Starting as dockworkers, they swept through Chongqing.

Lund placed the pen on the table after making the final stroke.

He reread the contents of the letter.

It didn't use too many fancy words, nor did it boast excessively.

He simply wrote down the facts.

Lund believed that with Wolf's experience and insight, he would be able to make a judgment once he met Siren in person.

He folded the second letter in half, put it in an envelope, and sealed it with sealing wax.

The envelope was addressed to: Mr. Wolf Weber, No. 9 Zhongjiang Street, Lower Town.

The two letters were placed side by side on the table.

Lund looked at them and pondered for a moment.

There were some things he didn't write in the letter.

—For example, the black mark on Xilun's right wrist that came from the eight-armed statue.

—For example, the unknown entity sleeping beneath the old well of the Black Dove Church.

—For example, amidst the chaos brought about by the war, various forces in the northern region were eager to make their move.

These things are not suitable to be written down.

Let's talk face to face when we get back.

Lund put away his pen, carefully folded the two letters, and placed them in the side pocket of his suitcase.

I'll mail it out at the town post office tomorrow.

He stood up and walked to the window.

The sunlight shone directly on the gray brick wall opposite, turning the surface white.

In the alley, a child was squatting on the ground drawing with chalk. He was drawing a stick figure holding a stick.

Lund watched for a while.

Then he turned around, walked to the suitcase, and pulled out the broken half of the knife.

He placed the broken knife flat on his lap, his thumb gently tracing the broken edge.

The blade bears old rust marks and even older black spots from fire.

This is the only thing my father left me.

Half a knife, half a suicide note.

Don't be a coward like me.

Lund rewrapped the broken knife and put it back at the bottom of the box.

—I didn't learn your cowardice, Dad.

—But I inherited your courage from that moment.

The sound of keys clicking came from the doorway again.

Mother came back, and there were two fish and a bunch of scallions in her shopping basket.

"We'll have fish for lunch," she announced.

"Okay," Lund replied, walking over to take the basket of vegetables from her hands.

"I'll kill the fish."

"You can?"

"meeting."

His mother looked at him with a mixture of belief and doubt.

Lund pulled a kitchen knife from the knife rack in the kitchen—the back of the blade was thick, and the edge was fairly sharp.

He held the fish down with one hand and used the knife in the other to cleanly scrape off the scales, cut open the belly, remove the entrails, and rinse it clean.

The movements were fluid and without the slightest hesitation.

The mother stood by watching, her expression somewhat subtle.

"...Your technique doesn't look like you're killing a fish."

Lund paused.

"...It's about killing fish."

The mother didn't say anything more, took a plate, accepted the cleaned fish, and turned to prepare the marinade.

Lund washed the kitchen knife clean and put it away, then looked down at his hands.

Indeed—using murderous methods to kill fish is a bit wrong.

He silently wiped his hands on his apron.

The next day, in the evening.

The sunlight had turned a pale orange, like a thin veil spread over the gray-tiled roofs of the town.

Lund sat at his old desk on the second floor, with a sheet of paper spread out in front of him and a fountain pen next to the inkstone.

The two sealed letters were still on the table—he had mailed them at the town post office this morning.

An old man with brass-rimmed glasses was dozing behind the post office counter. He glanced at the address as he took the envelope and muttered, "Letters from the northern district are slow. Now that it's wartime, it'll take at least five or six days."

Lund paid the postage and gave two extra coins as a courier fee.

The old man readily agreed and put the letter into the registered mail compartment.

After mailing the letter, Lund took a walk around the town.

He went to the blacksmith shop he used to frequent as a child—the old blacksmith had passed away, and now his son was forging iron, his arms thicker than his father's.

I passed by the school's back gate again—a few teenagers were playing football on the playground, and the graffiti on the wall had been changed time and time again.

Finally, he bought two pounds of milk candy from a small shop next to the station, the kind his mother loved.

When he returned in the afternoon, he put the candy on his mother's bedside table and then went upstairs alone.

The desk on the second floor is the one my father used back then.

Inside the drawer were several yellowed old notebooks, their handwriting messy and crooked, filled with dock shift schedules and pay slips, occasionally interspersed with a few nonsensical sentences—

Lund came in third place in today's exam.

"Lund got into a fight, but he wasn't hurt. I don't know if I should say anything to him."

"The file in the toolbox is missing; Lund probably took it to sharpen something. Oh well."

Lund flipped through these old notes for a long time.

Each line of text is very short, as boring as a diary entry.

But now, when he reads it, every line feels heavy.

He closed the notebook and put it back in the drawer.

Then I sat at my desk and watched the sky outside the window gradually darken.

He's leaving early tomorrow morning by train.

These past two days have gone by quickly.

It happened as quickly as a tender old dream.

But it's time to wake up from the dream.

