Chapter 182

Chapter 182

Evan shot upright in bed, his chest still heaving, the back of his nightshirt sticky with cold sweat. The church's gas lamp outside the window was still burning, its warm glow falling on the carpet—a world away from the ink-black waves and ghostly green flames of his dream, yet unable to ease the tightness in his chest.

Still gasping, he threw off the covers. As his fingertips brushed the edge of the bed, he felt a damp, cool touch—not his own sweat, but a strand of seaweed tangled around the bedpost. The seaweed was dark green, almost black, still clinging to salty seawater, with a small white shell dangling from its tip—just like the ones on the ghost ship's railing in his dream.

He cupped the seaweed and fine sand in his palm, then looked up toward the direction of the First Island. The dark mass in the night seemed heavier than before, and even the wind carried a faint, rhythmic *clack*, like the sound of bones knocking against wood. After several days, dreaming of the ghost ship again, and bringing back the dark green seaweed tangled around the bedpost and the phosphorescent deep-sea sand in his palm—Evan rubbed the strand of salty seaweed between his fingers and instantly realized: this was no ordinary dream. He'd walked straight into a real supernatural event.

The gas lamp outside was still burning. The sky was just beginning to show a faint hint of fish-belly white. The insects in the palm grove had already quieted down, leaving only the rustle of wind brushing bougainvillea petals against the windowsill. Evan leaned against the headboard and tucked the seaweed and sand into his pocket watch's compartment. His fingertips pressed against the warm metal casing, his mind full of the Skeleton Captain's ghostly green eye sockets, the rotted wood grain of the ghost ship, and the image of the two-masted vessel being swallowed by the waves—these images were too vivid, not blurry like a dream should be.

He tried to close his eyes and lie down, but the moment he did, the ghost ship's shadow loomed in front of him, and even his breath carried the salty tang of the dream. After half an hour of tossing and turning, he gave up, threw off the covers, and got up. When he looked in the mirror while washing up, he saw dark circles under his eyes, lingering fatigue at the corners, and hair plastered to his forehead by the night's sweat.

By the time he walked downstairs, the warm yellow brass lamps in the lobby had just been turned on. A cook in a coarse apron was placing freshly baked bread on the counter, the air filled with the sweet aroma of butter and cinnamon.

The white owner at the front desk, who had been buried in his ledger, looked up at Evan's haggard appearance. His usually arrogant forehead creased a little, and he actually put down his pen to ask, "Didn't sleep well last night, sir? You look like you've been adrift at sea all night."

Evan managed a weak smile and pulled out a chair at the counter. "Just a bad dream. Thanks for your concern, boss."

The owner grunted and didn't ask further.

Rubbing his temples, Evan walked to the newspaper rack in the corner of the lobby. The rack was made of rotted wood, with dried coconut juice stains on the edges. The top copy of the *Imperial Daily* was still slightly damp, the tropical humidity having blurred the edges of the ink. It smelled of paper's rough fragrance mixed with the salty sea air.

He picked up the top copy, his fingertips brushing against the slightly sticky surface. He knew this "latest" edition was a day behind the Sala mainland, but it was the closest news from home he could get in this colony.

Carrying his tray, he sat by the window. The meal was pure colonial fare: hot goat's milk with a thin skin of cream on top, a sip of which was warm and slightly sweet; a meat pie with a crispy, golden-brown edge that burst with spiced meat juice when bitten into; and a fruit platter of translucent yellow mangoes and pineapple chunks soaked in coconut syrup, sweet enough to make your teeth ache.

He took a bite of the meat pie and slowly unfolded the front page of the newspaper.

His eyes immediately landed on the bold, black Song-style headline, the ink still slightly wet: [Bloody Coup, First Prince Defeated, Glory to Princess Lillian].

Beside it was a blurry color portrait—Lillian, wrapped in an embroidered gold cloak, her small face buried in the furry collar, only a wisp of soft hair visible.

Evan paused mid-bite, his brow lifting slightly. He rarely bothered with politics, but the words "coup" and "defeated" hit the paper like waterlogged stones, heavy enough to make his fingertips tighten.

The paper gave no details, just vaguely mentioned that "the First Prince plotted treason and was executed." But as Evan touched the silver badge in his sleeve, he suddenly recalled Sara's low whisper before he left the mainland: "Wait for my news." So this was the plan that had led to the coup that toppled the empire.

His fingertip traced the words "Lillian's Coronation," and a lump formed in his throat. That little girl in the cloak, once the white mourning drapes fell, would don the jewel-encrusted crown and become the Empress of the Sala Empire, both mainland and all colonies.

This "glory" belonged to the Sala people. As for the bent-backed natives of New Nylasia, the oil lamps in their shacks, and the backs of hands scarred by whips—they would only be gripped tighter by the new reins of power.

At the next table, a group of Sala merchants huddled together, their voices low but unable to hide their excitement: "Once the little princess is crowned, the spice tax in the colonies is sure to go up!"

A soldier nearby chimed in, tapping his knife and fork: "The coup has just been put down. If the natives here dare to cause trouble, it'll be a perfect chance to make an example of them."

Evan looked down and forked a piece of mango. The sweetness was tinged with a hint of bitterness—the printed glory of the newspaper and the salty dampness of the colony's dark alleys were two worlds that would never meet.

He put the half-eaten mango back on the platter, his fingertip brushing over the word "glory" on the newspaper, the astringent smell of ink clinging to his skin.

He folded the newspaper and tucked it into his pocket, then carried the empty tray toward the kitchen. Passing the front desk, he saw the owner smiling at his ledger, his pen circling the column marked "Spice Tax Expected to Rise," the ink stain spreading like a shallow scar.

As he pushed open the door, the hot wind, thick with coconut dust, hit his face, even more stifling than the morning's humidity.

The asphalt road was softened by the scorching sun. When he stepped on it, the soles of his shoes stuck with a warm, rubbery smell. Palm leaves rustled in the wind, and droplets of water from the tips splattered on the stone slabs, evaporating into white steam in an instant.

He had just reached the street corner when the rhythmic thud of boots approached—five colonial patrol soldiers, their boots polished to a mirror-like shine that reflected the palm trees. The barrels of their rifles gleamed coldly, the stocks thumping against their legs with each step. The lead soldier was smoking a cigarette, the ember falling onto the asphalt, leaving a small, scorched mark.

An old native squatting by the street, selling coconut shell bowls, immediately curled his legs inward at the sight of the soldiers' boot shadows, pulling his bowls close and shrinking against the wall. As his worn straw sandals scraped the wall, a soldier's boot tip lightly kicked his bamboo basket. "Move."

The old man's fingers instantly tightened on the basket's rim, his head bowed even lower, his breath barely audible, as if afraid of disturbing these light-skinned "masters." Not far away, at a street corner, two native children carrying firewood caught sight of the soldiers and turned to dart into their shacks. The one running too fast tripped on the sandy ground, scattering the firewood, but didn't even dare to cry out, just covering his mouth and crawling into the shadows.

The soldiers didn't spare them a glance, striding straight ahead on the soft asphalt. The sound of their boots echoed loudly in the quiet street, like a drumbeat on the backs of the natives.