Chapter 215

Chapter 215

After carefully storing the Assassin Puppet in a velvet drawstring bag, Evan's gaze fell on the remaining materials on the workbench: a palm-sized piece of maple wood scrap, a few tiny brass joints, and some thin wood shavings. These materials were insufficient to make another large puppet, but discarding them would be a waste. He pondered for a moment and had an idea—in combat, besides frontal fighting strength, reconnaissance was equally important. Why not use these leftover materials to create two small reconnaissance puppets: one for aerial surveillance and one for ground infiltration?

"I'll make a butterfly and a mouse," Evan muttered to himself. The butterfly, light and agile, was suitable for circling in the air without being easily noticed; the mouse, adept at burrowing, could sneak into tight spaces to gather secret information. Together, they could cover most reconnaissance scenarios. He readjusted the workbench, turning the energy of the spiritual stability array to its lowest setting—small puppets didn't require strong spiritual infusion, with the focus being on concealment and flexibility.

Evan first picked up the maple wood scrap and split it into two thin wooden slices with his finest carving knife, which would serve as the butterfly's wings. He channeled a trace of Supernatural Factor from within, letting it seep into the wood through the blade, coating the slices like a faint sheen on thin ice. This not only enhanced the wood's toughness but also gave it a translucent quality. Then, using polishing tools, he smoothed and rounded the edges of the slices, carving fine vein patterns on them with the knife. He embedded extremely thin brass wires into the veins, which served both as structural support and as conduits for spiritual energy, allowing the wings to flap flexibly.

The butterfly's body was carved from a remaining piece of solid maple wood, no larger than a fingernail. Evan reserved a tiny space inside the body to embed three miniature brass joints, connecting the head, thorax, and abdomen, ensuring the butterfly could adjust its flight posture flexibly. The most crucial part was the sensory node—he infused a condensed strand of Supernatural Factor into the butterfly's head, forming a miniature spiritual perception device. This acted like a pair of all-seeing eyes for the butterfly, transmitting images and sounds from the surrounding environment to his mind through a spiritual link.

After completing the wings, Evan used special fish glue to attach them to the body, securing them with brass wires as fine as hair. He then cut the polished thin wood shavings into tiny scale shapes and pasted them onto the butterfly's wings, not only adding realism but also refracting light during flight to further reduce the chance of detection. Finally, he dyed the butterfly's wings a light blue with a few black spots, making it indistinguishable from ordinary butterflies in nature. When resting on flowers or branches, it could almost perfectly blend into the environment.

"Buzz—" Evan infused a trace of spiritual energy into his fingertip, and the butterfly's wings began to flap gently, emitting a faint but steady sound, just like a real butterfly. It circled in the air with a light and agile posture, its flight path smooth. Under Evan's mental control, it could even precisely land on a screw at the edge of the workbench, its small size astonishing. Evan nodded with satisfaction. This butterfly reconnaissance puppet, with a wingspan of only three inches and weighing next to nothing, would hardly attract attention in flight, making it an excellent aerial reconnaissance tool.

Next came the mouse puppet. Evan selected a denser piece of maple wood scrap and carved out the mouse's body contour—small in size, with sturdy limbs and a long, slender tail, overall streamlined for easy movement through narrow spaces. He embedded miniature brass joints in the limbs, allowing the claws to grip and climb flexibly, even enabling vertical movement along walls. The mouse's head was carved with exceptional detail, its eyes being two small black agate beads. Not only were they lifelike, but they also served as auxiliary sensory nodes for spiritual perception, enhancing the reconnaissance range.

To make the mouse puppet more suitable for ground infiltration, Evan installed a small silencing device in its abdomen—a tiny spring wrapped in soft flannel that could cancel out noise generated during movement, making it nearly silent when walking or running. On its back, he designed a small, openable hidden compartment that could hold a tiny piece of parchment and a charcoal pencil, useful for conveying simple written messages when necessary. Similarly, he infused Supernatural Factor into the puppet's head, establishing a spiritual link connected to that of the butterfly puppet, ensuring synchronized transmission of reconnaissance information from both.

The mouse puppet's fur was dyed dark brown, and its fur was made from fine velvet thread glued on, soft to the touch and visually almost indistinguishable from a real mouse. Evan tested its climbing ability. With a thought, the mouse puppet quickly climbed up the workbench's leg, its claws gripping firmly and movements agile. It could even pause on the side of the leg to observe its surroundings. Its tail could flexibly swing to maintain balance, allowing it to turn around nimbly in narrow gaps.

After completing the two reconnaissance puppets, Evan placed them in the palm of his hand. The butterfly perched on his fingertip, its wings gently flapping, emitting a faint blue glow; the mouse curled up in his palm, its small head turning slightly, its black agate eyes seemingly observing the surroundings, looking somewhat endearing. But no one would imagine that these two seemingly insignificant little puppets were reconnaissance tools capable of venturing into dangerous situations and transmitting crucial intelligence. They didn't need strong attack power; concealment and perception were their sharpest "weapons."

