Chapter 190

Chapter 190

Oars sliced through the morning mist, and the outline of the Twelfth Island slowly came into focus on the horizon. The clamor of the docks drifted over the sea breeze, carrying the familiar blend of spices and saltiness.

Evan leaned against the ship’s railing. The wound on his back still throbbed faintly in the sea breeze. The oil-paper bundle tucked against his chest stayed warm, and he could feel the unicorn serpent’s gall bladder through the cloth, heavy and solid.

As soon as Old Shark’s boat docked, Evan turned down the offer to rest and made a beeline for the Palm Leaf Supernatural Club.

The sun climbed higher, stretching the shadows on the street into long lines. When he pushed aside the door curtain adorned with colorful feathers, the bartender behind the counter was polishing a brass cup. Taking in Evan’s travel-worn look and the bloodstains on his clothes, a flicker of surprise crossed his pale blue eyes before he resumed his usual indifference.

“Thornbird? Mission done?” The bartender set down the cup and gestured to the mission handover counter.

Evan handed over the oil-paper bundle. Inside, the green-scaled unicorn serpent’s gall bladder was well-preserved, its deep green surface faintly glowing. The bartender unwrapped it for inspection, his fingers quickly skimming over the ledger. Then he pulled out two heavy Gold Sala coins and a bronze medal engraved with a palm leaf pattern, sliding them across to Evan. “Excellent completion. Reward: two hundred Gold Sala and one club merit point.”

Evan picked up the bronze medal. It felt cool in his hand, with intricate patterns and the number “1” etched along the edge. He ran his thumb over the medal and couldn’t help asking, “What are these merit points good for?”

The bartender glanced up, his tone still flat. “Merit points can be exchanged for information. The club controls over seventy percent of the supernatural intel in the colony—from hiding spots for potion ingredients to the Colonial Force’s purge routes, even the movements of secret organizations. As long as you have enough merit, you can get it.”

Evan’s heart skipped a beat at that.

He clenched the bronze medal, his fingers pressing hard into it. “What’s the minimum merit to trade for info?”

“One merit point gets you one basic piece of intel.” The bartender pointed to a wooden board beside the counter, where a few brief descriptions were written in charcoal. “For example, ‘Latest developments on the Blue Light anomaly on the First Island’ or ‘Deployment map of the Colonial Force’s garrison on the Fourth Island’—both cost just one merit point.”

Evan’s eyes locked onto the first entry on the board: “Latest developments on the Blue Light anomaly on the First Island.” Those words hooked his attention like a fishhook. This was exactly what had been on his mind—the clues that had guided him to the First Island, and perhaps the secrets of the Ghost Ship, might all be hidden in this piece of information.

He took a deep breath and pushed the bronze medal back. “I want to exchange for ‘Latest developments on the Blue Light anomaly on the First Island.’”

The bartender pocketed the medal, pulled out a folded piece of parchment from a drawer, and handed it to Evan. “Here you go. This intel was updated this morning. Our scouts say the blue light on the First Island has been appearing on time every night recently, and its brightness is increasing. Supernaturals have sensed strong necromantic fluctuations in the area where the light appears.”

Evan took the parchment, his fingers trembling slightly. As he unfolded it, lines of text came into view. Just then, the club’s door curtain was lifted again, and several men in Colonial Force uniforms walked in. The leader wore a curved saber at his waist, the same style Evan had seen at the Fourth Island port.

Evan’s fingers twitched, crumpling the edge of the parchment. He quickly folded the intel and stuffed it into his pocket, then turned toward a booth in the corner of the hall, his back to the entrance. He pretended to straighten his bloodstained clothes. Heavy boots thudded through the hall, carrying that typical colonial soldier arrogance.

The leader was that same beefy-faced squad leader from the Fourth Island port. His curved saber swung at his hip, the brass buckle on the scabbard glinting harshly. The bartender’s face went stiff. Just as he forced a smile to greet them, a low voice cut in first. “Making a racket in my Palm Leaf Club—you tired of doing business, or you trying to ruin my reputation?”

The speaker was a man sitting at the innermost end of the bar. He wore a black silk shirt, a slender cigar between his fingers, and amidst the swirling smoke, his eyes glowed faintly gray.

As he stood up, an intangible pressure spread out. The soldiers behind the squad leader instinctively gripped their rifles, but none dared to step forward—this was the unique aura of a Sequence 8 supernatural, far beyond what ordinary soldiers could contend with.

The squad leader’s arrogance instantly deflated. The fleshy face twitched a few times as he forced himself to say, “Sir, you misunderstand. We’re here to catch a fugitive. He killed our men and stole imperial property.”

“A fugitive?” The man sneered, flicking ash from his cigar. “Every member of my Palm Leaf Club is registered when they come and go. You say he’s a fugitive—do you have proof? Or is it the Colonial Force’s rule that you can run wild on someone else’s turf with just a word?”

He stepped forward, the chill in his gray eyes growing sharper. “Don’t think that just because you’re a petty squad leader, you can act tough. Even your garrison commander has to show me some respect. If you really want to cause trouble, can you afford to offend a Sequence 6 powerhouse?”

“Sequence 6…” The squad leader’s face turned pale. He knew the Palm Leaf Club was full of hidden talents, but he never expected a Sequence 6 expert to be here. That was someone who could easily annihilate an entire garrison. His men were nothing more than ants before such a being.

He dared not be reckless anymore and quickly apologized with a flattering smile. “I was too rash. Since the club doesn’t have this person, we’ll leave immediately.” With that, he shot a glare at the bartender and slunk away with his men, not even daring to lift the curtain again.

As the feather curtain fell, the bartender let out a sigh of relief, a smug look on his face. He nodded toward Evan’s direction. “See that? Even the colonial military has to show respect to our club. After all, we have a Sequence 6 powerhouse backing us—someone on par with an imperial general. How would they dare to provoke us?”

Evan sat in the booth, rubbing the Sea Heart Stone fragment in the hidden compartment of his pocket watch. His mind churned with shock. A Sequence 6 powerhouse—no wonder the Palm Leaf Club had such a firm foothold in the colony, forcing even the Colonial Force to back down. He collected himself, stood up, nodded slightly to the bartender and the Sequence 8 supernatural, then quickly headed for the door.

Back at the inn, Evan immediately took a hot bath. Though the colony’s year-round heat made cold showers perfectly fine, he still felt that hot water helped him relax.

Before his hair was even dry, he took out paper and pen and began writing a letter to Sara.