Graybridge Port, Fishtail Street.
Night had fallen, the stifling heat had dissipated, and sea fog filled the narrow street no more than a few hundred meters long. Mosquitoes buzzed over discarded fish scales and entrails—stepping into it felt like sinking into a rancid, oily pit.
At the end of the street was the port’s largest lower-class settlement. The nearby fishermen, shipwrights, and dockhands nested in these tightly packed, nearly-collapsing shacks. The night was eerily quiet, broken occasionally by the faint cries of a baby—only to be swiftly silenced.
An old fisherwoman struggled to move a heavy bucket of water. She soaked a torn rag and carefully wiped the forehead and lips of a girl lying in bed. The child looked no older than four or five, her face pale while her cheeks burned with fever.
“Martha, Martha…” she whispered sorrowfully, calling the girl’s name. But her granddaughter remained trapped in an ominous stupor.
Suddenly, the squelching sound of shoes pressing through mud approached from afar. The fisherwoman tensed, hastily covering the child’s small body with their only threadbare quilt.
O, Odras, god of the sea, please—don’t let it be the constables, she prayed silently. Just three shacks down, the dockhand Benny had been dragged out one night by constables for “participating in a riot,” and the gentle giant never returned again.
Her prayer seemed unanswered. The footsteps stopped at her door. The old woman quietly grabbed the sharp fishing spear behind the door, determined to take those beasts down with her if the worst came to pass.
“The sea god—it’s me! I’m back, alive!”
The spear clattered to the floor.
Joy, tears, scolding, and sobbing all at once—Nova stood beside Azukar, silently watching the scene unfold. After reaching their destination, the old ship’s doctor and his apprentice had taken their leave, and Captain Scarbough had apologetically invited them to rest at his home for the night.
“The place might not be much, but at least there’s a hot meal and a place to rest your feet,” he said stiffly.
The old fisherwoman wiped away her tears, finally noticing the two men standing behind her miraculously returned husband. She immediately bowed in fear, trembling as she begged, “Forgive me, kind sirs. My eyes are half-blind—I didn’t see you just now…”
Though they wore no finery, their refined features, spotless teeth, and soft, fair skin clearly marked them as nobles—especially the blond one. For a moment, even in her fear, the old woman nearly mistook him for a divine avatar of the god of light. She was certain—even the bishops of the Radiant Church she’d glimpsed from afar paled in comparison.
Captain Scarbough patted his wife’s arm. “Don’t be afraid. This is Professor Brody, the one I told you about—he saved our family.”
After spending most of his life toiling at sea, the then-young Scarbough finally managed to save up a dozen gold coins. He planned to buy a ship of his own—a proper vessel for deep-sea voyages—so he’d no longer suffer under the harsh rule of other shipowners.
But during the registration process, the local harbor patrol squad captain bombarded him with intimidation and persuasion. Dazed and confused, Scarbough ended up signing a pile of debts. After all the arbitrary taxes and fees were deducted, not only did he not own a single plank of the ship—he was somehow three gold coins in debt.
Once he realized something was off and tried to argue, he was thrown out. They warned him that if he didn’t pay off the “debt” within three days, he and his family would be sold into slavery to work the mines.
With no options left, Scarbough decided to throw himself into the sea—only to find a black-haired young man sitting alone at the dock, inadvertently blocking his path to death.
Captain Scarbough still remembered how the young man looked that day—tall and lean, simply dressed, his complexion pale and cold like a ghost. He seemed shrouded in gloom, yet when his smoke-grey eyes looked over, it felt as if they could dig out one’s very soul.
He looked like a poor student, idly playing with a seashell. Scarbough worried the kid might be there to end his life too. But after a few tentative words, he learned the young man was curious about a particular species of whale that had recently migrated to these waters—and was looking for a cheap ship willing to take him out.
Scarbough happened to know the migration route of the whales in question. He thought he might as well go out with a bang before he died—so he snuck the young man aboard the ship that was rightfully his. They sailed out and, in the end, did witness the migrating whale pod.
On the way back, Scarbough had already planned how to help his family flee while he went to the mines alone to pay the debt with his life. But the young man, upon hearing his plight, calmly recited the relevant Imperial maritime tax codes and declared that while he had no money for the trip, he could act as a lawyer and win back the ship as payment.
Captain Scarbough could still remember the harbor leader’s face—twisted and red with rage, clearly stunned that a poor sailor could afford a lawyer. And when he found out that this sharp-tongued, aggressive “lawyer” was actually a nobleman, his face turned sheet white.
A mere harbor patrol squad leader couldn’t possibly afford to offend the son of a Viscount. In the end, the ship—later named the Seeker—along with its fees, returned to Scarbough’s hands. With this capital, he hired a crew and truly became Captain Scarbough.