Evan once again mobilized his spiritual energy to test the reconnaissance functions of the two puppets. He sent the butterfly puppet flying out of the workshop, circling in the air, and immediately received clear images in his mind—the corridor was empty, footsteps of a servant could be heard in the distance, and even fragments of conversations among Supernaturals in the hall were faintly audible. Meanwhile, the mouse puppet slipped out through the crack under the door, scurrying through corners of the corridor, able to clearly perceive spiritual fluctuations in the surroundings and even distinguish subtle sounds coming from behind different doors.

"Perfect." Evan was overjoyed.

The performance of these two reconnaissance puppets far exceeded his expectations. With them, when taking on future missions, he could scout enemy situations in advance and avoid risks, no longer being caught off guard like on the Eleventh Island until the natives launched a rebellion. The Assassin Puppet handled frontal combat, while the butterfly and mouse handled reconnaissance and early warning. The three complemented each other, undoubtedly elevating his combat capabilities to a new level.

He found two small velvet pouches, placing the butterfly and mouse puppets inside respectively, tying the openings tightly with thin cords for easy carrying. Then Evan put these three puppets into his handbag. After finishing all this, only a few tiny wood shavings and copper filings remained on the workbench. Evan cleaned up the waste, checked all his tools once more to ensure nothing was left behind.

By now, the rental time for the workshop was nearing its end. The moonlight stone wall lamps on the walls still emitted a soft glow, and the faint blue light of the spiritual stability array gradually dimmed.

Evan picked up his handbag, feeling a surge of confidence. From the initial three rough wooden puppets to now one deadly Assassin Puppet and two efficient reconnaissance puppets, he had finally assembled a complete set of supernatural puppet equipment.

Evan took one last look at the familiar workshop, then turned and left the room.

Leaving the workshop, Evan descended the spiral wooden staircase from the third floor, stepping into the first-floor lobby of the "Palm Leaf" Supernatural Club. Night had just fallen over the streets of the Twelfth Island, and the club's nightlife was just beginning, so the lobby was quite lively. The dim wall lamps bathed the space in warm tones, and the air was mixed with the rich aroma of malt liquor, the faint haze of spiritual tobacco, and the subtle energy fluctuations from the Supernaturals present.

Dozens of low-level Supernaturals were gathered in groups of twos and threes on leather sofas or around corner tables, most dressed in practical action wear with short blades, badges, or various supernatural tools at their waists. They whispered among themselves, occasional fragmented words drifting into earshot, such as "Eleventh Island," "Evil God," "Island Lockdown," drawing frequent sidelong glances from the crowd, their eyes mixed with wariness and curiosity.

Evan casually swept his gaze across the room, pausing briefly on the whispering groups, then walked straight toward the solid wood bar in the center of the lobby, his steps steady, completely unaffected by the surrounding commotion.

"A beer, with ice." Evan slapped a shiny silver crown onto the oak bar counter, the metal striking the wood with a crisp sound.

The bartender behind the counter was not the one Evan had seen when he entered. He was a burly man with a thick beard, currently wiping a glass. He glanced up at Evan, then at the silver crown, and skillfully turned to draw a glass of iced beer from the keg. The glass was beaded with fine moisture and garnished with a fresh slice of lemon.

He slid the beer steadily in front of Evan, the glass scraping softly against the counter.

"Enjoy, sir." The bartender's voice carried the hoarseness of long service. He then lowered his head to continue wiping the glass, but kept an eye on Evan's movements with his peripheral vision.

Evan's fingers curled around the cold beer glass, bringing it to his lips for a sip. The refreshing malt flavor mixed with the icy sensation slid down his throat, instantly dispelling the fatigue from puppet-making.

He set the glass down, tapped his knuckles lightly on the counter, looked up at the bartender, and with a meaningful glance at the still-whispering Supernaturals, asked in a low voice, "Any news?"

The bartender stopped wiping his glass, leaned closer to Evan, and lowered his voice as if afraid of being overheard: "It's not exactly a secret; it's all over the circle. The natives on the Eleventh Island went mad, holding a ritual to summon an Evil God. Luckily, the Three Major Churches reacted quickly and suppressed it in time. I heard the Evil God's avatar didn't even successfully descend, but the ritual still caused chaos, and the island was contaminated with divine pollution. The Empire has ordered a six-month lockdown on the Eleventh Island, no one in or out."

Evan's fingers rubbed against the cold glass wall. After listening to the bartender's words, he nodded slightly—he knew well that with his Sequence 8 strength, he didn't even qualify to stand on the sidelines in the struggle between the Evil God and the Three Major Churches. Being able to safely escort Gray and his family out was already a stroke of luck. He drained the remaining beer in one gulp, the cold drink washing away his last fears about the Eleventh Island. He looked up at the bartender and asked calmly, "Any missions on the Thirteenth Island?"

