Chapter 209

Chapter 209

The sailboat slowly pulled away from the dock, heading out to the open sea.

The Eleventh Island slowly shrank in the distance, until it was swallowed up by the blue sea and sky. The holy light at the dock, the bells and hymns from the heart of the island, faded away on the sea breeze. On the deck, the Gray family and their servants all breathed a sigh of relief, slumping onto the deck, grinning with relief at having made it out alive.

Marcus walked over to Evan and Laura, bowed deeply and said earnestly: "Mr. Evan, Miss Laura, we really owe you one. Without you, we never would've gotten out of here safely. Our family will never forget your kindness."

"Mr. Gray, you're too kind. It's our job," Evan nodded slightly. "Glad we could get you out safe."

Marcus pulled out a heavy pouch of coins and handed it to Evan: "This is the agreed payment, plus a little extra as a token of my thanks."

Evan didn't argue. He took the pouch, opened it, and peeked inside—it was stuffed with gleaming gold coins, twice what they'd agreed on. He nodded to Marcus: "Thank you, Mr. Gray."

Lillian came up to Evan and Laura with a bright, innocent smile: "Mr. Evan, Miss Laura, thanks for keeping me safe. Even though it was scary, I learned a ton."

"You're welcome, Miss," Laura said, her tone softening. "Take care of yourself from now on, okay?"

The sea breeze, salty and damp, ruffled everyone's hair. The sailboat glided smoothly across the water, and the sun rose in the east, spilling golden light across the water, making it shimmer like scattered gold. In the distance, a few seagulls wheeled and called out sharply.

After the harrowing escape, this quiet moment felt especially precious.

Evan leaned against the railing, letting the breeze wash over him, his tension finally melting away. He opened the pouch, eyed the gold coins, and smiled—the mission had been risky, but the payout was solid.

As for what happened to the Eleventh Island, he didn't give a damn. That was the Church's and the Empire's problem. He was just a hired Supernatural—do the job, get paid, and move on. That was his life.

The sailboat continued across the sea, heading toward the Twelfth Island.

The sea and sky blended together, the horizon wide open. The earlier danger and tension slowly faded with the sea breeze, leaving only peace and comfort.

The next morning, sunlight poured through the inn's window, painting warm patches on the wooden floor.

When Evan walked into the inn, the owner, polishing glasses behind the counter, greeted him with a smile: "Mr. Evan, you're back! How'd the job go?"

"Pretty smooth, just tired," Evan's voice was a little tired, but his face showed the relief of a job well done. He nodded and headed straight to his room without another word.

Once the door was shut, Evan's first move was to set the heavy pouch of Gold Sala on the nightstand. Its weight gave him a sense of security.

Then he stripped off his dusty, bloodstained cloak and coat, tossing them onto a chair, and walked to the wooden bathtub in the corner. The inn's servant had hot water ready, just as he'd asked, and steam filled the room with a faint lavender smell.

Evan sank into the warm water. The heat wrapped around him, and his fatigue seemed to melt away. He leaned back against the tub, closed his eyes, and let out a long sigh.

From the moment he'd boarded that sailboat to escort Lillian, dangerous scenes flashed through his mind: the brutal fight with skeletons in the Sea of the Dead, the tensions at Gray Manor, the natives' dark god ritual, and the ambushes on the way out.

Even though he'd finished the job and his wallet was fat, the thought of nearly facing a dark god sent a chill down his spine.

He never imagined a simple escort job could turn into such a mess.

The strong but pitiful natives, the fanatics summoning a dark god, and the deep-seated class and racial oppression lurking in the Empire's colonies—it all weighed on him.

As a hired Supernatural, all he could do was complete the mission and protect himself. But witnessing all this left him with mixed feelings.

After soaking for nearly an hour, until the water cooled, Evan got up, dried himself, and changed into a clean linen shirt and trousers.

His spirits had lifted, and most of his fatigue had dissipated.

He went downstairs to the inn's dining room and ordered a hearty lunch: a perfectly grilled steak, golden crispy fried potatoes, a fresh vegetable salad, and a pot of warm fruit wine.

For Evan, every letter to Sara was the most comforting solace during his travels. He was used to writing down all his experiences, grievances, and longing, entrusting them to that distant person.

