Chapter 45: Chapter Forty-Three: The Edge of Reality

It was called noon, but it felt even later than that.

Kraft and Lu Xiusi took turns resting against a relatively clean wooden board, cycling through several rounds before the sleeping people finally woke.

Like a silent, enormous alarm clock ringing, the residents of the sleeping zone awoke in unison within minutes—more synchronized than students rising in an alien world’s high school dormitory.

The previously silent room filled with movement: footsteps on wooden planks, unknown metal and wooden tools clattering, noisy chatter laced with a few unintelligible curses.

Human consciousness was Dapiliang returned from dreams, dumped back into reality, beginning a day they had already missed half of.

Then came the grating, rusty squeal of poor-quality door hinges; one by one, people pushed through the doors, holding what looked like food, eating as they walked toward the harbor.

Kraft intercepted a middle-aged man carrying a fish jerky spotted with mold.

“Hello, would you mind if I hired you for a while?”

“Of course!” he answered at once, glaring fiercely at those watching nearby, “Four copper coins is enough—I can work for you half a day.”

Perhaps it was truly hard to find work after noon, for he accepted Kraft’s offer at a very low price.

His yellowed, blackened teeth bit hard into the brittle fish jerky, crushing the fibrous flesh along with the bones, producing a grating sound. He chewed a few times and swallowed with difficulty.

“So what exactly are we going to do?”

Kraft was stunned by this glass-swallowing way of eating and felt pity for his mouth and esophagus. “No rush, finish eating first. I’d like to ask something—how long has it been since you started noticing you wake up later and later?”

“Thinking back, it must’ve been over a month ago. At first, we didn’t feel anything, never imagined it would turn into this. Life’s getting worse and worse.”

Though he didn’t know why anyone cared, the middle-aged man answered while eating, spitting bits and saliva, unaware that his new employer had shifted half a step away from his front.

Kraft stood beside him, watching him finish the fish, swallow the last bite, his Adam’s apple straining to move. He thought he could write a case report on scarred esophagus caused by extreme diet.

“We came because we’re curious about this. Now we suspect the water you drink is the problem—can you take us to see it?”

“Sure. Though my family usually fetches water, I still know the way.” The man pressed his chest, as if in pain. “Let’s go.”

He led Kraft and Lu Xiusi further down the twisting, narrow alleys, constantly encountering people just stepping out to find work.

The opposite direction forced them to frequently sidestep or have one party retreat into a side alley to make way.

Overall, their path roughly matched their incoming route, veering away from previously surveyed paths, passing near Red Algae Well, then walking another ten minutes to reach their destination.

A well that looked fairly normal, surrounded by the neatest stones Kraft had seen here to form its rim.

A clear space was left around it, with people forming several long queues to draw water. No winch—just lowering a rope-bound bucket and pulling it up, progress painfully slow. Getting them to pause for inspection seemed unlikely.

Kraft disliked crowded environments, especially when these people bathed infrequently; gathering together made the already unclean air even more stifling.

His nose, just adapted to the local air, now picked up sweat, body odor, and some indescribable stench, causing him to immediately abandon the idea of queuing himself.

“Here are eleven copper coins—five are your payment.” Kraft dug out most of his loose copper coins and handed them to the man. “Use the rest to buy a cleaner bucket and queue for me—bring back one bucket of water.”

Being lazy is shameful, but it’s undeniably comfortable.

Kraft and Lu Xiusi stood in a shady spot watching others queue. The small well opening allowed at most three people to draw water simultaneously, Mianqiang forming three lines at the front, but further back the lines blurred into a single messy mass, impossible to distinguish.

After negotiating with a few people at the tail of the queue, the middle-aged man successfully bought a bucket and slipped noiselessly left and right within the indistinct line, moving toward the nearest spot.

In the crowd, Kraft quickly lost sight of him, bored and drowsy, propping his head with his hand.

The sun stood directly overhead—his usual time for a post-lunch nap. His biological clock urged him to find a comfortable surface, press his face against it, and enjoy the rare daily relaxation.

Today, to reserve time for the investigation, he had left the academy early—first Yumu Street, then Salt Tide District—and had skipped lunch entirely, lacking even the appetite for it.

