Chapter 195

Chapter 195

“…Are you absolutely certain this thing is even meant for humans?”

Murphy sat cross-legged on a half-frozen reef, as elegantly posed as a mermaid—though this “mermaid” wore an expression of utter disdain as she stared at the gossamer-thin garment in her hands.

This was precisely the membrane garment Yang Haibo had personally stripped from the face-fish monster just days earlier.

“I’m not certain,” he replied politely. “Of course, you’re welcome to opt out of the human species—but if you keep stalling instead of focusing on the mission, you *will* fail.”

There were only five schools in the league—and not only had they failed to place in the top three, but the school ranked dead last was Imperial Wenli. Zhou Huixue was no one to underestimate. It wasn’t so much that Imperial Wenli had lost the first two rounds; rather, they’d likely been conserving their strength for the decisive third round all along.

True, Blue Star Comprehensive didn’t overly concern itself with rankings—but only on the condition that its losses weren’t catastrophic. And judging by its performance in the first two rounds… Yang Haibo felt little optimism about their prospects.

Murphy clearly grasped the urgency. Despairingly, he shook the garment, straining not to think about its origin, and muttered under his breath to steady his nerves: “Alright, alright—this is terrifying, yes, but little Murphy, you *can* do it, right? Come on—summon your inner noble’s courage…”

Why did this guy have to chatter so incessantly? Was he still in kindergarten? Did donning clothing really require this much monologue?

Yang Haibo’s patience snapped. He snatched the membrane garment and flung it over Murphy’s head. The cold, supple texture enveloped her face, stifling a scream.

“You’ve turned getting dressed into a life-or-death crisis with all this whining,” Yang Haibo said icily from above. “Shall I toss you into the sea myself?”

So brutal!

Wasn’t it commonly said that alchemists were all talk and no action—precisely because they lacked physical prowess? Then how had someone like Yang Haibo—a domineering exception—emerged from their ranks?

“N-No need,” Murphy choked out, holding back. “Could you please… go a bit easier on me?”

“Heh.”

The underwater world at night was even more unnerving than by day. At a depth of one hundred meters—beyond sunlight’s reach—the face-fish membrane shielded them from the biting cold, yet subtle water currents and drifting shadows overhead still stirred primal fear and unease.

In terms of mission-critical equipment, the organizing committee had treated all schools equally, ensuring baseline fairness. Even a chronically underfunded institution like Blue Star Comprehensive had managed to scrounge up professional oxygen tanks supplying up to twelve hours of air.

“Are we there yet?” After floating motionlessly for so long, Murphy felt nearly weightless. She gave a lazy kick with her fins—seemingly idle, yet subtly extending her psychic field around the team like an invisible barrier. “Hey, Haibo—did you notice we’ve entered an especially dangerous zone?”

Somewhere along the way, the surroundings had fallen utterly silent—devoid of other life. Murphy tucked her hands into her sleeves, studying the bioluminescent flora rooted on the seabed with quiet curiosity.

The dark water clung to them like thick gelatin. Yang Haibo kept summoning his psychic hound. From the outset of the competition, he’d harbored a premonition that Imperial Wenli would make its move this round—so he’d long since imprinted Zhou Huixue’s aura onto his hound. Yet from this point onward, the hound’s senses appeared blocked. No matter how frantically it circled, it detected no trace of that aura.

The group pressed forward against the current. Had they been able to view their coordinates on the satellite map from the control room, they’d have seen their red dot steadily converging on the ice island’s central coordinates—not just theirs, but those of the other three schools as well—as if something rare and precious beneath the island were drawing external hunters inward.

Shifting underwater currents had silently altered the students’ trajectory. Within the anomalous magnetic field, not only were psychic perceptions scrambled, but even the electronic compasses strapped to their wrists had become useless.

In the endless darkness, only the specially treated alchemical cameras continued dutifully recording.

“The league organizers really pulled out all the stops this time—even deploying alchemical cameras.”

“I heard they secured major sponsorship.”

“Could it be the Alchemist Association? Didn’t they insist on absolute independence from the start—refusing ties with any organization or department?”

“Not sure…”

Above the atmosphere, the starship that had delivered the students didn’t depart immediately after deployment. Instead, it hovered silently in orbit, monitoring this special training planet—a surreal expanse saturated in shades of blue and gray.

In the monitoring room, several personnel from the Fourth Legion had just completed their shift change. The new monitor, confronted with hundreds of screens, couldn’t resist idly chatting with a colleague.

But at the sound of a door opening, a tall, all-too-familiar figure—lately ubiquitous among Fourth Legion members—was reflected on the floor. The two instantly fell silent, eyes glued to their screens as though they’d never slacked off.

