Starting as dockworkers, they swept through Chongqing.

Silence fell over the room once more.

Bard suddenly felt a chill down his spine.

He disliked this kind of roundabout scheming.

In his view, it's simple and direct: beat those who disobey, and kill those who refuse to submit.

But Albert is not that kind of person.

This new CEO is like a cold ruler.

He won't ask about likes or dislikes first.

He only measures length, value, and how far a person can be suppressed and pushed.

"Has the rendezvous point been decided?" Albert asked.

Colleen took a folded piece of paper from her pocket: "I just received a report from the South District team that the original location is no longer usable. The Black Death Cult has increased its manpower near Bone Alley. The temporary rendezvous point has been moved to the Old St. Mary's Bell Tower on the outer edge of the South District."

Albert frowned almost imperceptibly.

"The clock tower?"

"Yes. It's two blocks from the Third Charity Hospital, and there's an old air raid shelter underground, which is suitable for the handover."

Albert did not speak immediately.

He walked to the map and looked at the densely packed streets and alleys of the southern district.

The Old St. Mary's Bell Tower is located at the junction of the outer and inner rings of the South District, surrounded by abandoned churches, clock workshops, sewer access gates, and a long-discontinued tramway.

It's suitable for receiving passes.

It is also suitable for ambushes.

Who chose the spot?

"South District Liaison Officer Gray."

Albert's eyes turned colder: "How long has it been since Gray showed up in person?"

Colleen's expression changed slightly.

"Three days."

Bud immediately said, "Has something happened to him?"

"It's not possible."

Albert picked up his coat. "Inform Siren that the rendezvous point remains at the Old St. Mary's Bell Tower."

Colleen paused, startled: "If there's a problem there..."

"Changing things now will only make the problem more deeply hidden."

Albert fastened his cufflinks, his voice steady and calm.

"Let him go."

Bard couldn't help but say, "Chief Executive, this is really pushing him into a trap."

Albert glanced at him.

"I led him into the trap from the very beginning."

Bard was speechless.

Albert continued, "The only difference is whether I designed this trap or the Black Death Cult deepened it. If Siren doesn't even have the ability to detect danger, preserve himself, and complete the handover, he doesn't deserve our resources."

Colleen hesitated: "But physical evidence is very important."

"I will send a second team to follow up."

Albert said, "Keep a distance of three blocks and don't interfere unless it's confirmed that the evidence is about to fall into the hands of the Black Death."

"What about Xilun?"

Albert remained silent for a moment.

"Save them if you can."

These four words are cold.

But it was milder than Bader had imagined.

At least it's not "ignore it".

Albert walked to the door, then stopped.

"Also, look up the symbol for the closed-eyed crow."

Colleen's eyes narrowed: "You suspect there's someone behind the Black Death Cult?"

"The Black Death Cult has been dormant for so many years, and suddenly it revived during the war, and just happened to get its hands on something like contaminated hand bones. It couldn't just be a few mad doctors getting together to do experiments."

Albert pushed open the door.

The light from the corridor illuminated his face, making his expression appear even sharper.

"There is no plague without a cause in this city."

……

South District.

In the basement behind the Third Charity Hospital, kerosene lamps emitted a dim, yellowish light.

The walls were damp, and water droplets slowly slid down the cracks in the bricks, dripping into the iron basin in the corner.

Tick.

Tick.

Each sound was like a patient's drawn-out breath before death.

A row of hospital beds was placed in the center of the basement.

There were more than a dozen patients lying on the bed, men, women, young and old. Most of them were so thin that they were just skeletons, and their skin was covered with black spots. Some of the black spots had merged into large patches, like charred tree bark.

But they did not struggle.

Each person had a grayish-white pill in their mouth, their eyes unfocused, as if they were lost in some gentle dream.

A man in a black robe walked slowly along the hospital bed.

He wore a bird-beak mask with fine patterns sewn along the edges with silver thread.

Two assistants followed behind him.

An assistant pushed a cart filled with syringes, medicine bottles, scalpels, and a thick record book.

"Lesion number seven, the black scab has spread to the chest, but breathing is still stable."

"Lesion number twelve has an overreaction in its spleen and is not expected to survive the night."

"Lesion number fifteen..."

The assistant's voice suddenly stopped.

A little boy was lying in bed number fifteen.

He looked no more than eleven or twelve years old, his hands and feet were as thin as sticks, his chest rose and fell, and there were dried tear stains at the corners of his eyes.

The man in the black robe stopped and bent down to look at him.

The little boy struggled to open his eyes, his voice weak: "Sir...where's my mother?"

The assistant lowered his head.

The man in the black robe reached out his gloved hand and gently stroked the boy's forehead.