Though they had won, for some reason, Mr. Brody didn’t look happy.
Inside the dilapidated shack, the old fisherwoman excitedly reached to kiss the black-haired noble’s hand, but hesitated for fear of dirtying his clothes. “So it was you, kind sir—may the god of seas keep you safe from all storms!”
Her gaze then shifted to the blond young man beside him, a flicker of hesitation crossing her face.
“I’m Professor Brody’s assistant. Just call me Azukar,” said the Divine Chosen, smiling gently, much to Captain Scarbough’s disbelieving expression.
The professor glanced at him but did not refute the claim.
Finally regaining his composure, Captain Scarbough looked around the cluttered, run-down home and sensed something ominous. “Did Manny go out? Where’s little Marsha?”
The couple’s only son had died in a shipwreck, leaving behind only their daughter-in-law Manny and granddaughter Marsha. To support the family, the daughter-in-law and wife mended fishing nets, while Captain Scarbough traveled port to port, tirelessly fishing at sea, only able to return home every few dozen days.
This time, he had chanced upon the professor in White Spire Town, who was heading to Graybridge Port. Captain Scarbough had invited his savior to travel together—only to be caught in a nightmare of a shipwreck.
The old fisherwoman was silent for a moment, then gently lifted the blanket to reveal her unconscious granddaughter. She slowly slumped down and hoarsely, mournfully began recounting all that had gone wrong after her husband left.
It was then, with the Dawn Festival approaching, that the constables suddenly came knocking. They claimed that the stench around Fishtail Street would disrupt the passage of visiting nobles and church dignitaries, and demanded an “air pollution tax” per person—even newborn infants were not exempt.
The people of Fishtail Street were laborers, surviving on their strength and skill—they had no money for such a tax. A few of the able-bodied men clashed with the constables, but who’d have thought they would call in the harbor navy? They hauled off the ringleaders. Then they began collecting payments from door to door.
Marsha was just about to start school at the church. After paying the exorbitant tuition, the family had nothing left. Those men unreasonably seized Manny and said she’d be sold to a brothel to recoup the cost.
The old woman clung to their trousers, trying to save her daughter-in-law, only to be kicked viciously in the chest—she nearly died.
Terrified, little Marsha developed a fever and fell into a coma. The neighbors managed to obtain some saint water to feed her, but she didn’t recover.
As she spoke, tears streamed down her face. “I went to Madame Barlen’s shop, and then to Pink Lisa’s. They told me to get lost—threw me out… my poor Manny…”
Captain Scarbough’s hands shook with rage as he cursed aloud, only to be hastily silenced by his wife, who reminded him that the constables were still patrolling the area at night.
Nova removed his gloves, gently touched the little girl’s forehead, and lifted her eyelids to inspect her pupils. Azukar, intuitively understanding, rummaged through his things and swiftly produced a small vial of medicinal powder, handing it to the Scarbough couple and instructing them to boil it in water and administer it. The old couple nearly wept with relief and gratitude as they hurried to prepare the remedy.
As always, the medicine of the Natalin was explosively pungent. The shack already reeked of fish; now, with the added bitterness of strange herbs, the stench was unbearable.
The professor took the chance to step outside for air. Around his feet stretched the silent slums, where the cries and sorrows of the lower classes were swallowed by the swamp-like darkness.
He looked up at the stars, then at the dazzling lights in the distance. He saw the Dawn Festival, held to honor the birth of the god of light and glory, saw the Radiant Church lining the streets with ornate hollow crystal lilies. These flowers were fueled by coal essence, a newly discovered high-efficiency energy source that could burn for months—magnificent and breathtaking. Yet the price of a nail-sized piece of coal essence was enough to feed a fisher’s entire family for a year.
Someone lifted the curtain and stepped beside him, also gazing at the dazzling glow.
“What do you plan to do?” the Divine Chosen asked softly, as if certain the other would not look away.
The professor replied impassively, “The simplest and most direct method—find the constable, show my noble status, buy back Manny, and leave Captain Scarbough some money. I exchanged a lot of big pearls at the barter hall before we left—quite cheap.”
“Then what is troubling you?” Azuka’s gaze lingered—on the young man’s shadowed brow, the bloodless lips pressed thin, the pallor of sickness sharpening his profile. His voice softened further, a tenderness near devotion.
The man who was never stingy with words lapsed into silence again—until something molten and violent seeped from his chest to his throat, only to harden in the death-reeking air.
“…None of this should have happened,” the professor murmured at last, as if to himself, and sealed his lips once more.
He wants a cup of coffee.
