Chapter 125: Omen

A deep, endless place without light.

He walked through a corridor with no end, the rock walls dry, cold, and rough, the darkness thick and solid.

His empty hands held no lantern or torch, his eyes saw nothing, yet he seemed to need no visual guidance—only instinct to move forward.

A cold current brushed past his ears, originating from infinite depths, strong enough to not even stir his clothing, yet causing slight tremors in the rock walls, as if the strata quivered like falling leaves swept by a cold current.

Something was approaching; the cold current was its long, slow breath, the vibrations its footsteps.

Rock-like scales, a segmented long body, a sentient ridge traversing the utter dark, its power rapidly drawing near, making the rock layers tremble.

A structure between valve and claw opened, clinging to countless blurred faces—hill dwellers, sailors, faces burned by acid, warts and blister-like growths clustered in the gaps between rock-shell segments, tiny appendages manipulating flat, pallid smiles.

Tremors flung up shards of stone, the chill intensified and surged, fear clenched his heart, squeezing blood, the sudden rise in blood pressure causing dull pain behind his eyes; full oxygenation jolted his brain awake, making him aware of his situation.

No time to ponder where he was or why he had appeared here; under no escape, his subconscious triggered a conditioned reflex based on past experience.

…

"Boom!"

Furniture shifted, the uncovered ink bottle was knocked over, a slightly sticky black liquid spilled onto the table, seeping into the disordered manuscripts, spreading and creeping across the paper.

Deep black stains spread, crawling along the tangled, compressed fibers, swiftly devouring the Gothic-style title, swallowing the introduction, advancing toward the neatly formatted body text.

His newly awakened mind, mid-process during the scene shift, reloaded content relevant to the present situation—only then did he realize, watching helplessly as ink stained a corner of the table.

"Damn." Kraft frantically pulled away the remaining papers; in his haste, some ink not yet dry smudged onto fully dried sheets, mixing with the scattered pages stained at the edges.

The entire table was now a mess, fortunately the candlestick had long been extinguished, preventing any paper from catching fire.

He walked two steps around the table; the old wooden planks creaked faintly underfoot, accompanied by a distinct hollow sound, indicating below was a ship's cabin, not solid rock.

Long wooden cylinders holding rolled nautical charts hung on the wall—this was the captain's cabin of the Bingshan.

They had moved swiftly through the hills for two weeks, returning to the ship under firm orders to set sail. By dusk, doubled pay had brought every sailor back from taverns or beds—no one asked why the captain refused to stay on land one more night.

Few discussed those who never returned during the hasty departure or busy river voyage; only the first mate habitually called out to the young man named Walker, offering a sip of liquor to the captain who hadn't left the helm all night.

Then he felt the indescribable gaze beneath the tricorn hat—like an accusation of uttering sea taboos such as "drowned" or "capsized."

A small box was pulled from a hidden compartment and placed on deck; coins barely covered the bottom in a thin layer, yet the golden metallic sheen made Kraft glance over.

Rationally, many sailors could have saved seven kingdom silver coins to exchange for one gold coin, but their spending habits prevented it, and their insecurity wouldn't allow them to concentrate all their wealth into a small object easily lost.

To this group, most of whom had never even touched gold, the box's impact surpassed everything else.

After William promised half the box's contents to the crew and the other half would be delivered directly to the families of the dead, the last lingering objections on deck vanished. From the moment the gold coins landed in the box, not even the narrowest seam in the ship would whisper names that reminded William of those three faces.

In their place spread the rumor that the captain had truly found treasure—and this rumor, which would explode upon landing, was precisely what William needed.

【Honestly, recently I've been reading on Yeguo Reading for updates—switching sources, multiple voice options, works on both Android and iOS.】

After boarding, Kraft borrowed the ship's only two fixed large tables to rush-record the principles of acid production and experimental descriptions. The other table was in the cook's hands, used for placing soup pots and processing occasional fresh meat catches. Recently, a third use was added: admiring the newly acquired gold coins.

"Another dream?"

For half a month, that strange forgetfulness hadn't recurred—or perhaps it had, somewhere unnoticed, as if its only purpose had been to fade the wound from his mind.

But nightmares had become a new nuisance, mostly tied to that night's experience—unable to find a torch in the mine, fighting limbs emerging from darkness, being chased by something.

The downside of a strong memory was now clear—he couldn't quickly forget the dreams upon waking; he'd react with lingering terror and endure a torturous stretch of night.

This easily led to "William also hasn't slept."

After several secondary awakenings, the captain preferred to abandon his comfortable bed in the cabin, temporarily giving the space to Kraft, and moved to share a bunk with the first mate.

So now, at night, only Kraft remained here.

Bright, pale moonlight streamed through the lattice window, spilling across the table through the semi-translucent curtain; even without candlelight, it wasn't dim. He flipped through the manuscript in his hands, leaving no impression, yet clearly realizing his half-night's work had become a pile of useless paper.

Terrible. Kraft no longer lit the candle, walked to the bedside, and prepared to nap briefly before resuming work in the morning.

He still needed to discuss with William how to use the information they had—build their own production workshop, or sell it for a quick fortune.

The former clearly offered greater long-term monopoly profits, but they lacked existing industrial infrastructure or reliable personnel, and dared not continue mining from that remote cave in the southern hills—thus both scale and secrecy were problematic.

Perhaps placing the workshop on Wood family land could partially solve the issue, but the technology's value was too great and its secrecy too poor. Had the alchemist not died quickly, and had the location not been hidden and the surviving witnesses suffered strokes, the technique would have been uncovered sooner or later. That time might not allow them to earn enough from scratch.

Another problem: William had begun rejecting going ashore; only under strong crew pressure had he reluctantly docked to hastily replenish what was missed during the hurried departure, and he himself refused to disembark. This state made managing land-based industry impossible.

The latter had no such issues—sell it outright, make a fortune, and if needed, use acquaintances or even the Church as intermediaries or notaries—70-30 split was fine. Take seventy percent as a windfall, take thirty percent and still profit hugely.

Don't talk about the unique glass-winged ring—ask the bishop whether he wants gold coins or that broken wing. The object belongs to the Church; the money doesn't.

Coincidentally, Kraft wanted a large sum of money—for equipment, experiments, publishing books, even housing patients. If time was limited, money could become a catalyst for everything. William also showed a tendency toward acquiring a larger, long-term seaworthy vessel.

Thinking of this, Kraft rose from the bed, picked up the pen again, tilted the ink bottle, and dipped the tip in the last drops left at the bottom. He laid a half-torn scrap of paper on the table, intending to list the pros and cons by moonlight, to hand it to William tomorrow.

He sat down at the table, only to find the surface plunged back into darkness—the light band now illuminated the bedside, the candlestick standing in shadow beneath the window frame.

【Moonlight, moving】

A tapping came from outside the window, as if a polite sailor on night watch had heard the noise and come to inquire.

A damp, soft thing clung to the wooden planks, adhering to the ocean's roar where no one could stand—the light blazed bright. Kraft leapt up in horror, drawing his sword; the sticky memory of malice shot from his tailbone to the back of his skull.

…

His loosely clenched hand pulled back the sheet, his body jolted upright. The room glowed faintly. Behind the pillow lay a rigid bar—the long sword he'd placed there before sleeping.

The window stood open; a night breeze, carrying the scent of damp earth and sand, blew into the cabin. Beneath the dim crescent moon, murky yellow water flowed—the unremarkable night scenery of the Tobyde River, their normal passage along the only waterway through the southern hills.

"Still a dream?"