Hearing Lily's voice on his shoulder, Charles looked in the direction she was pointing.
A few dozen meters ahead on the main street was a square, bustling with people and lined with stalls that resembled barbecue vendors.
"This must be Abyss-Sea's pedestrian street, right?" Charles walked over.
After buying a bag of milk-steamed oysters for Lily, Charles entered the lively square. It seemed to be the local market, overflowing with all sorts of food and performances. Lily's eyes were dazzled by the sights.
As Charles absentmindedly wandered to the edge of the square, a blind man wearing sunglasses appeared up ahead. The flesh and skin on his hideously scarred face were fused together, looking like some sort of burn. This terrifying visage stood out starkly among the handsome men and beautiful women around.
At the blind man's feet was a sign that read: Oil Portraits, 100 Echoes Each.
Looking at the tattered cloak hanging from the blind man, Charles guessed his business wasn't doing well. But then again, who would ask a blind man for a painting?
The blind man crouched timidly beside his easel, looking all the more pitiable in the midst of the lively crowds.
At that moment, three young men with their arms around each other's shoulders passed by, one of them kicking the easel. Watching the blind man scrambling to pick up his things from the ground, the three burst into uproarious laughter.
When Charles saw that everyone around was completely ignoring what was happening, not even bothering to glance over, his brows furrowed slightly. The people on this island aren't just odd—they're downright cold.
Kind-hearted Lily couldn't bear it and charged over with the mice to help the blind man gather his papers.
Realizing someone was helping him, the disfigured blind man immediately broke down in tears. "Why! Why am I the one cursed with such misfortune?!"
Charles walked over. After a moment's thought, he said to the blind man, "Stop crying. Paint one for me."
Hearing he had a customer, the blind man set aside his sorrow. Sniffing, he hurriedly got to his feet.
"Sir, please have a seat here." He fumbled and pulled a folding chair out from behind his easel.
Watching the blind man skillfully mix his paints, Charles felt a trace of curiosity. How could a man who can't see possibly paint?
Just as he was pondering this, the blind man set his palette aside and reached out to touch Charles's face with both hands.
Painting by feeling the bones? The thought had no sooner crossed Charles's mind than the blind man picked up his brush and began to paint.
This piqued Charles's interest. I wonder just how skilled this blind artist truly is.
A few minutes later, the blind man put down his brush, carefully removed the artwork from the easel, and respectfully presented it to Charles.
BANG! Startled, Charles kicked over the folding chair and stumbled back three steps, his right hand instinctively reaching for the holster at his waist.
The image on the canvas was not of Charles—it was a vividly lifelike portrait of Anna!
The sound of the chair hitting the ground immediately caught the blind artist's attention. With a look of panic, he groped his way over.
"Sir, does it not look like you? Please don't leave, I haven't eaten in three days. Even a little would help—have pity on me."
With a complicated expression, Charles accepted the painting, pulling several hundred-Echo notes from his pocket and placing them in the blind man's hand.
Feeling the money, a look of wild joy crossed the blind man's terrifying features. Bowing deeply in Charles's direction, he declared, "Sir, thank you for your compassion to one as pitiful as myself. May the Lady bless you."
"Can you read minds?" Charles asked, holding the painting.
"No, no. Just some useless abilities that appeared after I went blind," the blind man said, shrinking away submissively with a fawning look on his face.
Charles's fingers slowly traced Anna's face on the canvas, and those fabricated memories surged anew in his mind.
"Gao Zhiming, I like you. Can I be your girlfriend?"
"Gao Zhiming, stop playing games. I'm much more fun than any game."
"Don't worry. So what if we're stranded underground? It's not a big deal. As long as I'm with you, we'll definitely make it out!"
Charles's expression twisted slightly. His hands, veins bulging, gripped the edges of the painting as if about to tear it apart.
Lily hopped onto Charles's shoulder. "Mr. Charles, who is this lady? She's so beautiful."
As the man and mouse spoke, the blind man tilted his chin, sniffing the air as if searching for something.
In the end, unable to bring himself to destroy it, Charles slowly rolled up the painting and tucked it into his coat. "Let's go, Lily. We're heading back," he said with a trace of melancholy.
The blind man behind them raised a hand as if to call out, but he hesitated. Something seemed to hold him back, and ultimately, he said nothing.
On the way back, Lily could clearly sense that Mr. Charles was distracted. She immediately guessed it had something to do with the portrait.
Could it be like in the plays, where that lady once shared a legendary romance with Mr. Charles—and then cruelly abandoned him?
When Charles returned to the hotel, three more envelopes were at his door. This time, they were from two sailors and the assistant chef.
Counting those who had died, nearly half the Narwhal's crew was now gone.
What's going on? Why are so many resigning? Why not wait until we're back on Coral Island? Charles decided he would call the crew together after writing in his journal. This was highly unusual.
Lighting the oil lamp, Charles took out the painting and stared at it for a long while before tucking the portrait between the pages of his nautical journal.
Taking out the pen from his pocket, Charles began to write, but before he had put down more than a few words, another envelope was slipped through the crack under the door.
"If you want to leave the ship, say it to my face!"
But there was no movement from outside. With a dark expression, Charles walked over, tore open the envelope, and glanced at its contents.
Upon seeing Deep's name, his expression turned instantly grave. "Lily, come with me."
Lily jumped onto Charles's shoulder once more, and the brown mice trailed behind them like a living carpet.
"Mr. Charles, why are we going out again?"
"Something's wrong. That kid, Deep, is in danger."
"Huh?" Lily's eyes widened.
Charles waved the letter in front of her. "There's no way he wrote this. That kid's an orphan—he can barely recognize all his letters, so how could he write a resignation letter? This is a fake!"
Thinking back on all the recent oddities, Charles was certain something had happened to his crew.
If the crew wanted to quit, most would just leave. The ones with better relationships—like old John—might say farewell in person. The kind who'd write a resignation letter are a rare breed. And that elegant cursive is nothing like the handwriting of a rough sailor who makes his living at sea.
Out on the street, he said to Lily on his shoulder, "Send your mice out. Tell everyone you can find from the Narwhal to meet up."
"Okay!" Lily squeaked twice, and the brown carpet on the ground instantly scattered.