Chapter 216

Chapter 216

Evan carefully stowed the contract away, his fingertips brushing against the cool paper in his pocket—with this document stamped with the Night Watchmen’s emblem, he could board an official imperial vessel to the 13th Island, saving himself the trouble of finding a private sailboat and ensuring a safer, more reliable journey. The bartender had already informed him that, to balance efficiency with the special requirements of transporting royal assets, the official ship to Pearl Island departed promptly at nine o’clock each evening from Dock 13, and never late.

He grabbed a simple dinner in the club’s dining hall.

The dining area had fewer patrons than the main hall, mostly Supernaturals who had just completed tasks or were preparing to set out, their tables covered with roasted meat, bread, and thick soup, the aroma wafting through the air.

Evan ordered a portion of roast lamb chops and vegetable soup. The lamb was charred on the outside and tender within, sprinkled with fine herbs, while the soup was warm and hearty, perfectly replenishing the energy he had expended crafting his puppets.

He ate slowly, all the while quietly listening in on conversations at neighboring tables—mostly about task rewards across the islands and the prices of supernatural materials. Occasionally, someone mentioned the pearl-diving business on Pearl Island, noting that the “night pearl” yield from the deep sea had been pretty good lately, though some Supernaturals had encountered unknown deep-sea creatures while diving, a detail he tucked away in his mind.

After dinner, night had fully enveloped the Twelfth Island. Evan picked up his handbag and stepped out of the club. The streets were much quieter than during the day, with only a few shops still lit. The sea breeze, salty and damp, swept in, mingling with the distant sound of harbor horns.

He followed the route he remembered. The street lamps cast dim, yellowish shadows, stretching his shadow long as his steps steady and sure.

Fifteen minutes later, Dock 13 came into view. Unlike the bustle of other docks, this one was exceptionally quiet. At the entrance stood a large wooden sign, painted in red with the clear number “13,” beside it engraved with the imperial royal crest—understated yet imposing.

The dock fence was wrought iron, entwined with wires that hummed with spiritual energy—clearly meant to deter unauthorized entry, as this dock served vessels transporting royal jewelry and supplies, or private island shuttles, with security far exceeding that of ordinary docks.

Two guards in imperial military uniforms stood at the entrance, swords at their hips, their eyes sharp, scanning everyone who came near.

Evan stepped forward and handed over his pearl-diving contract. The guard took it, carefully examined the seal and signature, then gave Evan a scrutinizing look. Satisfied, he stepped aside and warned in a stern tone, “Follow the rules once you're on board. The left side of the cabin is for Supernaturals. Stay away from the right-side cargo hold and the helm.”

“Understood.” Evan nodded, took back his contract, and walked into the dock.

The dock floor was smooth bluestone, damp from seawater, glistening slightly. In the distance, a medium-sized sailing ship was moored, its hull a deep brown, sails furled, the imperial flag fluttering gently from the mast in the night breeze. The ship was sturdier than the “Seagull” he had taken before, with protective railings along the sides. Several crew members were making final pre-departure checks on deck, moving quick and professional.

Unlike the messy jumble of boats at other docks, the berths here were neatly arranged. Besides this ship bound for Pearl Island, a small yacht was moored nearby, its hull gleaming—clearly a vessel reserved for royal family members or high-ranking officials.

The entire dock was free of loiterers, only uniformed crew and guards, giving off a strict, serious vibe. Evan walked up the ramp, where a crew member verified his contract and directed him to the Supernatural-exclusive cabin area. The cabin was clean and neat, with small private cubicles, each containing a bed and a small table, enough for one person to rest.

Evan chose a cubicle by a porthole, placed his handbag on the table, and pushed open the window. The night sea breeze rushed in, heavy with the smell of brine. The distant sea merged with the dark sky, only a few stars dotting the blackness, with faint lights from other docks visible far off.

He lay back on the bed, tapping his fingers lightly on the table, his mind picturing the outline of Pearl Island. A chain of islands, vast coral reefs, deep-sea pearl beds, and unknown marine creatures—but he wasn't scared, just excited. His new Assassin Puppet and reconnaissance puppet would finally get some real use.

He closed his eyes, regulated his breathing, and started quietly recovering his spiritual energy, preparing for the upcoming pearl-diving task and any dangers that might arise.

At exactly nine o’clock, the horn sounded. The ship pulled out slowly from Dock 13, cutting through the waves toward the 13th Island. The ship swayed gently, the waves against the hull steady and calming.

