For the residents of Foy, this year's Plum Moon full moon was just like any other, with no strange incidents occurring.
The youth had never witnessed the terror of the old Abyssal Sea curse, unaware of what kind of desperate scene it was when the black tide swept countless aberrations onto the shore... Those with more years to their name mostly only heard a few vague snippets from their fathers' generation.
Those elders who truly witnessed the chaos and cataclysm of a hundred years ago had mostly passed away. Even if any were still alive, they were already frail and advanced in age, keeping silent about the old days.
The only difference from previous years was that the Stellar Abyss Society increased their patrol intensity in the days following the full moon. Their actions revealed vigilance and urgency, as if searching for some dreaded, horrifying thing.
The Abyssal Sea Tavern.
In the silent and quiet tavern, an old man was somewhat heartbrokenly rubbing the sporadic bullet marks on the solid wood counter, his gaze full of regret.
"This table made of Bramble Ebony was brought back from Falsha Island on my first voyage; it's been standing in the Abyssal Sea Tavern for decades. It survived countless tavern brawls without damage... but this time, it took at least eight bullets."
"Just the repairs will cost a pretty penny for the carpenter."
Through the hazy, amber lamplight in the tavern, one could vaguely see his wrinkled, furrowed brows and eyes bearing a somewhat familiar look.
Captain of the 'Leviathan', Nifel Germilton.
Complaining, the old man puffed on his meerschaum pipe. He took a deep draw from the mouthpiece, then let out a long, sullen puff of smoke.
"Those motherfucking pirates, they really have no upbringing. Using daggers in a tavern fight is one thing, but resorting to flintlock pistols... I'll see which fool dares to take such a commission, causing trouble in my tavern."
The Abyssal Sea Tavern was Nifel's asset, used to subsidize some of the Leviathan's special expenses. Of course, in reality, this tavern wasn't just in the food and drink business; it was also widely recognized as a relatively safe place for information exchange in all of Foy City.
There had been troublemakers before, but they were mostly just drunken louts causing a ruckus. As long as it didn't affect business, Nifel wouldn't intervene, even enjoying it as part of the tavern's entertainment.
But now, such a brutal assassination incident had occurred... This was completely different from a simple fight.
Building trust requires long, relentless effort, while destroying it takes only a moment. Besides the tavern's repairs, he also had to use his own means to track down the troublemakers from that day.
As Nifel was fuming and puffing gloomily on his pipe, a tall figure pushed open the door and walked into the tavern, carrying two people.
"Old man, I'm back. Get me a bottle of amber rum, would you? Been chasing this guy all the way, haven't had a drop of water."
Utus complained while rubbing his neck, then casually tossed the two people in his hands aside like trash.
"You kid, always eyeing my stock. Here, take it."
Nifel took a bottle of rum from the back cabinet, poured half a glass, then deftly shaved off a block of ice and dropped it in.
Utus then stepped forward with a relaxed expression, picked up the quartz glass, and drank it in one go.
While he was pouring himself another drink, Nifel walked over to the two discarded figures, put on a pair of gold-rimmed round reading glasses, and examined them.
"Let's see who you've brought back..."
The two captured were a man and a woman. The male looked to be in his twenties, with a panicked and fearful expression. The woman, however, had a vacant stare, as if no longer responsive to anything external... and she was an acquaintance.
The Moth cult's information broker, Louisa.
"Tsk tsk, never thought you'd end up in such a demented state, you old swindler. A bleak twilight years indeed. But it does suit your eventual outcome."
After a somewhat wistful, teasing remark, Nifel turned his gaze to the man beside her.
"And this kid is?"
"Oh, he's one of the pirates involved in the assassination that day. Those guys scattered after the hit; I only managed to track down one, so I brought him along."
Utus drank half the bottle of pale golden rum, then explained the man's identity.
"Oh—"
Nifel dragged out the sound as if suddenly enlightened, his eyes narrowing with a hint of ill intent.
"So you're the one who wrecked my place, right? Who's your captain? I'd like to see who raised such a brat with no upbringing, taking any job for a bit of coin."
The pirate breathed nervously, then suddenly got up and scrambled towards the door with all his might, half-crawling, half-running.
The next moment, Utus, who had just been at the counter, somehow appeared in front of him, delivering a fluid punch to the man's abdomen.
Although Utus's movement seemed rather light, the moment his fist made contact with the abdomen, a heavy, sickening thud sounded. The pirate immediately fell to his knees, clutching his stomach as if about to vomit.
