked the skill, the latter would've left no whole corpse if it had merely grazed.

"Neither. It was…" Kraft couldn't think how to describe the creature that wounded him—mixing faces with insect features? Limb tips slicing into his skin—he'd almost thought it could peel his whole face off, but good distance control drastically reduced the cost.

He hesitated, then didn't describe its appearance. His hand reached out unconsciously, took the liquor bottle. The scent of spilled alcohol reminded him of the days without povidone-iodine solution—alcohol swabs really hurt.

"What, changed your mind? Believe me, take a sip—you're too serious, like some old-fashioned priest." It seemed that as long as he stayed near William, he'd never escape relentless promotion.

【PAIN】

Now, Kraft needed to make this deep sensation clearer.

He pressed hard against the bleeding gauze. The strongest sensation in his body, the most vital warning signal, became an effective cue. Pain drove like an iron rod straight from the wound into his brain, raising the wound's weight in his thoughts until it became an unavoidable part.

"Damn it—the wound!"

Kraft moved quickly, untying the knot, unwrapping the fresh cotton bandage. He'd just finished debriding Kup's and Peter's wounds—but he'd ignored the third person with a deep wound. A classic case of searching for glasses while wearing them.

After being wounded by an unknown limb, the alien soul, steeped in sterile consciousness, had only performed a basic wash and temporary bandaging—and hadn't even thought to use his spiritual senses to inspect the wound.

Was this normal negligence?

His consciousness didn't think so. Day after day of repeated emphasis and practice had forged habits into his life, reinforced by memory. If he could still forget these things, it could only mean his brain was suffering premature degenerative disease.

Without sufficient rest, Kraft forcibly activated his spiritual senses—a thin-layer scan filtering through skin and muscle, soaking through the red-black scabs—finding no obvious foreign objects embedded.

Maybe he was overthinking. Like a clean blade, the limb had emerged from shadow, inflicted the wound, and left no bristle behind.

Or perhaps it was already too late—forgetfulness had caused him to miss the optimal observation window; the factors affecting cognition had already hidden.

Or worse—there had never been any chance. He traced the limb's movement path. What if it was a limb that had already been wounded? Like a bleeding wound on an infected patient, spreading something invisible to both eyes and spiritual senses?

Perhaps the disease had already entered its early stage, with subtle mental changes as prodromal symptoms, the unknown consequence growing within his body.

"Return to Comfort Harbor as soon as possible. If something truly must happen, I must finish it before then." He soaked cotton gauze in strong liquor, scrubbing the wound, gritting his teeth through the cleaning.

He didn't know what had happened—but he knew why he'd come here.