Chapter 179

Chapter 179

"Splash—" The anchor chain of the *Victoria* sank into the harbor basin, dragging the salty brine. Evan followed the crowd down the gangplank, and as soon as his foot touched the wooden pier, a wave of heat—thick with coconut oil, dust, and humidity—hit him. It was ten times hotter than the evening breeze at sea, and sweat instantly beaded on his forehead.

The ghostly green glow of the Ghost Ship and the haunting echoes of the mermaid's song had yet to fully fade from his memory, but now they were pushed into a blurry background by this tangible tropical heat.

He raised a hand to shield his eyes; the sun overhead was like a red-hot copper disc, bleaching the sky to a pale, shimmering blue. Everywhere he looked, tall palm trees dominated the view: their broad leaves rustled noisily in the hot wind, and ripe coconuts hung from the branches, occasionally thudding onto the sandy ground and rolling to the feet of natives in coarse hemp skirts.

Evan squeezed the cool silver badge in his sleeve and calculated silently—the density of the palm trees, the angle of the sunlight, and the sticky humidity in the air all pointed to this place was on the equatorial belt of his past life's Earth, a place soaked in heat year-round.

At the end of the pier stood a weathered stone tablet carved with the Sala word for "New Nigeria." Beside it, a faded map showed twenty blue patches of varying sizes covering the canvas: the smallest island was marked "equivalent to half the southern province of Sala proper," while the largest was circled in red ink with "three times the area of the homeland."

Evan looked out at the sea horizon; the islands' shapes were distorted by the heat haze. It was said these islands once had their own native names passed down through generations, but now the Empire had renumbered them all as "First Island," "Second Island," and so on. Even the native elders, when mentioning their homeland, had to learn to recite the Sala numbers.

Further along the pier, Sala-style buildings had already punched through the palm groves: the milky-white stone spire of a church jutted into the greenery, its stained-glass windows reflecting sunlight, scattering colored light onto the natives passing by. Evan carried his suitcase past the schoolhouse door, where a wooden sign that read "No Native Language Allowed" was sun-cracked—this was part of the Empire's "Twenty-Year Assimilation" plan: the first wave of Sala immigrants brought stonemasons and priests, tearing down thatched huts to build churches; the schools taught only Sala language and imperial history, and native kids got whacked with a ruler for speaking their own tongue; even the natives' traditional woven patterned skirts were replaced by law with Sala-style coarse robes.

Textbooks called this "civilizing the barbarians," but now, watching the natives huddling under the shadow of the church spire, Evan's fingers tightened without him realizing.

The crowd on the pier was a jumble of colors: pure-blooded natives in tattered coarse hemp walked barefoot, their ankles adorned with faded rattan bracelets, many clutching coconut shell bowls; mixed-race individuals mostly wore half-worn cotton shirts, their hair curls somewhere between Sala and native, helping Sala merchants carry oak boxes; Sala immigrants in crisp linen jackets, imperial badges pinned to their waists, spoke with chins held high; other imperial immigrants in flannel shirts haggled in their own languages in the corners—this chaotic scene perfectly matched the textbook numbers: six million pure-blooded natives, one million mixed-race, five hundred thousand Sala immigrants, and one million other imperial citizens.

Evan was staring at the schoolhouse sign when a hurried patter of footsteps suddenly approached: a dark-skinned kid, maybe five or six, barefoot, with a hole in his coarse shirt, clutching half a gnawed coconut, his face smeared with sand, as if fleeing from something.

Evan instinctively stepped aside on the pier. The child darted under his arm, ran a few steps, then looked back, tears in his eyes, before being swallowed by the hot wind into the shadows of the palm grove.

Evan watched the native child disappear into the palm shadows. As he withdrew his gaze, he caught sight of another scene nearby: a man in a Sala noble's silk jacket raised a silver goblet and splashed the remaining wine onto the ground. The liquid splattered onto the trouser legs of an old native man squatting nearby, peeling a coconut.

The old man froze instantly, his withered fingers tightening around the coconut shell, but he didn't dare lift his head. He just hunched his back and shrank against the wall—even as the wine seeped into his worn-out straw sandals, he made no sound. A nearby Sala soldier glanced at the old man and lightly kicked his bamboo basket with the toe of his boot: "You're blocking the way. Move it."

The old man immediately grabbed his basket and scrambled away, hugging the wall as if avoiding a hot iron, his eyes fixed on the ground, not daring to glance even for a second at the soldier's light-colored uniform.

This was the norm in New Nigeria: the chins of Sala natives were always raised, the backs of the natives always bent, and light skin was like an invisible wall, drawing a clear line between "high" and "low."

Evan carried his suitcase into the town. The main road was an asphalt path reserved for Sala people: the windows of milky-white stone houses were adorned with bright red bougainvillea, copper trash cans gleamed, and even the street signs were made of carved oak. But beyond the asphalt road, in the alleys, were the native shantytowns—thatched roofs let in light, rotten coconuts and dirty water festered in the sandy ground, and a few natives wrapped in rags, seeing Evan's light-colored shirt, immediately ducked into the shadows of the huts, peeking out with only half an eye until he passed, then daring to whisper and tug at each other's clothes.

At the end of the main road, a building with a wooden sign reading "Sala Sea Breeze Inn" came into view: the stone walls were neatly laid, the doorway hung with a curtain of pearl shells that jingled softly when pushed open, and a cool, incense-laden air instantly wrapped around Evan's sweat-dampened sleeves—a world apart from the heat outside.

The innkeeper, a blonde Sala white man, was polishing a silver candlestick with a cloth. He looked up at Evan and said with an arrogant, non-negotiable tone: "Only the superior room is left. Five silver keren a night, includes a Sala-style breakfast." Only when he caught a glimpse of the silver badge peeking from Evan's sleeve—a talisman gifted by Sara—did his tone soften slightly, and he gestured for Evan to follow him inside.

The second-floor room had a wool carpet, and the window offered a view of the church spire, while the smoke from the shantytown cookfires drifted lazily into the glaring white sky. Downstairs, the laughter of Sala merchants mixed with complaints about "lazy natives."

Evan gently placed his leather suitcase on the carved oak cabinet, his fingers pressing into the wool fibers of the carpet—soft as sun-dried cotton, muffling even his footsteps.

On the windowsill, a pot of bougainvillea hung its bright red petals, morning dew dripping from the tips onto the milky-white stone sill, blending with the lemon incense in the air to completely mask the salty smell of the pier.

He pushed open the bathroom door; the marble walls gleamed with a cool luster, the brass faucet polished to a mirror shine, and the lavender bath salts in the white porcelain jar still carried the lingering scent of sealing wax.

Evan turned on the faucet, and warm water gushed into the built-in bathtub, splashing droplets that misted the mirror.

Draping an olive-branch-embroidered towel over the copper rack, Evan unbuttoned his shirt and stepped into the tub—the warm water rose just to his shoulders, soaking away the fatigue of the sea voyage and the clamor of the dock.