There were still things waiting for him in the city.

The Iron Cross Club members had been waiting for him for over a month.

And then there's Xilun—that young man burdened with too much, facing an increasingly complex situation alone in the North District.

Lund was not one to linger in comfort.

He has a deep-seated anxiety—he always feels he's not strong enough, and he always feels there's not enough time.

This anxiety was once driven by fear.

I'm afraid I'll end up like my father, helpless when facing monsters.

But now it's different.

That fear had been shattered by his own hands, along with that pale, mangled limb, in the old underground cavity of the Seventh Wharf.

Now, something else is driving him.

--responsibility.

He has students, disciples, and promises.

He had promised Xilen that he would take him to the Ironblood Society.

He had promised himself that the Iron Cross would become a cradle of extraordinary ordinary people.

Lund turned his gaze back to the table.

He picked up the pen, but instead of writing, he drew a horizontal line on the blank paper.

Then comes the second and the third.

Three parallel lines extend from one end of the paper to the other.

He stared at the three lines for a while.

Weston, Iron Cross, Ironblood Society.

The three lines will eventually converge.

He folded the paper with the lines drawn on it twice and tucked it into his notebook.

His mother's voice came from downstairs: "Lund, come down for dinner!"

"They're here."

Lund stood up and paused at the door.

He looked back at the small second-floor room.

A desk, an old chair, and a dusty photo frame on the windowsill—the frame contained a photo of him graduating from junior high school, wearing a white shirt, with a stubborn expression and his chin slightly raised.

Back then, I knew nothing.

I don't know my father's secret, I don't know the world of the extraordinary, I don't know what terrible things are lurking in the sea under the storm.

But that stubborn streak has never changed.

Lund turned off the lights and went downstairs.

Dinner consisted of stewed pork rib soup and stir-fried seasonal vegetables.

My mother's cooking skills are as good as ever. The ribs are stewed until tender, the soup base is milky white and rich, and every bite is full of collagen.

"What time is the train tomorrow?" the mother asked while drinking her soup.

"Early shift, 7:10."

"Then I'll get up at five to make you breakfast."

"No need so early, I—"

"Get up at five o'clock." The mother's tone left no room for negotiation.

"……good."

Lund picked up a piece of pork rib and said nothing more.

After dinner, as usual, Mother was about to wash the dishes, but Lund once again took them from her.

His mother leaned against the kitchen doorway and watched him wash the dishes, just like yesterday.

"You haven't gone for a run these past two days," the mother suddenly said.

Lund paused slightly in his movements.

"When you lived at home, you would go out for a run early every morning." The mother's tone was tinged with nostalgia. "Sometimes you would leave before dawn, and I would heat up milk for you in the morning. When you came back, your sweat would be dried."

"...That was a long time ago."

"Hmm," the mother responded. "Not running around anymore?"

"I ran away," Lund said. "I just wanted to rest at home for a couple of days."

The mother didn't say anything more.

After washing the dishes, Lund took off his apron, hung it up, and walked out of the kitchen.

He stood by the living room window for a while.

It was completely dark. The streetlights in the alley were casting a dim yellow light. A cat jumped down from the wall and disappeared silently into the shadows.

"Mom." Lund turned around.

The mother was sitting on the sofa mending the cuffs of an old garment, the needle and thread moving in and out between her nimble fingers.

"Um?"

"Next time you come back, I'll replace the window frame for you."

The mother looked up at the window.

There was indeed a crack in the window frame, and every winter the wind would blow in, which she would always stuff with old newspapers.

"Okay," she said, "but don't buy anything too expensive."

"good."

The mother continued sewing, and Lund sat down beside her.

The two didn't say much, only the soft sound of a needle piercing the fabric could be heard.

After a while, the mother unfolded the sewn clothes, looked at them, nodded in satisfaction, folded them in half, and put them aside.

"Go to sleep early." She stood up. "We have to catch the train tomorrow."

"Um."

"Good night."

Goodnight, Mom.

The mother went into her room and gently closed the door.

Lund sat alone in the living room.

He did not return to his room immediately.

His gaze fell on the coffee table—the small piece of wood under the table legs was something he had placed there yesterday; it was now stable and no longer wobbly.

His gaze then fell on the wall—the old calendar had been torn off by his mother, leaving only a light-colored square mark on the wall.

His gaze finally settled on the old photograph.

The father in the photo.

Feeling awkward and unsure of what to do with my hands.

But the eyes are looking at the camera, or rather—at the person taking the photo.

At that time, it was my mother who pressed the shutter.

Lund stared at it for a long time.

Then he stood up and gently adjusted the angle of the picture frame.

He returned to his room.

Instead of lying down immediately, he sat on the edge of the bed with his hands on his knees.

—The letter has already been sent.