Now suddenly idle, exhaustion crept in, making him feel he could fall asleep standing.

Through his red lenses, his half-closed eyes saw blurred, indistinct images. The crowd swayed before him, outlines dissolving.

Diffuse afterimages, the red filter, human-shaped color blocks moved slowly, like red paint on a slope blending and bleeding—no longer vivid, but gradually darkening.

Red usually awakens and stimulates, but this red filled him with gloom, evoking thick venous blood oozing and congealing on the walls of a transparent container, stripped of its life.

He felt himself falling—the familiar weightlessness of sleep, lighter, gentler—slipping from the cluttered chaos of reality into deeper depths, escaping surgery, complications, investigations.

His hearing dulled; the noisy voices faded. His ever-active mind no longer cared what they said. The brain’s language centers entered low-power mode, unwilling to translate air vibrations into meaningful information.

The dull splash of a bucket hitting water, wood knocking against stone, loud coughs—simple sounds remained barely distinguishable.

His instincts lazily adjusted him into a half-asleep state, ignoring sensory impulses, letting himself drift apart from the world.

Kraft felt he was still in place, yet no longer there—floating, he heard an unusually clear splash beside his ear, and the weightlessness stopped abruptly.

The dazed state did not break, but solidified. Sounds grew finer, gentler, like sand ground into flour, harder still to discern their content.

His consciousness spread softly, basking in a moment of peace.

The only flaw was the persistent strange odor at his nostrils—not sweat, not rot, not the herbal scent from birds’ beaks—it didn’t seem collected by his sense of smell.

It seemed to intensify; the soft, comforting part of the sound drew closer. From formless to tangible, it pressed against his back, caressing his consciousness.

All his senses were delighted, sending signals of “soft,” “comfortable.” His sense of smell joined in, acknowledging the odor as strange yet pleasantly Mianruan .

Like a girl’s hand, like silk gauze, it drew nearer—the weightlessness returned.

His eyelids drooped; the red-black light before him grew thinner, nearly vanished, replaced by moonlit darkness, a soft white glow increasing.

His consciousness bathed in it, as with any ordinary nap, a thread of doubt flickered through the intoxication.

It gently extended a cool, soft hand, reaching to pluck away this discord within the serenity.

This clumsy act awakened Kraft’s sharp awareness; suspicion rapidly hardened into alertness, every event reanalyzed from memory.

Intuition tasted malice in the soft, gentle sensations—something that should not exist.

Its speed surged, as if sensing Kraft’s change, wrapping around him faster from behind.

The reckless motion exposed more dissonance—like a starfish flipping its colorful underside, vomiting its stomach to feed. Extreme dissonance, sticky, nauseating—striking senses still immersed in comfort, triggering violent neural impulses that surged to the depths of his soul.

Before the alien world’s part could respond, the conditioned reflexes forged by years of training within Kraft’s native soul activated—his grandfather’s countless lessons and beatings had gifted him extraordinary speed.

Every muscle tensed. He ducked to avoid a possible strike, swung his elbow backward, then spun and retreated to create distance.

He felt as if he had torn something as he moved. Fear forced him to grasp the hilt of his sword hidden beneath his robe. His newly opened eyes, blinded by light, saw only the red of his lenses.

The blade drew, slashing upward at the perceived location. He fought the urge to strike with full force, preserving room to change tactics. His first strike aimed only to drive the opponent back, buying time for his vision to recover.

He carefully felt the force transmitted through his hand—whether the opponent dodged or blocked, it suited him perfectly.

Unexpectedly, the blade sliced into something, cleaving through a loose, fragile substance with ease, splitting several unevenly textured structures.

Shouts and screams erupted behind him; retreating footsteps confirmed many were fleeing—fortunately, none approached to interfere with his judgment.

His vision gradually returned. Through the red glass, he inspected the results of his slash. Whatever it was—human or spirit—it would not be comfortable with a gaping wound.

Kraft forced his eyes wide open. The blinding light caused his iris muscles to contract sharply; his tear glands secreted fluid. He fought the instinct to close his eyes, straining to see ahead.

He saw the massive, grotesque tear—but it was not on any mud monster or mysterious enemy.

It was a wooden wall.