Evan leaned by the porthole and suddenly noticed, on the starboard side of the sea, a warship with a commanding silhouette staying alongside them—its hull pitch-black, fitted with heavy metal armor, the Imperial Navy flag at its mast. Soldiers stood on deck, rifles in hand, scanning the surrounding waters with solemn expressions, the gun barrels glinting coldly.

“A warship escort,” Evan thought to himself. Pearl Island was the royal “money bag,” so ships transporting pearls and coral were naturally high-priority targets, warranting such protection. This also underscored the island’s importance and the empire’s tight control over it.

Perhaps thanks to the escort, the voyage was exceptionally smooth.

The sea was calm, only the rhythmic sound of oars and the gentle slap of waves against the hull. Evan rested with his eyes closed, occasionally channeling a thread of spiritual energy to check the three puppets in his arms—the Assassin Puppet lay quietly in its velvet pouch, while the butterfly and mouse puppets rested in a silk bag, their spiritual links stable, no anomalies.

The three-hour journey passed in a flash. At midnight exactly, the ship glided into a sea area illuminated by a lighthouse. On the distant sea, a tall lighthouse stood atop a reef, its searchlight beam piercing the darkness like a giant’s eye, sweeping across the water, revealing hidden reefs and channels.

Guided by the beam, the ship docked smoothly at a tiny pier. “All Supernaturals heading to Pearl Island, disembark in order and follow the guide to the checkpoint!” a crew member shouted from the deck.

Evan grabbed his canvas bag and followed a few other Supernaturals down the gangplank. Beneath his feet was a small island, only about twenty square meters, barren except for a crude wooden hut and a low fence. Several guards in black uniforms with royal crests stood at the hut’s entrance, their eyes sharp as eagles.

“Enter for inspection,” a guard said expressionlessly, pointing to the hut.

Evan stepped inside. The hut was empty, save for two guards responsible for the search.

“Remove all items for inspection,” one guard ordered.

Evan complied, emptying his handbag onto the floor: clothes, leftover materials for puppet-making, tools, his money pouch, and the pearl-diving contract.

The guards carefully examined each item. When they saw the three puppets, they merely glanced and moved on—to them, these were just ordinary toys, no threat.

But when Evan produced his spatial storage pouch and the firearm at his waist, the guards’ expressions turned serious. “Spatial storage device and firearms are to be temporarily confiscated. Retrieve them upon departure with your contract.” The guard placed the pouch and gun into a numbered iron box, sealed it with tape. “On royal territory, such items are prohibited to prevent the concealment of pearls or coral.”

Evan raised no objection, nodding obediently.

He knew that on royal ground, he had to follow their rules. In the end, he was only allowed to keep the three puppets, a short blade at his side, the gold coins in his pouch, and the pearl-diving contract.

Exiting the hut, the other Supernaturals had also completed their searches, each having had some items confiscated. A guide in gray cloth, with sun-darkened skin, approached, counted them, and said, “Follow me. We’ll take a wooden boat to Moon Island.”

The guide led them to a simple wooden boat, rowed by two oarsmen, heading toward a nearby island. Standing on the boat, Evan used the lighthouse beam to make out the island’s shape—it curved like a crescent moon, lying quietly on the sea. That was “Moon Island,” as the guide called it.

After over ten minutes, the boat docked at Moon Island’s shore. The island was brightly lit, with scattered houses visible. The guide led them up a stone path along the coast, speaking in a low, stern voice: “Listen up. Every pearl, every piece of coral, every shell here belongs to the Sala Empire’s royal family. Concealment is strictly forbidden. If caught, you’ll forfeit all your harvest, be expelled from the island, and banned for life from any royal territory.”

He paused, then continued, “You can stay on Moon Island for ten days. Any pearls you collect can be exchanged for gold at the royal collection point on the island. The higher the grade, the higher the price. There are inns, bars, and restaurants here—take care of your own needs at your own expense.”

Evan looked around. The buildings on Moon Island were mostly low wooden houses, lining the coast. In the distance, figures moved along the streets—mostly pearl-diving Supernaturals like him, along with some native islanders and royal-appointed administrators.

The air was thick with the salty sea breeze, mingled with faint seafood and alcohol smells, giving the place more of a lively atmosphere than the Twelfth Island’s dock, yet tinged with an invisible oppression—the strict, solemn weight of royal control.

“Alright, disperse as you wish.” With that, the guide turned and returned to the wooden boat. Evan stood still, clutching his three puppets, his gaze sweeping over the island’s surroundings.