The letter to Xilun should arrive in about five or six days.

The letter to Wolf should arrive in three or four days via the Midtown postal route.

What will Xilun think after seeing the letter?

—They'll probably roll their eyes and then obediently go practice shooting.

Lund's lips curled up slightly.

That brat doesn't say anything, but he actually does every single thing I tell him.

Unlike when I was young, I used to argue with whatever the teacher said.

What happened to Wolf after he saw the letter?

—Given the old man's personality, he'll probably take a sip of tea first, then put the letter aside and talk about it on the day of the gathering.

No rush, Lund is not in a rush.

He only needed to build the bridge; the rest of the journey was up to Xilun himself.

He took a deep breath and slowly lay down.

The mattress was a bit softer than I remembered—my mother had replaced it, but didn't say anything.

Lund put his hands behind his head and looked at the crack in the ceiling.

The moonlight streamed through the window cracks today, illuminating the fissure very clearly.

He suddenly remembered something.

At the moment the mangled monster was defeated beneath the Seventh Wharf, a voice echoed from the depths of the black water.

It was neither the howl of a monster nor a whisper.

Instead, it was a very faint sigh.

Like something that has been asleep for a long time, it turned over slightly after being disturbed.

Then it sank into even deeper darkness.

Lund's fingers tightened slightly.

That thing is still at the bottom of the sea.

Not that severed limb, but something larger, deeper, and older—

He shook his head, suppressing his thoughts.

That's not something I should be thinking about right now.

Go back to the city first, set up the Iron Cross first, and take Xilun to the Society first.

Take it one step at a time.

People who are impatient don't live long.

This was the first lesson he learned while working as a boxer at the docks.

Lund closed his eyes.

A breeze was blowing outside the window, making the tin balcony rattle slightly.

Like an old, simple lullaby that has been played repeatedly for many years.

He sank into darkness with that sound.

There are no dreams.

Still no dream.

The third night without nightmares.

Maybe……

The relentless downpour finally stopped.

……

At 5:00 a.m. the next day, Lund woke up on time.

It wasn't an alarm clock that woke me up—it was my body's instinct.

His long-standing habits mean he almost never needs an alarm clock.

He got up briskly, quickly washed up, and changed into the clothes he had worn when he went out.

The sound of frying eggs could be heard from downstairs.

His mother got up earlier than him.

When Lund came downstairs with his suitcase, breakfast was already laid out on the table.

Fried egg, hot porridge, two steamed buns, and a dish of pickled vegetables.

The exact same configuration as yesterday.

"eat."

My mother sat opposite me, holding that cup of water that was always lukewarm.

Lund ate very quickly.

It wasn't because I was in a hurry, but because I didn't want this breakfast to drag on for too long.

The longer it goes, the less I want to go.

After finishing the last bite of porridge, Lund put down his bowl and stood up.

"Mom, I'm leaving."

The mother stood up and walked to the door.

She took a cloth bag from the coat rack behind the door and stuffed it into Lund's hand.

"I'll eat it on the way. I made a few pies, they're still warm."

Lund took the cloth bag and weighed it in his hand—it was heavy, containing at least seven or eight cakes.

"That's too much."

"You're a big guy, you can eat that much."

Lund looked at his mother.

The morning light had not yet fully risen, and there was only a dim yellow wall lamp in the corridor.

The mother's figure appeared small and quiet under the lamplight.

She didn't cry, she didn't nag, she just stood there calmly, looking up at her son who was a whole head taller than her.

"Write a letter before you come back next time," she said.

"good."

"be safe."

"good."

"Don't get into fights."

"……good."

This last sentence made Lund fall silent for a moment.

—Don't get into fights.

These are the words his mother has been saying to him since he was seven years old.

It has never worked.

But she still said it every time.

Lund stuffed the cloth bag into the side pocket of the suitcase, freeing his hands to give his mother a gentle hug.

The mother's body stiffened for a moment—this family wasn't used to physical contact.

But then she raised her hand and patted Lund on the back.

The pressure was very light, like patting a child to sleep.

"Let's go." She let go of his hand and took a step back. "Don't miss the train."

Lund nodded and turned around.

As I opened the door, the cool morning air rushed in.

There was no one in the alley yet, and the streetlights emitted their last glimmer of light before they died.

He stepped out the door, took two steps, and then turned back once.

My mother stood at the door, wearing a floral apron, her hands folded in front of her.

She neither waved nor chased after him.

Just standing there.

Like a lamp fixed in place.

No matter how far or how long he goes, that light stays on.

Lund turned back and strode into the morning mist.

The suitcase contained a broken knife, a slingshot, hot pies in a cloth bag, and two letters that had already been mailed.

The gray brick clock tower of Tukor town gradually blurred behind him.

The sound of a steam whistle came from afar.

The early bus is coming.