Chapter 69

An unfamiliar symbol, similar to what he knew yet distinctly different.

The ring, split in two, showed no cracks or fissures, remaining largely intact—except for the horizontal line running through its center, there was no other resemblance.

Yet as he observed it, a faint sense of being watched emerged—the gaze from behind the horizontal line.

Like staring at the shattered celestial body, only far weaker, to the point of being imperceptible unless one paid close attention. Had this feeling not been so uniquely distinct, he might have dismissed it as mere hypersensitivity.

The symbols carved on the prism gradually merged with his memory of the shattered celestial body—the crisscrossing fissures faded, revealing its original form.

Yes, if there were cracks, then where did the shattered fragments go?

Those lines came alive: eons ago, an unimaginable power shattered the only observable celestial body against the black sky, scattering countless fragments, captured by gravity, becoming a sky full of meteorites.

Those fragments burned in the atmosphere and fell upon a layer distant from the present world yet resembling it.

The fragments from that celestial body naturally inherited its dull, lifeless texture, along with the fluctuating forces suspended between incomplete layers.

A civilization that left no historical record carved, in their own unique aesthetic, this unprecedented large-scale contact onto the meteorite.

Then, these entities with blurred consciousness, for reasons unknown, were altered, multiplying infinitely, drawing material from the wisest beings most easily accessible to the depths.

Since then, they have wandered near the present world, using weakened versions of their powers to hunt all humans who consciously or unconsciously contacted the depths.

Across this land of the depths, their traces likely spread everywhere—from distant Dunling, to the borderlands of Bianhu, and even farther. Any connection to the depths carried a probability of encountering them, dragged deeper still.

Not to mention the Salt Tide Zone, where contact was so frequent that encountering them was no longer a matter of probability—it was inevitable.

The professor intended to use this method to draw them out, seeking the breakthrough he had long dreamed of—beyond the current limits of human understanding.

The full picture had been revealed: motive, method, and the current progress—all laid bare before him. A cold, inhuman plan entangled with malice from the depths.

As for the consequences of being fully pulled into the depths, encountering them helplessly in sleep, Kraft could not bring himself to imagine further—who could guarantee those organizations were all born of the entities themselves?

Yet there were still minor questions: at least two had been drawn out—so then what? What did Professor Kalmann plan to do after returning to capture them?

Even if one were modest, if Kraft bound one hand behind his back, ten Kalmanns plus Lu Xiusi together might still not suffice—the use of weapons demanded long-term training and accumulation.

Physical power cannot be easily compensated for, especially within the strange depths—once caught in the crawling creatures’ three-step routine, unless Kraft possessed his own unique nature, even a young version of Old Wood would likely die on the spot.

Not that he disrespected the professor, but given his level, attempting Kraft’s path was out of the question. The tentacles would consume him in under two minutes—faster than he ate grilled fish, since the tentacles didn’t need to pick out bones.

Thus, the professor’s method of contact differed—or he had other, safer means, and had prepared thoroughly before making contact.

Not surprising: the depths had always remained quietly beneath the present world. If Kraft could accidentally encounter it, surely others had encountered it earlier—if they’d survived, exploration would be only natural.

Along with the black fluid, other things arrived at Wenden Port, giving the professor’s plan its final push. Perhaps they had precisely counted on Kalmann’s personality—unable to refuse—and everything unfolded as if destined.

So who might know this old professor—who had lived alone in Wenden Port for so many years—better than anyone else? Even better than his student, Lu Xiusi?

“Mo Lisen.” Kraft spoke the name—the mentor mentioned only in the professor’s letters, the leader of the Medical Academy of Dunling University, whom he had never met. “Black fluid, Dunling—this so-called new discovery? This murky water runs deep.”

This was truly a headache. Dealing with crawling entities was akin to hunting—each side brandishing claws and blades to test strength. But confronting layered human malice had never been his strength; understanding normal human thought was already difficult enough—trying to empathize with sociopathic psychopaths was beyond him.

Now Kraft had other matters to attend to. He needed to quickly familiarize himself with this medium of round-trip travel, and unless something went wrong, at least one living being still awaited his attention.

……

……

In the morning, Lu Xiusi opened the door to Kraft’s new residence. The house was cold and devoid of any living presence—apparently, Kraft had not yet had time to furnish it with ordinary household items after returning last night.