After lunch, Evan returned to his room, retrieved letter paper, ink, and a quill from his bag.

He spread the paper on the table, lit the oil lamp, and its warm light gently illuminated the page. Picking up the quill, dipping it in ink, Evan paused for a moment. Sara's gentle features came to mind, and the heaviness and fatigue seemed to fade. He then began to write slowly, his words carrying an unconscious softness.

"Dear Sara,

I hope this letter finds you well. I've just completed an escort mission and am now sitting in an inn on the Twelfth Island, finally able to catch my breath. The danger of this mission far exceeded my expectations, so I wanted to share the experience with you.

This time, my employer was Mr. Marcus of Gray Manor. The task was to escort his daughter Lillian from the Twelfth Island to the manor on the Eleventh Island.

I thought it would be a simple cross-sea escort, but we encountered a skeleton attack in the Sea of the Dead. I thought things would settle down on the Eleventh Island, but I discovered a greater crisis hidden in Gray Manor. The natives had launched a rebellion and held a ritual to summon an evil god in the manor's backyard, offering the overseers as sacrifices to the so-called Feathered Serpent God. Fortunately, the Three Major Churches' orthodox churches suppressed the evil god's power.

This experience has given me a deeper understanding of the Empire's colonies.

You know, on the Eleventh Island, racial discrimination is everywhere.

White overseers can beat and scold natives at will, while natives lack even basic survival guarantees. Wherever the Empire expands its colonies, this oppression spreads. Although the Three Major Churches' orthodox churches follow the Empire to spread faith, they primarily serve to maintain imperial rule and don't genuinely care about the natives' plight.

I can't help but complain: the Empire's racial oppression policy is practically sowing the seeds of its own destruction.

Those natives don't lack the courage to resist—they just lack an opportunity. This evil god summoning ritual was their way of fighting back. Though the Church suppressed it this time, as long as this oppression persists, the natives' resentment won't dissipate. Similar incidents will inevitably happen again.

Perhaps next time, it won't be summoning a weak evil god. When that happens, the ones who suffer will still be ordinary colonists and innocent people.

I wonder how you've been lately? Is Backlund still stable? I long to hear from you and look forward to your reply.

Your Evan

Written at the Sea Breeze Inn, Twelfth Island. Awaiting your reply."

Putting down the quill, Evan carefully folded the letter paper, placed it in an envelope, and ran his fingers over the address he was about to write. A faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

He stretched, walked to the window, and looked out at the sunlight. The heaviness in his heart had completely dissipated—sharing his thoughts with someone he loved was a form of healing in itself.

Meanwhile, in a secluded street in the west of the Twelfth Island, inside an unremarkable stone building, the atmosphere was starkly different from the outside calm.

This was the Twelfth Island branch of the Sala Empire's Night Watchmen organization. The Night Watchmen were the Empire's official agency for handling supernatural affairs, from evil god descents to supernatural criminal activities—all under their jurisdiction.

Wherever the Empire's territory expanded, Night Watchmen branches were established, especially in colonies where supernatural incidents were frequent. Their presence was a vital pillar for maintaining order.

Inside the stone building, there was little decoration. The walls bore the Empire's emblem and the Night Watchmen's insignia—a bronze badge engraved with an ouroboros and a longsword, symbolizing "eternal vigilance."

In the center of the hall was a large oak table covered with detailed maps of the Twelfth Island and surrounding islands. Several Night Watchmen in black uniforms with badges at their waists gathered around the table, discussing something with grave expressions.

"Knock, knock, knock—" Urgent knocking broke the hall's silence.

"Come in!" a deep, authoritative voice responded. It was Cullen, the captain of the Twelfth Island Night Watchmen branch. He was tall, with a resolute face and a faint scar at the corner of his eye—a mark from a past battle with a supernatural evil.

A young Night Watchman pushed open the door, holding a sealed intelligence scroll, his expression urgent: "Captain! Urgent intelligence! An evil god summoning ritual occurred on the Eleventh Island. The Three Major Churches have intervened to suppress it. The intelligence was transmitted via encrypted channel by the Eleventh Island Night Watchman liaison!"

Author's Note: Please add to collection [Three Flower Cat Head]. The next bonus chapter will be when we reach 1,000 collections.

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