Chapter 223

Chapter 223

When Evan regained consciousness, the first thing he smelled was a faint disinfectant scent, mixed with the unique salty and damp smell of the sea breeze, chasing away the chill from the fog and the undead.

Evan slowly opened his eyes, and what came into view was a yellowed canvas curtain, rough in texture, dividing his area into a narrow single-person space.

He lay on a single bed with a thin cotton mattress; the bedding still held the warmth of sun-dried laundry. It was light on him, but it finally relaxed the nerves that had been tense for so long.

This was not his hotel room on Pearl Island.

He moved his fingers; his whole body ached, as if he'd been pounded by huge waves. The dull pain in his chest had not yet completely dissipated. Scenes flashed through his mind: the whirlpools in the deep sea, the ferocious ghost ships, Hill Bird's wild laughter, and the figures struggling in the seawater, finally swallowed by the dark.

He was still alive? He was incredibly lucky.

A wave of lingering fear washed over him. He instinctively touched his waist—all three dolls were still there, and the storage bag sat safely on the bedside table. The black pearls and the Gold Sala he'd traded for were still there.

"You awake?"

A nurse in a gray uniform lifted a corner of the curtain, saw him open his eyes, and said in a flat tone, "The Sea God Church drove off those two ghost ships, then the Royal Patrol fished you out after the fog cleared. They checked you for contraband and made sure you weren't mixed up with pirates, so they brought you here. Rest easy—you're not badly hurt, just exhausted and a little banged up."

With that quick rundown of what any patient would want to know, the nurse turned and left, her footsteps mingling with the low moans from around and gradually fading away.

Evan turned his head and looked outside through the gap in the curtain.

It was a makeshift hospital, set up in a few rows of wooden houses. The floor was covered with rough wooden planks, and at regular intervals hung canvas curtains identical to the one by his bed.

Many beds were occupied—mostly pearl divers and fishermen rescued along with him. Some were bandaged, some pale, emitting suppressed groans. The air, aside from disinfectant, carried a faint smell of blood and a heavy sense of despair.

He closed his eyes, and the terrifying image of the evil god's descent flashed through his mind, the twisted bodies corrupted by divine nature, the ghost ships emerging from the deep-sea whirlpool, and the weaker supernaturals crushed like ants.

A stark realization suddenly struck him: weak professionals were nothing but ants in the face of evil gods and powerful supernatural beings.

He'd survived on the Eleventh Island thanks to luck and his dolls; this time on Pearl Island, he'd escaped the two ghost ships' battle by relying on the rat doll he'd prepared and that sliver of caution.

If he'd run into a powerful undead like Hill Bird, or the full unleashed power of an evil god, he wouldn't have had a prayer.

Faced with absolute power, he was fragile and utterly vulnerable.

But that realization didn't push him into despair—it only made him treasure the peace he had right now.

At least he was still alive, could still feel the warmth of the sun, and still had the chance to write a letter letting them know he was safe. He turned to look at the small table by the bed, where the nurse had left some paper and a pen—rough paper and a charcoal pencil, both a little worn at the edges.

Evan propped himself up, leaned against the pillow at the head of the bed, and carefully picked up the paper and pencil. The charcoal pencil scratched across the rough paper, making a slight rustling sound, exceptionally distinct in this hospital filled with groans. His gaze softened, and in his mind appeared the figure of Sara.

"# To My Beloved

When the long night is lost in endless twilight,

You are the stars that crown my hair with light,

Each one a beacon of fate's design,

Leading me through the mist to a gentle harbor.

You are an angel kissing my lonely waste,

Your wings brush away all worldly strife,

Clear eyes filled with pure goodness,

Bringing a shattered heart back to its rest.

Or like the eternal sun burning through the cold,

Forging a changeless fire through the years,

Your love, like light and heat through the grime,

Burns away all fear and hesitation.

With stars as bones, an angel as soul, and the sun as your heart,

You are my immortal faith and pride in this life."

When he stopped writing, Evan's eyes were a little damp. He carefully folded the letter and placed it in the pocket close to his chest, near the position of his heart, where he could feel warmth, as if it connected him to Sara.

After doing this, he leaned back on the pillow and let out a long sigh. The groans around him still existed, but his state of mind had become extremely calm.

Deep in the hospital, in a makeshift office converted from a wooden house, the light was dimmer than in the ward. Rough wooden tables and chairs were placed in the center of the room, with a few record sheets and a quill scattered across the desk. A charcoal stove flickered weakly in the corner, but it didn't chase the chill away.

