Chapter 99

“Quiet.”

Ku Pu heard Kraft issue this command—not his usual conciliatory tone, but like an unseen blade: blunt, rigid, the harshness he’d only briefly heard during that interrogation in Salt Tide District.

He instinctively obeyed, clamping his mouth shut and fixing his gaze on William’s footsteps ahead, adjusting his pace to match. He’d already seen the consequences of underestimating Kraft’s seriousness—so profound he’d never dare repeat the mistake.

Imitating Kraft, Ku Pu quickly glanced back—just a flash of flickering torchlight illuminating the bearer’s shadowed face, darkness following his advance step for step, maintaining exactly five paces behind.

The thick night behind him was like the tide of Salt Tide District: a murky, opaque fluid, hiding sharp shell fragments and fish spines beyond sight, where those who walked would step on them, only to have wounds fester and turn pus-filled days later, their bodies burning with fever.

This had been Ku Pu’s deepest fear before that experience—he simply couldn’t understand how a tiny cut in the turbid flow could be fatal.

Linking the two, he realized their startling similarity: the team now walked within another, larger turbid flow, utterly ignorant of what lay beyond the two torches.

The hills he’d grown tired of looked no different from the ground near his home—swallowed by darkness, whether from sea or sky, filling every gap, transforming the familiar into the utterly unknown.

Something was changing within it—but not something as simple as shards that caused festering wounds.

The footsteps ahead shifted pace twice in quick succession, deliberately breaking William’s rhythm. Kraft turned again, his gaze passing over Ku Pu’s shoulder toward the rear, his eyes reflecting the dimming torchlight.

His swinging arm halted, pressing against his left waist. After training, Ku Pu had learned the meaning of this gesture—it had been repeatedly emphasized.

He pressed his own waist, the solid, secure grip of the hammer’s handle offering slight comfort; he began to understand why Kraft did this.

His gaze returned, sweeping over Ku Pu, Kraft gave him a slight nod and quickened his pace forward, lightly tapping William’s shoulder. The sailors met Ku Pu’s glance and silently lit a new torch.

The team resumed its original pace; Kraft fell back beside him, one hand never leaving his waist, the other pressing against the side of his skull, eyes half-lidded.

Quiet. Fine. Stay quiet… Ku Pu clenched his teeth. Kraft’s actions confirmed his suspicions, but the order forbade him from speaking up.

The thought had risen to his lips, forcibly suppressed—but in the monotonous march, only the occasional change in direction and the sound of footsteps beside him demanded attention; he couldn’t help but listen.

Under William’s lead, the team maintained a slow, rhythmic pace, each person unconsciously following the step of the one ahead.

Footfalls from front and back, slightly out of sync, poured into his ears, mingled with the clip-clop of hooves. With his hearing, discerning direction or even identifying individuals was beyond reasonable expectation.

Yet Kraft had clearly altered his step—as if trying to force out someone matching their rhythm.

Could someone walk a mountain path without light? A local familiar with the road—or something else…

His experience offered no other possibility—he’d choose to walk in sync with them. Conversely, he’d never seen anyone navigate a pitch-black mountain path by memory alone—not even the guide Peter could do it.

Ku Pu slowed his pace, drawing closer to the three at the rear, attempting to distinguish their footfalls.

Those who lived on deck had solid stances—legs steady enough to hold firm on wave peaks performed no worse on mountain trails. Their thick hemp-and-straw sandals were nearly identical, easily distinguishable from the heavier thuds of Kraft’s boots.

Achieving this so quickly surprised him, but it helped nothing—he heard no abnormal footsteps from behind.

He released his grip on the hammer’s handle and frowned at Kraft. The latter didn’t turn back, his knuckles bent, pressing just behind the outer corner of his eye, as if struck by sudden, unbearable headache, yet his gaze remained fixed on the unlit road ahead of William.

The leather-booted foot struck a rock, stumbling forward several steps—this dangerous motion startled Ku Pu into rushing forward to steady him, but the horse pulled him back.

A sharp, gritty friction burned his palm—the rope tethering the horse suddenly tightened, nearly slipping from his grasp. The mule neighed, rearing its front hooves, trying to turn back; the sudden surge of force dragged Ku Pu off his feet.

“Let go!”

Ku Pu instinctively released the rope—then realized the command wasn’t for him, but for Yin Feng, who clung to the mule’s neck, his entire body bouncing with each jolt.

The mule, terrified by some unseen source, forgot its rider and the peril of the mountain path, broke free and bolted backward in blind panic. Crew members strained to sidestep toward the mountainside, avoiding a collision with the runaway beast.

Ku Pu hesitated—whether to chase the rope or save himself—when a figure shot past him like lightning, wind from its passage ruffling his cloak and flinging open his hood, golden hair whipping wildly.

A bright arc of light caught up with the mule’s hind legs, slicing into the most muscular part, severing its power. The leg spasmed, unable to push, speed dropped, and the body tilted sideways, collapsing.

“Cover your head, Yin Feng!”

Without being told, Yin Feng instinctively released his grip and curled into a ball as the mule fell, flung clear. The motion likely saved his life—he didn’t land beneath the hooves, but rolled into a thicket of roadside shrubs.

The mule, momentum unspent, charged forward several more steps, then crashed into the darkness beyond the torchlight—followed by the thud of a heavy body rolling, the scrape of stones and gravel against hide, several rapid, muffled impacts receding downward. A faint echo arrived seconds later, like a weak swallow.

Kraft pulled his still-dripping sword upright, parted the shrubs to check on Yin Feng. William returned from the front, holding up a torch to light the scene.

“William, go back. Someone from the rear, step forward.” Kraft pulled back his cloak to examine Yin Feng’s injuries. Fortunately, the shrub behind him had been thick enough—its broken stems and fallen leaves absorbed most of the impact, leaving only a few scrapes on his exposed hands.

The boy climbed to his feet with Kraft’s help, leaves clinging to his hair, his cloak torn by a broken branch—but he appeared unharmed.

Kraft didn’t relax. Between checks, he kept glancing toward William, urging him back to his post at the front.

Because William had come to the middle of the line, Peter—who had been walking beside him—had drifted to the edge of the torchlight, still dazed, unable to accept that his valuable animal had gone mad and plunged off the cliff, wondering if this counted as a write-off.

After being startled, the mule hadn’t even looked back at its master—it fled away from him.

Ku Pu suddenly understood why he’d found nothing at the rear. While everyone focused on Yin Feng, he followed Kraft’s gaze.

The darkness behind Peter didn’t seem pure—it was like ink left open on a table overnight, speckled with flies and dust, the uniform background now disturbed by drifting shapes.

With night-blind vision, he barely made out vague, floating forms—briefly appearing at shoulder height beyond the torchlight, then sinking back into the impenetrable, ink-black night.

A fleeting glimpse—like someone walking backward ahead had noticed they were no longer following, and had thrust out a flat, wide face to peer into the circle of light.

No feeling of being watched. In a blink, Ku Pu lost all impression of it—everything behind Peter returned to normal. What he’d seen was merely a visual artifact from poor lighting—a face without eyes.