Krafft's Anomaly Notes

Chapter 416 Offset
The troublemaker was kicked back into the cabin, and the slight disturbance, like an uncooperative pebble, vanished in an instant amidst the raging waves, leaving not a ripple.

The constant loss of body temperature and the unstable center of gravity were enough to occupy everyone's attention. Everyone on deck wished they could grow suction cups and become one with the ship, having no time to care about anything else.

Except for Oliver.

He was certainly not feeling well either. When he realized that no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't get a good grip, he discovered that his gloves had gotten wet. The frozen salt water made his skin and leather stick together, making them stiff and rough.

Even so, the captain's duties and certain indescribable concerns still frequently drew his gaze to the sea, to the sea beyond the port side.

From this angle, one can vaguely see the waves pushing them forward.

Blurry white lines followed from behind the stern, one after another, with roughly the same timing. The further away you looked, the more regular they became—excessively regular.

They always appear at roughly the same distance, always rise at roughly the same time, always separate and slide away on either side of the sternboard, and then reunite at a distance.

If one ignores the irresistible and dangerous forces at play, the rhythmic scene has an almost hypnotic effect.

Gazing at them is like having a lucid dream; the visual rhythm slowly seeps into your body, your breathing unconsciously matches its rhythm, and your wildly beating heart is slowed down.

The imminent crisis also felt distant, enveloped in a soft illusion. The realistic meaning of the white line was gradually stripped away, becoming a recurring image in the dream—bright and clean.

Admittedly, they are very attractive, and for no reason at all, they make you want to linger.

It might even lead to the absurd thought that we can just keep watching and nothing will happen.

My consciousness almost slid deeper into the depths due to inertia, just as it does when I fall asleep on ordinary days.

It is precisely this feeling that makes everything seem exceptionally unreal, brewing a restless atmosphere.

Experience warns that the real sea is never so considerate; even the calmest waves can be unpredictable.

The waves in a storm will disrupt the rhythm from time to time, change direction frequently, and remind the helmsman of their presence in abrupt ways.

But these white lines were not; they had power, but only caught the ships off guard at the very beginning.

Repeat, repeat, and repeat again, each time just like the last, the last time the next, such a regular pattern is simply...

He paused for a moment, unable to recall the metaphor that was so close yet so far.

Just as I realized this, the next white line appeared as expected. With each rise and fall, the boat was propelled forward a little further.

His peripheral vision followed the white line as he tried to find something to support his ideas in the limited visibility.

My gaze swept over it as if touching a burning ember, not daring to linger for even a moment longer.

Subconsciously, I breathed a sigh of relief. No, at least not for now.

Ghost ships, sea monsters, and all sorts of terrifying rumors that I once scoffed at, now seeped into my head with cold sweat, turning into a thin layer of frost on my forehead.

Oliver gave a self-deprecating twitch, deciding to temporarily forget about the little incident that had just occurred.

Not all hearts can bear the ocean's capriciousness. He had certainly seen some people shouting at the sea and claiming to have seen something terrible. Therefore, there were quite a few people who were afraid of water and dared not go out to sea.

It would be strange if someone like William went to the mountains and was afraid to come ashore.

He couldn't let these trivial matters distract him; he had to focus his energy back on the steering wheel.

Oliver forcefully pulled his peripheral vision away from the port side, ripped off his gloves along with the calluses on his hands, pulled a scarf from his collar, and tied his hands to the rudder with the dry, ice-free side of the scarf. Through his hand and wrist, which were now integrated with the grip, he could once again clearly feel the precise movement of the rudder wheel.

The roulette wheel remained steady and powerful, but the point of force applied to my hand had subtly shifted slightly. It wasn't that it had become heavier or lighter; rather, the previously centered thrust had begun to lean to one side.

It's so slight that it's impossible to immediately determine whether it's due to incorrect grip or a real issue. Even correction seems unnecessary, and if handled improperly, it might even cause the hand to tilt to the other side due to excessive movement.

After a brief moment of thought, he decided to maintain the status quo and wait and see.

White line, white line after white line, and after three more waves, the sense of deviation did not decrease with adaptation, but rather increased.

It's not a sudden rebound, but a continuous, restrained trend, gradually building up the existing bias.

The asymmetry of forces became apparent. When moving to the left, the resistance came earlier, but when moving to the right, it felt a bit empty. The feeling was correct; the central axis was indeed slowly drifting.

An angle has formed between the direction of the ship and the wave, and this angle is widening.

Perhaps it was the improper operation during my moment of distraction that caused the rudder to veer off course, and the waves amplified the problem.

Following this explanation, he skillfully steered the rudder back until the forces were balanced again.

The feel was right, but only for a moment. The same feeling returned as the next white line caught up with the stern.

The force was not fierce, as if a child's hand was gently placed on the rudder, patiently and stealthily grasping the handle and pushing it to the right with each rocking motion.

Oliver closed his eyes, pressed his entire body and mind against his wrist, and remembered the feeling.

After more than ten breaths, the answer automatically surfaced.

The sails had long been furled, and the wind had little effect on the boat; his wrists were steady, without loosening. It wasn't the boat's fault, nor his; the waves had changed.

To be precise, it is constantly changing. So slow as to be almost imperceptible, but each wave inherits the previous shift, plus a tiny new correction.

He moved the steering wheel, adjusting it to a "comfortable" position to suit the angle.

The feel returned to smooth, and it seemed the sea had briefly accepted this new median line. But this smoothness didn't last long; as a new wave arrived, the force quickly began to shift to the right.

Same direction, same force, incredibly precise.

In an instant, doubt returned to me. Was it muscle fatigue, a hallucination caused by the cold, or some hidden damage to the hull that I hadn't discovered?

But none of these explanations hold water. The steering wheel's reaction was very clear: it wasn't a wild, out-of-control collision, but rather a continuous and clear presentation of the same answer to him, as if it were a series of open tests.

The belated chill spread outwards from my chest, which was no longer protected by a scarf, soaking my entire body.

He suddenly had a thought he didn't want to elaborate on, not about "whether I was wrong or not," but rather "what if I wasn't wrong?"

What does that mean?

Whatever it means, there is no other choice.

At sea, no one can defy the will of the waves, whether that will comes from the waves themselves or something else.

The new cover for the second edition of this book is complete. Interested readers can check it out on the WeChat mini-program "Dimensional Hub".

(o ゜ ▽ ゜) o ☆