"Hey, Utus, ease up. Don't make him puke all over the place; I just mopped this floor."
Nifel admonished slightly displeased.
But judging by his tone, he seemed more concerned about his solid wood floor than this pirate's life.
"Relax, he already emptied his stomach on the way here."
As he spoke, Utus hauled the pirate back.
In truth, this Oceanography Department professor had been holding back considerably; otherwise, that punch could have directly shattered the man's ribcage.
"Cough, cough..."
The pirate coughed violently, his bloodshot eyes fixed fiercely on Nifel, filled with frenzy and hatred. There was no sign of yielding.
"You old bastard... I... won't tell you anything..."
"Heh, not bad. A tough kid, I admire your backbone and loyalty."
Nifel didn't show any surprise at this, his deep eyes showing no ripple.
These clueless bastards are all the same, only tough-talking before the real interrogation begins. A little tango on the shark pool's diving board, and they'll be begging for mercy.
But he's old now and prefers somewhat gentler methods.
"You're tough. But I'm afraid your captain doesn't respect you as much as you revere him."
"Just you lot aren't enough to get in touch with Louisa. If I guess correctly... this assassination commission of yours was issued and assigned by the captain, and the weapons and firearms were also provided by him, right?"
Hearing Nifel's words, the young pirate just stiffened his neck and remained silent, giving no response.
But after all, he was only in his early twenties, far too easy to read in front of Nifel, like an unlocked diary of a teenage girl.
Judging this guy's state was simple; no rebuttal meant acknowledgment.
"Your beloved Captain already received Louisa's payment, then carelessly sold your lives to her. After taking the lion's share for himself, he gave you pathetic scraps..."
"And yet, you still think it's a considerable reward, risking your lives for it... But you have no idea of the consequences."
Maintaining a tone of near-lament, Nifel slowly broke down the young pirate's psychological defenses.
"The White Cup cult's Grantham was willing to award me an honorary professorship, agreed to try and keep my reputation somewhat decent, shedding those old hot-tempered habits... and stop mentioning those frightening nicknames."
"Kid, you can tell me now which ship you're from. Or, we can do it by your pirates' rules... I'll give you a bottle of water, a gun, and a single bullet, then drop you on a cannibal-infested, desolate island in the Abyssal Sea."
"Or perhaps you'd prefer 'keelhauling' and 'dancing with the sharks'?"
The young pirate's Adam's apple bobbed, his gaze gradually softening, not as fierce as before. He didn't even dare meet Nifel's eyes.
He had a strange feeling. This old man with gold-rimmed glasses wasn't at all as scholarly and refined as he appeared; his words and demeanor harbored a sinister, vicious edge, even more like a real pirate than his own captain.
"...If I tell you, will you let me go?"
"If I were you, I wouldn't be making conditions at a time like this."
Nifel's tone showed no flexibility; the oppressive, heavy atmosphere in the air grew thicker. Finally unable to bear the immense psychological pressure, the young pirate reluctantly and slowly gave in.
"I'm from the 'Serpent Boa', the captain is..."
Just as he was about to say the name, Nifel promptly cut him off and finished it.
"Jerome Bata."
"I remember him, that scrawny little monkey who used to man the crow's nest on my ship. Seems he later went out and joined some pirate family... Tch, still playing the same petty, underhanded tricks as before, it seems."
Having gotten what he wanted, he slowly stood up, paying no further attention to the young pirate. The latter was dumbfounded for a moment before scrambling out of the Black Sea Tavern as if he'd seen a ghost.
"Finished with the little one, let's see what's up with the old one."
Nifel observed the vacantly staring Louisa, quite curiously waving a hand before her eyes. Then, suddenly, he pulled out a dagger and thrust it towards her eye, stopping a hair's breadth from the pupil.
This Moth cult disciple's pupils showed no focus from start to finish, only a dim, unfocused gray.
"Not even an instinctive reaction; probably truly mad... Utus, how did you bring her? Didn't the Moth cult send anyone to retrieve her?"
"Nope. She was dumped by the roadside; I just picked her up."
Utus also found this strange.
Although the Lamp Moths and the Veiled Assembly folks were in a state of 'untraceable' most of the time, they shouldn't just let a disciple close to High Priest rank go mad on the street.
