Chapter 135: The Correct Way to Conduct a Chase

"I don't know—I thought some kind soul was sharing their fruit?" Kraft picked up the tray and turned the blue-purple berries toward Martin.

To someone with average color vision, distinguishing the two was truly difficult—like mixing a batch of oranges into a pile of tangerines. Their shapes and colors differed slightly, but the distinction was minimal, easy to overlook.

Given his gloomy expression, the deep purple berries added in could not possibly be blueberries or any edible relative variant thereof.

"We call them devil cherries." Martin plucked a few from the pile and placed them on the table, crushing them with the tray's base to reveal their utterly different interior. Deep purple juice seeped into the rough wooden surface, carrying none of the odd odor of inedible fruits.

Anyone accustomed to grabbing a few—or even a handful—would never have time to identify which single crushed berry in their mouth was the hidden intruder.

"I thought doctors would be more familiar with these things." Kraft knew Martin's movements better than the berries; the so-called "messenger" subtly brushed his sword hilt, observing the surroundings discreetly, as naturally as casual chatter.

As a fellow traveler, Kraft read the meaning behind his actions: danger, but location uncertain—pretend not to notice and test the waters.

"I'm not close with those herb folks. Sounds like you know what it is?"

Kraft withdrew his gaze and saw the same hesitation in Martin's eyes.

Only seven sailors were on duty, grouped in threes and fours, laughing loudly as they exchanged jokes too crude for a child like Yin Feng to hear.

This wasn't some unknown vessel—the captain had a solid reputation in the trade circles, a "friend of a friend" introduced through William. There was no possibility it was a merchant ship occasionally doubling as a waterborne illicit asset transporter.

"Too familiar. This is simple. The worst is when it's boiled into tea—it makes you thirsty, and before you realize it, you drink more, and soon you'll never need to drink again." Martin spoke in a low voice, his tone brimming with revulsion, clearly hinting at a sinister plot.

"Convulsions, dilated pupils, vacant stare, then collapse—as if the devil stole their soul. We found this in the galley, simmered with sugar and other seasonings, blending with tea's natural bitterness—who'd ever suspect?"

Hearing "dilated pupils" and "thirst," Kraft finally recognized what it was.

【Belladonna】

A classic, timeless poisoning case: victims often claim they "ate a few black wild berries." Due to its pharmacological similarity to atropine, it's specifically cited as a potent anticholinergic that inhibits contraction of the pupil sphincter and salivary secretion, triggering a cascade of symptoms.

The lethal dose is tiny—the extra belladonna berries in this tray could kill everyone on deck.

To sink this low was beyond the capability of an ordinary person. Kraft couldn't imagine who would want him, a doctor, dead—surely not a medical dispute?

He hadn't performed any botched surgeries lately, and the prevailing tradition was "once you leave the clinic, you're no longer the doctor's problem"—he'd even had to personally explain post-op care.

Or perhaps someone connected to the black fluid had come knocking. But that seemed unlikely—showing up now with poisonous berries to silence him? The response time was absurdly long. Beyond that, he'd never had any conflicts or conflicts of interest.

"Any ideas?" Since it wasn't him, it must be Martin's side—he'd clearly dealt with this before.

"Not yet." Martin swept the "devil cherries" aside, selected a handful of normal blueberries, and carried them toward the sailors chatting at a distance. "Hey lads, want some blueberries?"

Having chatted in the sun for too long, the sailors were thirsty and gladly accepted the berries—just moments ago mixed with deadly poison.

Except for Kraft, no one noticed Martin had been watching everyone's reactions since they turned away, his cupped fingers blocking the light so only the berry shapes were visible, their color indistinguishable.

Without hesitation, the blueberries were shoved straight into mouths. Martin frowned slightly—no one showed the slightest hesitation or picked through them between handoff and ingestion.

That wasn't surprising. With their short shirts, hiding a handful of berries and discreetly adding them to the tray under everyone's eyes was simply implausible.

"Has anyone else come up on deck?" Kraft asked.

"Don't know."

"Maybe, didn't pay attention."

The sailors all shook their heads—they'd been too absorbed in their chatter. This wasn't the open sea; if someone fell over, they could still jump in to save them. Who cared?

The two abandoned questioning the sailors, returned below deck with the tray, and Kraft stopped Martin from tossing the fruit overboard.

"Keep them—I might need them."

Natural atropine, with traces of scopolamine—one of the few usable drugs available now. With reduced dosage, it has many applications, like the famous hospital's "6542 joke" drug—both are antispasmodics, though controlling dosage in herbal form is likely difficult.

Martin shot him a look that said, "So you're no good either," and silently allowed it.

The doctor had no intention of explaining further—no free lecture on acetylcholine M-receptors or competitive inhibition. "Visiting the other passengers might be a good idea. What do you think?"

"Of course."

The ship carried few passengers, each occupying separate cabins. The captain offered expensive options with greater privacy.

After interrupting a nap, declining two backgammon matches, and refusing a lunch invitation, the two arrived at a cabin locked even in broad daylight.

Of the cabin's occupant, all Kraft recalled was that he boarded two stops ago—a city dweller. His personal books revealed he was well-off and educated.

"Hello? Sorry to disturb, but the ship's dreadfully dull—could I borrow a book? I'll pay." Kraft knocked lightly, offering a flimsy excuse with little hope.

The occupant seemed still asleep, wasting the afternoon in slumber. Moments later, a faint creak of wooden hinges sounded from within.

It came from somewhere far from the door—Kraft didn't recall the captain being generous enough to equip passenger cabins with cabinets.

An arm shot out, shoving him away from the door. Martin pressed a finger to his lips in a hushing gesture, stepping back two paces to clear space.

【Porthole】

"What a pity—I'll come back later…" As Kraft continued speaking to mask his movements, he stepped back and drew his sword, while Martin pushed off the wall, ran, and slammed his shoulder into the door with eyes closed.

Objects were hastily swept aside; a heavy object landed atop the table placed before the porthole to ensure light.

His shoulder crashed into the door—the seemingly unsecured cabin door shuddered precariously but held against the impact.

"He changed the bolt!" Martin stepped back again and charged forward with renewed force, his expression suggesting the man inside was his father's murderer.

The bolt's latch tore free from its nail holes. He added a kick, bursting the door open and storming into the cabin.

Splashes echoed outside the porthole; discarded clothes lay scattered around, but the cabin's occupant had already fled—showing excellent swimming ability, heading toward the distant shore.

The two men, dressed neatly and formally, couldn't possibly dive in after him immediately. Kraft, never having chased a killer through water, stared blankly—the northern climate was too cold for swimming practice.

"Can you swim?"

"No!" Martin angrily flung open his robe. Kraft was about to tell him it was too late to undress when a small, well-hidden mechanical device appeared.

A crossbow.

With swift, deft hands, he completed the sequence—removing, stringing, aiming—in two breaths. The trigger snapped, launching a small barbed bolt, then restringing instantly, firing at the man who believed he'd escaped into the water.

Even reduced in size, its accuracy and power were more than sufficient against an unarmored target just ten meters away.

After one miss, the shooter adjusted his breath and fired the remaining two bolts precisely into the white splashes of the fleeing figure. Kraft's keen eyes saw the man stagger, a streak of red dissolving into the fading ripples.

"Someone's in the water! Three silver coins to pull him up!" Martin leaned out the porthole, shouting to the sailors, and reloaded, aiming again.