“Kraft?”

He called out Kraft’s name as he stepped inside. Several new nail holes marred the walls and floor—apparently installed for something, then quickly removed.

No response to his call. The furnishings remained unchanged from when he’d first moved in, except the box holding fish oil jars had been taken away.

A strange atmosphere permeated the place. The new owner had not modified the house for living purposes, but to conceal secrets he wished to hide. Recalling what Kraft had bought yesterday, Lu Xiusi slowed his steps.

“Are you here?”

Still no response. As he went deeper, Lu Xiusi spotted more nail holes—on the staircase landing, presumably meant for installation, removed overnight.

He stepped carefully onto the stairs and saw the first thing different from yesterday: a chain stretched across at waist height, adorned with small bells.

He bent to pass under it, his back brushing the bells, which rang out behind him in clear, pleasant chimes—but in the silent house, they sounded unnervingly loud.

Lu Xiusi believed that if Kraft were present, he would already know of his arrival—yet he heard no other sound besides his own.

Ascending step by step, each open doorway on every floor bore the same chain, and the nail holes grew more numerous. The bizarre arrangement reminded him of his mentor’s changes—both engaged in incomprehensible acts.

Step by cautious step, Lu Xiusi climbed to the attic, slipping past the chain. This was the only room with a bed.

The blanket on the bed had been torn off; several unremoved nails lay scattered on the sheet. A fresh candle stood on the candlestick, illuminating the room despite the windows being shut tight even in daylight.

No one was here—but the candle’s length suggested the owner had left only recently.

“Are you here, Kraft?”

Lu Xiusi asked half-heartedly, preparing to leave and search for bread nearby—perhaps Kraft was preparing breakfast and had simply missed him.

“Yes, sorry I overslept.”

A sudden reply echoed from behind, startling Lu Xiusi into stumbling forward, clutching his pounding chest as he spun around.

Standing there was Kraft himself. No footsteps, as if he had always been there, naturally greeting Lu Xiusi.

He wore a new gray-yellow shirt, different from yesterday’s. His left sleeve was rolled up, wrapped in neatly bound cotton strips, faint bloodstains seeping through.

The longsword, usually sheathed, now rested in his hand—the blade no longer gleamed, stained with stubborn white residue.

Noticing Lu Xiusi staring at the sword, Kraft casually returned it to its sheath. “Nothing. Isn’t morning sword practice usual? Lately I’ve felt I’ve grown lax—sometimes I lack strength.”

“Ah, I envy you having a family legacy. I’ve sometimes wanted to learn too.” Lu Xiusi wisely avoided asking what “sometimes lack strength” meant, shifting the topic. “What are we doing today?”

Overnight, he seemed to have recovered from yesterday’s blow—or perhaps something else had changed. In the words of an otherworldly soul, he now “looked less like a student.” Faint dark circles betrayed his poor sleep.

Kraft walked to the window, unlatched the wooden bar, and pushed the window outward. Morning sunlight poured in, mingling with the faintly salty breeze.

The attic stood higher than the opposite buildings. Beyond Elm Street, a dense cluster of low shacks sprawled across the black tidal flats—the Salt Tide Zone had begun another day.

“We’ll go back to that place again. Record daily observations—see if anything changes.”

“All of it?”

“From here to that slightly taller shack over there,” Kraft stepped aside, pointing to the area he’d mentally marked. Thanks to the height, it was visible from here.

Lu Xiusi, with no sense of scale, understood none of his intent—only noticing the rows of nail holes along the window frame, lost in thought.

“Today we still need to find those well-diggers. Hope they don’t ask too much.” Kraft didn’t care whether Lu Xiusi understood—he sometimes forgot not everyone possessed his extraordinary memory.

He leaned his right forearm against the windowsill; a metallic clink came from within his sleeve. He tried switching to his left, but remembered his wound and gave up, sitting instead on a chair.

“So far, I believe most patients will recover—if no surprises arise. We must resolve this quickly. No more delays.” His brow was furrowed with anxiety; Lu Xiusi sensed some threat making him restless.

Though asking now seemed argumentative, Lu Xiusi still spoke up: “What if some don’t recover?”

“Then it means their area has other problems—I’ll deal with them.” Kraft pushed back his chair. “Let’s eat something before we go. My treat.”