Chapter 205

Chapter 205

Another tall, sturdy native furrowed his brow, responding in the same dialect with a tone of urgency and hesitation. The thin native shook his head, making a strange snake-like gesture over his chest. The other three, seeing this, instantly turned solemn.

They exchanged a few more hushed words, no extra moves, just exchanging a few looks, then parted ways, acting as if they didn't know each other, ambling slowly toward the thatched shacks. They made no sound at all, their steps as light as shadows melting into the night.

In the main house, the dining room was brightly lit. The long table was laden with a lavish dinner: roasted lamb chops sizzling and giving off a rich aroma; golden creamy mushroom soup steaming hot; alongside fresh fruit salad and delicate desserts. Marcus sat at the head of the table, chatting with Lillian about funny stories from the estate, while maids moved about, politely refilling their wine and serving food.

"Try this roasted lamb chop—it's from goats raised on the island, very tender," Marcus said, handing Lillian a cut piece, his tone doting.

Lillian smiled, took it, and nibbled, her face showing satisfaction. The dining room was warm and cozy, a stark contrast to the dark, squalid estate outside. Evan and Laura sat at the other end of the table, eating simply, but their eyes constantly scanning the doors, windows, and stairways, never letting their guard down.

Meanwhile, in the native quarters at the edge of the estate, those low thatched huts told a different story. Seventy native laborers crammed into a large communal bed, the thatched floor damp and cold, the air thick with a weird mix of sweat, dirt, and mildew. Instead of sleeping, the natives sat quietly on their bedding, all eyes fixed on the far corner of the room.

In that corner sat an older middle-aged native.

He wore the same tattered coarse clothes as the others, but his vibe was completely different—his hair was graying, his face deeply lined, yet his eyes shone like stars in the dark night, giving off a calm authority that demanded respect. He said nothing, just sat still, hands on his knees, palms up, as if waiting for something.

The four natives who had gathered in the sugarcane field now stood before him, bent low, reporting in a hushed, obscure dialect.

The other natives held their breath, staring at the middle-aged native with reverence, not daring to make a sound. The whole room was eerily quiet, broken only by the occasional chirping of insects outside and the snoring from the overseers' huts.

After hearing the report, the middle-aged native nodded slowly and stood up.

His movements were slow but carried an unspoken authority. The seated natives immediately stood, bowing their heads together, hands over their chests, making the same snake gesture as the thin native earlier, and began chanting ancient spells in low voices. The chants were obscure and deep, like calls from a distant age, echoing in the cramped thatched hut.

The middle-aged native walked to the center of the room, raised his hand to signal for silence. He glanced around, his gaze sweeping over every native's face, finally resting on the four who had reported, and spoke in a low, forceful dialect: "The blessing of the Feathered Serpent God is coming. Tonight, we'll make a sacrifice to the gods, praying for freedom and justice."

His voice wasn't loud, but it reached everyone clearly, carrying an unshakable determination.

The natives' bodies trembled—not from fear, but from excitement and devotion. They nodded vigorously, their eyes blazing with passion.

"At midnight, meet at the serpent-stone altar in the back mountain of the estate," the middle-aged native continued, his tone still low. "Remember, stay quiet the whole time, don't tip off the white men. During the ritual, no matter what you hear or see, don't panic—just pray with all your heart."

"Yes!" all the natives replied in unison, their voices barely a whisper but full of shared determination.

The middle-aged native nodded in satisfaction, sat back down, closed his eyes, and began to pray softly, hands clasped. The other natives went back to their bedding, closed their eyes, and joined in the chanting.

The communal bed fell silent once more, only the low murmur of chants flowing through the air like a hidden undercurrent, quietly surging toward the stroke of midnight.

In the main house's dining room, dinner was nearing its end. Lillian was nibbling on dessert, while Marcus briefed Evan and Laura on the night's security arrangements: "There will be patrol guards around the estate tonight. You two just need to keep an eye on the main house's vicinity. If anything unusual happens, notify me directly."

"Understood," Evan replied, his gaze again drifting to the darkness outside the window. He could sense something brewing in that darkness, a vague unease creeping into his heart.