Qin Mengde ignored their minor lapse and turned to the person behind her. “This is the monitoring room. The Star Network’s live broadcast shows only one feed per school at a time—focused on the individual the AI deems most compelling to watch. If someone you wish to observe isn’t currently featured, you may watch them here.”

Was there someone else?

The monitors feigned diligent work while surreptitiously glancing at the person Qin Mengde had brought in.

Lin Cuimei smiled sweetly. “Very well, Your Highness Chris.”

Her smile was saccharine—but what, exactly, had she done to send the Empire’s Protocol Minister fleeing back to the capital overnight?

When Qin Mengde was forced to assume oversight, even *she* found it daunting to determine how to handle these distinguished alliance guests should they cause trouble. Yet after several days of interaction, Lin Cuimei and the young delegation she’d brought proved far more manageable than Qin Mengde had anticipated.

It was widely rumored that the Lin family’s heiress from the alliance hadn’t needed to join this visit in person—her inclusion stemmed solely from her profound admiration for the Empire’s alchemical culture.

In fact, Eve’s alchemist friend—a nominal official in the Ministry of Education—might also visit the monitoring room this afternoon, possibly crossing paths with Lin Cuimei.

But Qin Mengde had no intention of introducing them.

Had the Crown Prince been handling reception here, he might have extended Lin Cuimei a courtesy. Unfortunately, the one present was the Empire’s Fourth Princess—the individual least concerned with saving face.

Lin Cuimei lifted an eyebrow, ever so slightly.

After briefly outlining safety protocols, Qin Mengde left Lin Cuimei alone in the monitoring room.

Once the superior departed, the atmosphere visibly relaxed. At that moment, a section of adjacent screens—previously blacked out—suddenly lit up.

“Ah,” one monitor sighed in relief. “They’ve finally reached the site.”

“Are they the last ones?”

“No—someone from Imperial Capital University is still struggling. They started latest, so they’ve been behind from the outset.”

“…”

-

“What *is* this…?” someone in the team murmured, stunned. “Is this the ‘ghost ship’ we’re searching for?”

Light pierced the darkness—not a hidden paradise beyond a narrow passage, but another enigmatic, wondrous realm.

Glowing algae drifted lazily through the water, illuminating the concealed grotto like an emerald sea from a mythic adventure. Countless face-fish swam in slow, concentric circles—their pale, human-like faces bearing an eerie, transcendent serenity.

They’d been swept along by an underwater current en route. Upon emerging, they were met with this breathtaking sight.

And at its heart stood an ancient, crumbling leviathan of a ship.

Tilted and wedged between sand and rock, its stern nearly fused with the stone. Years of neglect had left most of the hull severely corroded, exposing dark, moss- and algae-draped beams. Jellyfish and small fish darted through its hollowed frame—like a mythical giant whose corpse, even in death, nourished all life.

Awe and vitality, decay and life—the sight of such an ancient vessel stirred complex emotions in the students, ultimately crystallizing into one simple thought:

“It looks expensive,” Murphy murmured. “My God—I can’t believe the organizers went *this* far for the competition.”

This scene could easily become an interstellar must-visit hotspot. Who knew whether the league officials would open it to tourism post-competition to recoup costs?

“…Let’s go inside first.”

The group glided smoothly into the colossal vessel like fish returning home.

The deck was likewise carpeted with face-fish. Unlike their aggressive behavior on land, these resting creatures appeared peaceful—eyes closed, as if dreaming. After carefully navigating the pile of face-fish, the group discovered that although the ship looked decrepit from without, its interior remained surprisingly orderly.

Its three-story structure featured a long, seemingly endless corridor and rows of tightly packed rooms on the first floor. The patterned wallpaper on the walls was half-peeled, yet corrosion was minimal. The gilded door handles still gleamed brightly.

Because of concerns about potential danger, it was Murphy's turn to take over the lead from Yang Haibo, and he was the first to step inside.

A pure, beautiful Spiritual State phantom flickered faintly behind him. Murphy extended his mental awareness to its fullest extent but still couldn’t perceive what lay beyond the door—only a vague sense that things weren’t as peaceful and docile as they appeared.

“There are icons on these doors,” Yang Haibo said softly. On the door to his left was a spider, and on the right, an owl. “Different animals. Could they be related to the rooms behind them?”

The other students also glanced at the doors beside them. The variety of animals was extensive, mostly common creatures from the Old Era like goats and rabbits. Moreover, the icons weren’t unique—on Murphy’s right front, there was another door also marked with a spider.

He didn’t touch the doors but instead gazed thoughtfully at the rabbit-themed door in front of him.