"She's waiting for you in a clean place."

Will I be alright?

"meeting."

The man in the black robe spoke gently, "The pain will pass, the hunger will pass, the cold will pass. You will become very light, as light as ashes."

The boy seemed to understand, but not quite.

His lips twitched as if he wanted to laugh, but he only coughed up a little blood.

The man in the black robe straightened up.

"Record number 15 is in good condition and will be sent to the lower level tonight."

The assistant's fingers trembled: "High Priest, he's still a child."

The man in the black robe turned to look at him.

The eyes behind the bird-beak mask were calm.

"So he is purer."

The assistant dared not say anything more.

The man in the black robe continued walking forward.

At the end of the basement, there is an iron door.

There is a crow with its eyes closed painted on the door.

The crow folded its wings, as if it were asleep, or as if it were guarding a dream that had not yet ended.

A low chanting sound came from inside the iron gate.

It was disjointed, like many people whispering simultaneously in different rooms, their words overlapping and creating a chilling buzz.

The man in the black robe pushed open the door and entered.

Behind the door was not an ordinary room, but a spacious hall converted from an old sewer system.

A black stone platform stood in the center of the hall.

On the stone platform is a half-dried arm.

No, it should have been a half-dried arm that was displayed.

The stone platform is now empty.

Several believers knelt around them, their foreheads pressed to the ground, their bodies trembling uncontrollably.

In the corner, an elderly man covered in bandages sat in a wheelchair.

Half of his face was ulcerated, but his right eye was unusually bright.

"The item hasn't been found yet?"

The old man's voice was hoarse.

The man in the black robe removed his mask, revealing a handsome but pale face.

He didn't look crazy at all; he even seemed like a well-educated young doctor.

"The armed insurgents have changed their course."

The old man laughed, his laughter accompanied by a wet, sticky sound of phlegm.

"That piece of hand bone cannot be lost. Without it, the broodstock cannot be stable, and these lesions in the southern region will rot away in vain."

The young doctor lowered his head: "I've already arranged for people to keep an eye on them. The people escorting them tonight might be Siren from the North District Brotherhood."

The old man's laughter stopped.

"The Golden Knight?"

"Yes."

Why did he get involved?

"Albert is testing him."

The old man closed his eyes, as if savoring the name.

"The new leader of the armed insurgent party... a young man who likes to push others onto the scales."

The young doctor asked, "Should we avoid Siren and only retrieve the sacred relics?"

"No."

The old man opened his eyes.

A light that seemed almost compassionate shone in his bright right eye.

"A man like Siren is physically strong, mentally resilient, and full of vitality. If he could become a source of infection, he might be more valuable than a thousand poor people in the South District."

The young doctor frowned slightly: "He's in danger."

"Plagues are never afraid of danger."

The old man raised his decaying hand and pointed to the closed-eyed crow on the wall.

"Besides, some people also want to see how far he can go."

The young doctor looked up: "That important person?"

The old man did not answer.

A muffled impact suddenly came from deep underground.

Like some enormous creature turning over in the darkness.

The worshippers kneeling around the stone platform pressed their foreheads even lower.

The old man said softly, "Let Bone Alley open its doors, let the clock tower ring. Now that the Golden Knight has arrived, the South District should offer a decent gift."

The young doctor put the bird-beak mask back on.

"Yes, ma'am."

……

The old freight road in the North District.

The real trucks moved slowly through the night.

The wheels were wrapped in thick cloth, and the horses' hooves were covered with soft leather, so the sound of their movement was mostly swallowed up by the fog.

Siren sat next to the second car, his fingers resting on the wooden planks of the carriage.

The box was right behind me.

The three prisoners were placed in different carriages, each with a cloth stuffed in their mouth and chains tied around their bodies, each guarded by two gunmen.

Kusso sat in the first car, while Rena, disguised as a female worker accompanying the team, followed at the back.

Rhodes had no companions.

Someone must be stationed at the Brotherhood residence.

In the darkness, the air was thick with moisture.

Xilun could feel the slowly flowing sewage in the nearby underground sewers, and also the dampness condensing in the cracks in the walls.

The natural ability to divide water adds a hidden layer to the world's structure.

He heard the sound in the past.

Now, he can also "hear" the water.

Every drop of water has weight, direction, and a faint, almost non-existent emotion.

At the end of the old freight route, Kusso raised his hand.

The convoy stopped.

A Brotherhood scout emerged from the shadows ahead and whispered, "Young Master, the changeover point is just ahead. The main line is already being watched; there are at least three groups of informants."

Xilun asked, "Which side are you from?"

"There are gangs from the South District, people who are suspected of being armed rioters, and another group that is hard to identify."

"If you can't tell, remember the key features."

