Chapter 191

Chapter 191

Dear Sara,

How are you today? At this moment, the moonlight of the Twelfth Island falls through the inn's porthole onto the letter paper spread before me, as gentle as the thin butter you used to spread on bread, reminding me of the little attic back home.

I have arrived safely in New Nilithia, but the air here is far heavier than what we read about in the Royal Academy library. Back home, the words "colonial integration" in the textbooks seemed so effortless, yet when I saw a native girl in a coarse cotton skirt have her coconut shell bowl shattered by a whip just for accidentally bumping into a Sala merchant, or saw patrol soldiers kick an old man huddled against the wall with their boot tips, just because he was in their way—those words became piercing thorns.

The racial discrimination here isn't a whispered insinuation; it's the shadow trampled under asphalt in the glaring sunlight, and even the sea breeze carries the salty sting of inequality.

But don't worry about me. I've joined a supernatural club called "Palm Leaf," under the codename "Thornbird." See, doesn't that name suit the colonies better than "Evan"?

There are way more Supernaturals here than I imagined, from powerful locals with royal insignias to native shamans who can summon sea winds. The club is full of hidden talents, with even a Sequence 6 powerhouse among them. The other day, when the colonial army came looking for me (long story—I accidentally caught their attention while hunting a Unicorn Python on the Fourth Island), a Sequence 8 member stepped in and sent them packing with just a few words. See, I always find a way to land on my feet.

Speaking of the Unicorn Python, the mission paid me two hundred Gold Sala and one merit point. With that point, I bought intel that the blue light on the First Island has been getting stronger lately, seemingly linked to undead supernatural activity. Maybe it holds the "Shadow Silk" I need for the potion. I'm planning to gather the rest of the materials. Don't worry, I won't be reckless, just like you always remind me: "In the world of the supernatural, patience is more important than strength."

Once I collect all the ingredients, brew the potion, and advance to Sequence 8, it should take no more than two months.

Last night, while watching the sea from the deck, I suddenly remembered you saying you wanted to see the colonial night sky. The stars here hang lower than back home, as if you could just reach out and pluck them. The waves shatter the starlight on the water's surface, reminding me of the "artificial Milky Way" we made with glass shards in the attic on your birthday last year.

You always laugh at me for not being romantic, but now, facing the ship full of starlight, I feel like writing a few lines of poetry for you:

When the coconut wind sweeps away the last page of dusk,

I string the starlight into your hair tie.

The python's scales reflect a deep blue,

A gem I polished just for you.

The potion's cauldron still waits for the wind,

And I wait,

For the light of advancement,

To light the voyage back to your side.

I'll stop the letter here. Give my regards to the old professor, and tell him I haven't lost his *Illustrated Guide to Supernatural Creatures*.

Always thinking of you,

Evan

Night, on the Twelfth Island of New Nilithia.

When Evan put down the quill, the ink at the tip had spread into a small pale gray blot at the end of the letter, like the thin snow common in winter back home. He ran his fingers over the edge of the envelope—a thick kraft paper envelope he'd specially bought from a general store on the Twelfth Island, its waterproof beeswax coating glowing warm in the moonlight.

He wrote "Sarah Adams, Becklund, Sala Empire Capital" stroke by stroke, each character written with extra care, as if the ink could carry his warmth across the vast ocean.

After folding the letter and sealing it in the envelope, he dripped dark red sealing wax onto the seal and pressed his family crest into it. Then, from the very bottom of his travel bag, he pulled out a conch shell. He brought it to his lips and blew gently.

No loud sound came, only a ripple of invisible energy spreading outward.

Suddenly, layers of water ripples appeared on the inn's floor, like the reflection of moonlight on the sea. Then, translucent waves surged from the void, carrying fine specks of fluorescence that fell onto the wooden floor without leaving a trace. A palm-sized figure leaped out from the waves, its emerald hair dotted with water droplets, its pointed ears adorned with shell earrings—a Sea Elf.

"Letter?" The Sea Elf's voice chimed like a wind chime as it mischievously circled Evan twice, bringing a cool breeze.

Evan smiled, handing over the envelope and a gleaming silver coin—the Sea Elf's payment. "Please take care. Be careful on the way."

The Sea Elf took the envelope and coin, quickly stuffing them into a shell pouch at its waist, gave Evan a crooked salute, and then with a "plop," dove back into the waves.

The waves closed up like a drawn silk curtain, leaving only a few glowing droplets that rolled twice on the floor before dissipating into starlight.

Meanwhile, back in the Sala Empire's homeland.

In a lavish banquet hall, the light from the crystal chandelier was tainted by the dark red blood staining the floor. The once gold-threaded carpet now lay strewn with over a dozen corpses, the most conspicuous being the one in the middle—a man in a gold-trimmed marquis's robe, a badge of the First Prince pinned to his chest, his throat neatly slit, his face frozen in a look of terror.

Expensive silverware lay scattered on the floor, wine mixed with blood spreading over ivory chopsticks. The air was thick with the smell of blood and the lingering scent of high-end perfume, an eerie, suffocating mix.

Suddenly, the air in the center of the banquet hall rippled, and translucent waves surged forth. The Sea Elf, clutching the envelope, jumped out, only to be startled into covering its mouth at the sight before it. Its gaze swept over the dead bodies, then quickly darted to the figure standing among them, its small face filled with unease.

Sara stood beside the marquis's corpse, dressed in a black tailcoat, a few specks of blood on his cuffs, his face cold and stern. His eyes, usually full of warmth, were now icy. Hearing the noise, he slowly turned around.

Only then did the Sea Elf notice that a trickle of blood was dripping from his slender fingers, landing precisely on the envelope he was handed, leaving a small dark red stain.

"My letter?" Sara's voice was still soft, but it lacked its usual tenderness, carrying a metallic sharpness instead. He took the envelope, his fingers unconsciously tracing the sealing wax—Evan's crest, one he had carved for him.

The Sea Elf's gaze quickly swept the room. The portraits of nobles on the walls were slashed beyond recognition, the armor in the corner stained with blood. What was once a castle of power and luxury now felt like a cage shrouded in death. The Sea Elf dared not linger any longer. It gave Sara a hasty wave, then turned and dove back into the void's waves, not even daring to say goodbye, the waves closing three times faster than when it arrived, as if a flood were chasing it.

Sara paid no attention to the Sea Elf's hasty retreat. He glanced indifferently at the corpses, his gaze resting on the marquis's face without a flicker of emotion.

This old fool, who had once mocked him openly in court, the staunchest supporter of the First Prince, had been strutting around at a palace banquet just a month ago. Now, he lay dead like a dog on the floor.

A slit throat—the blood would drain, the breath would stop. So-called "power and status" meant nothing in the face of death.

He raised his hand and wiped the blood from his fingers with his sleeve, but he didn't wipe the stain off the envelope—that dark red mark was like a flower blooming on the kraft paper.

Sara walked to the window, pushed aside the heavy velvet curtains, and looked out at the deep night. From beyond the castle walls came the footsteps of patrolling soldiers—his men.

He tore open the envelope, unfolded the letter, and Evan's familiar handwriting met his eyes. When he saw the codename "Thornbird," a faint warmth finally flickered in his cold eyes. His fingers gently brushed over the line "For the light of advancement, to light the voyage back to your side," and a faint smile curled at the corner of his lips. "I'll wait for you," he whispered, his voice echoing in the empty banquet hall, mingling with the distant wind. The corpses on the floor remained cold, but the letter in his hand carried the warmth of the sea crossing, becoming the only light in this blood-soaked castle.