The midnight bell echoed faintly twelve times deep within the estate, breaking the night's silence before fading into the wind. No lamp was lit in Evan's room; the only light came from the full moon outside—unusually bright tonight, its silver radiance pouring like water over the estate's stone paths, rooftops, and through the wide-open window, casting dappled shadows on the floor.

He stood by the window, his figure as straight as a pine, the hem of his shirt fluttering gently in the night breeze.

Leaving the window open was no oversight but deliberate—as a Sequence 8 Puppeteer, his spiritual perception was keen, and the open window allowed him to catch any unusual sounds from the estate, whether rustling leaves or footsteps hidden in the dark.

His gaze crossed the main house's courtyard, settling on the distant fields. The lush vineyards and sugarcane fields of the day were now shrouded in deep darkness, reduced to blurry silhouettes, like a beast lurking in the night, silent and oppressive.

No lights remained in the estate—neither the main house, the overseers' wooden huts, nor the natives' thatched huts—all plunged into total darkness. Even the patrol guards were nowhere to be seen; at this hour, nearly everyone in the estate was deep asleep, and even the most vigilant guard might let their guard down during the long night watch.

The wind blew in through the window, carrying the night's chill and the fresh scent of earth and plants.

The moonlight was bright, the night calm, everything seeming peaceful and serene, as if this estate had never known class divides or hidden resentment. But the more tranquil it seemed, the stronger Evan's unease grew, like a heavy cloud pressing on his heart.

He narrowed his eyes slightly, his fingers unconsciously rubbing the spirit medium spider-silk pouch in his sleeve—one of his most handy materials since becoming a Puppeteer, capable of forming control threads with a mere thought.

The scenes from the day's estate inspection flashed through his mind like a lantern show.

Evan's spiritual perception spread quietly, like an invisible net covering the area around the main house.

He could clearly hear the rustling of leaves in the wind, a few faint insect chirps in the distance, and the steady breathing from Laura's room nearby—clearly, she too hadn't fully relaxed, just conserving energy. But beyond that, he caught no unusual footsteps, conversations, or even sounds from the native quarters—only even breathing, as if all the natives were fast asleep.

"Too quiet," Evan muttered to himself, frowning. This silence wasn't the peace of a normal night, but the tension before a storm.

Seventy strong-bodied natives, harboring such deep resentment—how could they truly be this docile?

He looked up at the full moon, its silver light still bright but unable to pierce the darkness of the distant fields. Evan could feel something stirring in that darkness, gathering toward some direction.

And his unease grew stronger, as if danger was rapidly approaching, yet hidden in the shadows, eluding his precise grasp.

Evan didn't act rashly. He knew that without a clear target or evidence, startling the enemy would only alert them.

Before Evan's unease could subside, dozens of slender black figures silently emerged from the darkness of the distant fields.

The seventy native laborers moved like trained hunters, shedding the day's fatigue and numbness, their forms light as they wove through the shadows of the sugarcane field, their steps on the soft earth making no extra sound—all were able-bodied men aged fifteen to thirty, their endurance and agility honed by years of labor now turned into blades of action.

Leading them was the slightly elderly middle-aged native, holding a hollowed-out gourd stuffed with herb-soaked cotton, emitting a faint green mist.

This was a sleeping agent passed down through native tribes, made from mandrake flowers and deep-sea algae, odorless and colorless, dispersing in the wind. Inhaling even a little would induce deep coma, lasting three full hours.

He gestured, and several natives dispersed, creeping toward the wooden huts where the ten white overseers lived.

The overseers' huts were simple but spacious, a dim oil lamp still burning inside, with occasional heavy snoring audible. The natives held their breath, carefully circling to the window, prying it open slightly with a knife, and aimed the gourd at the gap, pulling out the cotton.

The pale green sleeping mist slipped like a ghost into the room, spreading through cracks in the door and windows. The snoring inside gradually steadied, and the occasional shifting figures went still.

Confirming the sleeping agent had taken effect, the middle-aged native raised his hand, and the others stepped forward, silently pushing open the hut door and dragging out the unconscious white overseers one by one.

-----------------------

Author's note: Please bookmark, everyone support me!