The bartender paused in his glass-wiping, raised an eyebrow at him, then turned and bent down to pull out a thick, kraft paper-covered mission ledger from an iron cabinet inside the bar—its cover was worn and fuzzy, the edges curled, clearly frequently thumbed through.

He flipped it open with a "rustle," his finger tracing across the yellowed pages, stopping at one entry: "The Thirteenth Island? Folks call it Pearl Island. There are a few long-term stationed missions. If you have water-based supernatural abilities and can stay in the deep sea for a long time, pearl diving is the most stable job—the coral reefs around the island are full of pearl oysters. Fill a basket, and you get paid per batch."

When mentioning "Pearl Island," the bartender's tone unconsciously carried a note of understanding: That place wasn't just an island; it was a long chain embedded in the sea—dozens of small coral islands linked together like broken jade strung by the waves, hence called a long-chain island group. The coral reefs there were dense enough to wrap around half the bay, the water so clear you could see the oyster beds a hundred meters below. The natives were few and far between, having retreated to the deepest small islands when the Empire's fleet landed, rarely interacting with outsiders.

In the first year of occupying the place, the Empire sent people to set up over twenty pearl farms among the coral reefs, enclosing the best pearl oysters with special metal nets, and even assigned specially assigned water-type Supernaturals to monitor the water quality.

Once the pearls inside the oysters grew round and lustrous, special transport ships would carry these white, pink, and pale gold pearls, along with colorful coral branches and uniquely patterned large shells, back to the mainland. In the Empire's capital jewelry workshops, the pearls would be strung into necklaces, mounted in crowns, the coral carved into decorative pieces, and even the shells polished into buttons for nobles' clothes. Each item sold for hundreds or thousands of gold coins, all flowing into the royal treasury. It's no exaggeration to call it the Empire's "sea moneybag."

The bartender leaned closer again, tapping his finger next to the "Deep-Sea Pearl Diving" entry on the mission sheet, lowering his voice even more: "But if you want to make real money, you have to dive deep—the pearls from the shallow-water farms are just filler for ordinary nobles. The 'Deep-Sea Night Pearls' that can make the royal family pay top dollar are all hidden in coral ravines a hundred meters down. The water pressure there can crush a copper diving bell like a tin can, the currents are fierce and unpredictable, and if you're not careful, you'll be swept into reef crevices. There are also glowing venomous jellyfish and deep-sea crabs with crushing bites. An ordinary person couldn't last half a breath down there. And the best pearl oysters grow in the folds of the reefs; you'd need supernatural abilities to handle the pressure and clear away the toxic coral polyps to get to those round beads wrapped in soft light—some pearls have been soaking in the deep sea for over a decade, carrying the cold spiritual energy of the seabed. Worn as a string, they can help you sleep peacefully. The royal ladies and noblewomen would fight over one."

This was the origin of the long-term pearl diving mission on the Thirteenth Island—the royal family held onto this "sea moneybag," wanting top-tier pearls to flaunt, but the Empire's directly assigned Supernaturals were either sent to suppress colonial rebellions or guarding supernatural rifts on the mainland, leaving no one to permanently station on Pearl Island.

So the Night Watchmen's branch posted this job at supernatural clubs on various islands, making it available to freelance Supernaturals: as long as you could harvest deep-sea pearls over an inch in diameter, you'd be paid per pearl. A single "Night Pearl" could fetch fifty gold coins, and if it had spiritual properties, the price could triple.

And this mission was one of the only legal ways for outsiders to set foot on Pearl Island—after all, it was the royal family's private property, usually guarded ten times more strictly than the Eleventh Island. Without a mission pass, you couldn't even get near the dock's barbed wire fence.

Evan tapped his fingers on the counter without thinking.

He thought for a moment, eyes downcast: The risk of this mission wasn't too bad. Though the deep sea was dangerous, as a Sequence 8 Puppeteer, his spiritual energy could handle the water pressure for short bursts. If necessary, he could even send the scout puppets ahead to check things out, avoiding undercurrents and toxic corals. More importantly, by taking this mission, he could obtain a credential stamped with the Night Watchmen's seal, allowing him to land on the island legally.

He looked up at the bartender and tapped the counter with his knuckles: "I'll take this job. What's the process?"

The bartender's eyes brightened. He quickly pulled out a contract with silver trim from behind the bar and slid it in front of Evan—the paper had the bronze seal of the Twelfth Island Night Watchmen's branch, with clear terms: "Pearls harvested belong to the royal family; Supernaturals assume deep-sea risks; each qualified pearl settled in cash."

Evan scanned it, quickly signed his alias "Thornbird," folded the contract, and tucked it into his inner pocket.

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Author's note: Please add to collection.