A short-haired woman slumped in the chair, her fluffy hair slightly messy. The dark circles under her eyes were heavy, like ink stains, clearly from staying up all night.

On the table in front of her, a crystal ball the size of a fist emitted a faint glow, with tiny specks of light drifting inside, swaying with her focus.

Her eyes were unfocused. Bored, she idly poked the crystal ball's surface with her fingertip. Where her finger passed, the light spots would briefly scatter and then quickly gather again.

"Knock, knock—" Two muffled knocks sounded, and without waiting for a response, a man in a crisp military uniform pushed the door open.

The silver insignia on his shoulder gleamed coldly in the dim light. His face was tense, his eyes sharp, and he carried a serious military aura around him, in stark contrast to the woman's laziness.

The man walked straight to the table, his gaze sweeping over the crystal ball. He spoke in a deep voice, in a tone that left no room for argument: "Have all the rescued people been monitored? Did anyone make any unusual moves, or try to send any suspicious information?"

By "abnormality," he meant contact signals related to pirates and ghost ships—after all, the ghost ship incident was too unusual, and the Royal Patrol was wary of any leftover agents hiding among the survivors.

Upon hearing this, the short-haired woman slowly raised her head and gave the man a big eye roll. Her tone was lazy, thick with fatigue: "I've been monitoring all night. What abnormality could there be?"

She pointed at the crystal ball on the table, "These guys are either moaning from their injuries, staring blankly out of fear, or dead tired like us, just wanting to crash. Not to mention sending messages, most of them don't even have the energy to speak."

The man frowned slightly, clearly not completely satisfied with this answer: "Are you sure there are no omissions? Even the slightest movement can't be overlooked. After all, those undead pirates have treacherous methods; no one can say for sure whether they left behind any agents."

"Rest assured, my perception covers the entire temporary hospital. Even a mosquito buzzing by—I'd feel the vibration of its wings." The short-haired woman yawned, tears from exhaustion welling up at the corners of her eyes, "If there's any 'unusual' thing, there is one."

The man's eyes sharpened, and he took half a step forward: "What unusual move?"

"It's not really a move." The woman waved her hand, her tone turning slightly playful, "It's just that a kid, after waking up, neither cried out in pain nor stared blankly, but instead picked up paper and pen and wrote something. I scanned it with my senses; it wasn't a code or a contact signal, just a love poem, quite mushy."

As she spoke, she deliberately drew out her words, picking up a transcribed letter from the table—the poem Evan had written, which she had found interesting and casually copied. She waved the letter paper at the man, a mischievous look of expectation in her eyes: "Do you want me to recite it for you? Let you relax a little, don't keep your face tense all day, as if someone owes you a few hundred gold coins."

"No need." The man refused without a second thought, his tone still serious. "Just rule out the suspicion. No need to pay attention to such personal trivialities." He paused and added, "Keep watching. Report immediately if any suspicious signs appear. The imperial court has sent people to investigate the ghost ship incident. Before they arrive, there must be no mistakes."

The short-haired woman curled her lips, threw the letter paper back onto the table, slumped back into the chair, and poked the crystal ball again with her fingertip: "Got it, got it, Your Highness of the Royal Patrol."

Her voice was drawn out, carrying a hint of reluctance, but she obediently redirected her attention to the crystal ball. The light spots inside began to flow again with her gaze.

"The current governor of New Nigeria State is utterly useless. In just ten days, two S-class supernatural incidents have occurred, each time relying on the church. If this continues, the colony will see the imperial government's prestige drop below that of the Three Major Churches. When will the homeland send a qualified governor?" the short-haired woman muttered softly, her tone full of discontent.

This isn't something you or I need to worry about.

The man shot her a look, said nothing more, turned around, and strode out of the office.

The moment the door closed, the office sank back into its gloomy silence, leaving only the faint sound of the woman occasionally poking the crystal ball and the crackling of the flames in the charcoal stove.

As for Evan in the ward, unaware that he was under full surveillance by the patrol team and had temporarily passed their security assessment, he leaned back on his pillow, sunlight streaming through the gaps in the wooden hut onto his face, with a gentle warmth.

He raised his hand and touched the pocket close to his chest, where the letter was still warm from his body, like Sara's gaze gently enveloping him, allowing him to momentarily forget the dangers and chaos of Pearl Island.

However, since he could not summon a Sea Elf messenger here for the time being, Evan had to resort to the old-fashioned way: take out an envelope, insert the letter, seal it, then write the recipient's name and address, and finally stick a stamp on it.

Evan asked a passing nurse to help him send it off. The letter would take about fifteen days to reach Sara.