On the light brown template, the pure black drawing of a lop-eared rabbit looked gentle and harmless, like some kind of reassuring sign.

“They seem to be purely Old Era animals. Honestly, I don’t know much about them. After all, centuries have passed—humans have developed psychic abilities, and so have animals,” Murphy shrugged. “If this round really is related to the animals on the icons, no wonder Zhou Huixue decided to commit fully—when it comes to knowledge, she really does surpass all of us.”

Yang Haibo was silent for a moment before saying, “I’ve studied a bit. Since Alchemy originated in the Old Era, it’s hard to avoid learning about it when studying foundational concepts.”

“Sounds like you’re not much better off than me.”

“Old Era animal beliefs are complex—it’s inherently difficult to fully grasp.”

Ignoring the teasing, Yang Haibo continued, “Take rabbits, for example. In some places, they symbolize longevity and peace. People believed rabbits were divine assistants, tasked with making elixirs of immortality in the moon palace. In other places, they were seen as evil, because their eyes are red, like demons.”

If the icons on the doors truly held some hidden meaning, even Zhou Huixue would have to think carefully before making a choice.

Murphy sighed. “Let’s just use the simplest, most brainless method to decide.”

“What method?”

“Rely on luck, of course. What else?”

Before Yang Haibo could react, Murphy pushed open the rabbit-icon door in front of him. A substantive darkness swiftly engulfed him. By the time Yang Haibo exclaimed, “Wait!”, Murphy had already vanished.

Not only that—the rabbit-icon door disappeared as well.

“...!”

The remaining students stumbled back alarmed, but Yang Haibo sensed a strange familiarity in the bizarre situation.

Every space-faring human knows there are no ghosts or monsters—only misunderstood non-human races and alchemists with a screw loose.

“It seems only one person can enter through each door,” he said slowly. “But doors with the same icon likely lead to the same content. Considering others are still ashore, these doors are probably just part of the challenge—no need to worry too much when participating.”

Although failing would likely come with penalties—like losing the chance to continue the ghost ship challenge—there was no need to voice concerns that might shake morale.

After all, there were scoring opportunities ashore. When he killed the first human-faced fish, Yang Haibo quickly checked the leaderboard. Sure enough, their school’s score had risen. Meanwhile, personal scores—determined by the judges—showed only Lorca from the First Empire Academy had gained 1 point, likely for being the first to attack a human-faced fish in this round.

Since nightfall, Imperial Arts and Sciences’ school points and Zhou Huixue’s personal score had shot up. Several individuals from the First Empire also saw their scores rise.

So far, the new top scorer was Eve from the First Empire Academy, while the former number one, Lu Qing—unclear what she was doing this round—remained unchanged in second place. Zhou Huixue had climbed from eighth to fifth. Given how hard personal points were to earn, her jump of five points meant she must have done something highly praised by the judges.

On the school rankings, Imperial Arts and Sciences and Imperial UST were tied for third. That left only one school not on the leaderboard—Yang Haibo couldn’t bring himself to say which.

This strengthened his resolve to follow Zhou Huixue’s strategy. Clearly, the transparent scoring system had some value—at least it showed whom to emulate when needed.

Yang Haibo said, “Just pick a door you like and go in.”

It sounded a bit like telling the others to choose their own path forward.

At a loss from the surreal situation, and without Murphy around to lighten the mood—and being used to playing the stern leader—he could only scratch his head helplessly before quickly choosing a door and entering.

Soon, everyone in the hallway vanished behind different doors. Just as the last Blue Star Comprehensive student made their choice, the main door of the ghost ship’s first floor creaked open again. A girl’s cheerful humming drifted in, accompanied by someone else’s exasperated complaint:

“Do you have to sing such an awful tune while wearing my face...?”

Meanwhile, Murphy, who had entered first, finally emerged into the light after traversing a long, narrow dark tunnel.

It was a low, cozy wooden cabin. A fire crackled in the hearth, and a small round table—waist-high—held a sewing kit and a dim oil lamp. A hand-woven blanket hung on the wall, and the faintly bitter scent of tea lingered in the slightly damp air. The moment he stepped inside, he felt a subtle vibration underfoot.

But for Murphy at that moment, no matter how warm and comfortable the setting, it hardly mattered.

He practically flew toward the silver-haired girl sipping tea at the table, his voice oozing syrupy sweetness: “Oh, Miss Eve, my goddess! How lucky I am to end up in the same room as you—did you also choose a door with a rabbit icon?”

Eve, who had just touched the cup to her lips: “...?”

Even Qi Ying, who had been quietly polishing a short blade behind Eve, paused. She looked up, narrowing her eyes as she stared at this flashy intruder who had appeared out of nowhere.

...Who is this blond guy?