Louisa's body was saturated with the Moth-phase psychic elements accumulated over a lifetime; even if the madness couldn't be cured, taking her back for research or dismantling her for materials would hold significant value.
"To drive a Night-Moth follower mad, it would probably take a higher-ranking Night-Moth disciple... Perhaps it's due to internal wrangling and constraints within the Veiled Assembly's higher echelons."
Nifel took another puff from his meerschaum pipe, his deep gaze showing a trace of complexity.
"Sigh— Although this year's Plum Moon full moon has passed, I have a feeling something big is still going to happen... Like when Morien was destroyed a few years back."
"I hope it's just an old man's neurasthenic delusion."
—
Foy, Odington Street No. 07, Back Alley.
This was a civilian district far from the city center, so land prices were relatively low, home to most economically strapped residents. Though not as bustling as Sulan Bay Street, it wasn't as chaotic as the boundary suburbs either.
Places caught between two extremes never seem to attract much attention.
And precisely because of this, some secret cult disciples chose to rent here, or used it as a meeting point.
At this moment, Inchworm was navigating the dark, winding alleys, taking out his key to open the door to his residence. In the days following the Full Moon gathering, he had been in a state of uncontrollable fervor.
To think that just a trip to the Third Perch could lead to encountering a Night-Moth Follower of Apostle rank—what incredible luck!
Ignorant mortals simply couldn't comprehend what the Sixth Ladder represented.
It was an ancient existence of unknowable age, a walking oracle, capable of distorting reality with spirit and will, one who had truly had an audience with the deities hanging high beyond the heavens... To be able to serve that Hermit Madam, ascension seemed just within reach.
This held far more promise than slaving away for those soon-to-be-dead old men of the Veiled Assembly...
Just as he was still immersed in his thoughts, having just opened the door, he suddenly faintly heard an abnormal breathing sound from the shadows beside him.
Heavy and labored. Like that of a grown man.
Inchworm abruptly turned around, his gaze alert as he looked towards the source.
Odington Street's security was average, so it wasn't impossible for burglars to attempt a break-in, and he didn't sense any ritual's psychic aura. Therefore, he didn't immediately take an aggressive stance.
But soon, Inchworm regretted it.
He saw a tall man wrapped in a deep black woolen overcoat walking towards him. The man's hands were empty, holding no gun or weapon... yet he still evoked a strong sense of crisis in him.
"Who are you!"
He let out a sharp cry, then retreated into his room at the fastest speed possible.
While performing the "retreat" motion, Inchworm's body twisted and contorted in a bizarre, undulating manner, like the steps of some exotic dance. An ordinary person seeing his movements would completely lose control of their limbs in moments.
Second-category, lower-tier secret art [Cicada-Form Dance].
This art could cause the bodily commands of those who witness it to become scrambled; for example, the brain's command to lift a leg might be distorted into opening the mouth or blinking. Its only drawback was a rather long activation time, unable to affect others quickly like [Moth-Shaped Song].
In a one-on-one frontal confrontation, a Moth disciple not yet at High Priest rank held no advantage. Inchworm had to first find a way to escape to a sufficiently safe environment, then attempt to gradually erode this intruder's mind.
Right now, he needed cover... and a "strategic buffer zone."
Just as Inchworm rushed inside, his expression changed drastically; his previously not-so-panicked face instantly turned pale.
He heard it—the exact same breathing sound as before... located right at the entryway of his residence, mere inches behind him.
And the figure outside that had been constantly approaching melted away like liquid under the streetlamp's light.
Before Inchworm could react, a pair of large, calloused hands reached from behind, covering his face and moving towards his eyes.
...
Meanwhile, Fran, who was planning to go to the Norlington main store to have Sigrid inspect the finished chainsword, was strolling leisurely through Fog Street, her expression relaxed, her pace unhurried.
It was just after dinner, time for a post-meal walk.
But soon, the doctor raised an eyebrow lightly, her amber eyes showing a trace of surprise.
Just now, she had received the notification for the monthly house call.
[Dear Dr. Fran, the April monthly house call has been triggered. The patient is 'Tiyel' of the 'Veiled Assembly'. The patient is in hemorrhagic shock. Please begin treatment promptly. The target is estimated to die within 10 minutes.]
"Oh? So Inchworm ran into trouble first?"
Fran gave a light sigh, took out the brass pocket watch from her sleeve to check the time, and, confirming there was enough, began retracing her steps with some resignation.
No helping it; emergency patients always have the highest priority...
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