"Yes."

The scout withdrew.

Kuso turned to look at Xilun.

"Young Master, according to the original plan?"

Xilun did not answer immediately.

He looked up at the streetlights through the fog.

The lights were dim, and a few frozen moths flew around.

The southern district in the distance resembled a sick beast lying in the darkness, its breath exhaling the stench of decay, medicine, coal smoke, and damp, corpse-like odors.

They haven't really entered the South District yet.

But the air has changed.

Xilun reached out and pressed the Soul-Suppressing Nail in his sleeve.

The dark mark on his wrist lay dormant and silent.

The quieter it is, the more it indicates that the severed hand bone is extraordinary.

"As planned."

he said.

"But from now on, everyone must wear masks, and sprinkle purification powder on your cuffs and collars. Without my order, no one is allowed to touch any corpses, drink water from the South District, or accept anything from anyone on the street."

Kusso's expression was serious: "Understood."

Xilun looked into the deeper night.

"And also, if you hear a bell—"

He paused for a moment.

The wind blew from the end of the old freight route, carrying a very faint and distant sound.

when--

Like a bell.

It sounded like a hollow bone cavity being struck.

Everyone in the convoy froze for a moment.

Xilun slowly stood up.

In the south, the old St. Mary's Clock Tower rang its first chime in the darkness.

It was a full hour earlier than the agreed time.

The bell rang only once.

The lingering sound lingered in the fog for a long time.

It passed through abandoned freight chutes, through collapsed brick walls and open spaces piled with coal ash, like a cold needle gently piercing everyone's eardrums.

Kusso immediately lowered his body and pressed his palm against the gun handle.

The eight gunmen remained silent, but approached the carriage almost simultaneously, forming a loose but effective defensive perimeter.

Rena walked up from the last car, her face looking very unpleasant.

"The Old St. Mary's Bell Tower?"

"It should be."

Xilun looked south.

The thick fog obscured the location of the clock tower, leaving only a faint, dark shadow visible.

The rendezvous point has not yet been officially announced.

The clock tower rang first.

This is no coincidence.

The messenger sent by Rhodes arrived from the back alley, slightly out of breath, and handed over a wax-sealed paper tube.

"Young master, this is the temporary code and rendezvous point sent by the armed insurgents."

Xilun took the paper tube and opened it.

There were only a few lines of text on the paper.

Reception point: Underground warehouse of the old St. Mary's Clock Tower in the South District.

The code: Crows don't roost in cemeteries.

The reply was: The patient will guard the door for it.

Xilun stared thoughtfully at the two coded messages.

crow.

patient.

Gatekeeper.

This code… He examined the paper, lost in thought.

Rena also saw the contents of the paper and whispered, "Young Master, what happened to the rendezvous point?"

"I don't know, something feels off."

Xilun had no evidence, but his unusually powerful mental strength caused a nagging feeling to linger between his brows.

It seems to be hinting at something.

People with strong mental fortitude are naturally good at paying attention to details, but this ability to uncover details lies hidden in their subconscious, making it difficult for them to articulate anything concrete.

I just found it strange.

Kusso frowned: "So, are we still going?"

Xilun folded the note and tucked it into his pocket.

"go."

Kusso opened his mouth, but in the end, he swallowed his words.

He knew that the young master was not a reckless person.

The more dangerous it is, the more important something is hidden there.

Xilun looked at the messenger: "Return to the manor and tell Rhodes that there might be something amiss at the rendezvous point. Have him follow the second emergency plan. The manor will not accept any unfamiliar visitors tonight, and all water sources must be sealed off."

"Yes."

The messenger left quickly.

Xilun then looked at Rena: "Take two people and break away from the group. Wait for me outside Fishbone Alley. If I don't come out before 1 a.m., give all the intelligence for tonight to Rhodes. Don't come to the South District to look for me."

Rena was silent for a moment.

"Young master, may I go in?"

"unnecessary."

Xilun spoke calmly, but there was no room for negotiation.

Rena excels at intelligence gathering, disguise, and route coordination, making her unsuitable for forcing her way into the contaminated area set up by the Black Death Cult.

Putting the right people in the right places is the way to survive.

Rena took a deep breath and nodded.

"clear."

She quickly picked out two of the fraternity members who were best at running errands and using coded communication, and disappeared into a nearby alley.

The convoy continued on its way.

At the end of the abandoned freight road was a cluster of low-rise shacks.

This place is already close to the edge of the southern district.

Piles of broken planks, rags, and scrap metal frames lined both sides of the road, while expired conscription notices and pharmacy purchase restrictions were plastered on the walls.

The rain soaked through the paper, blurring the writing into a clump, like rotten skin.

The further you go, the more complex the smells in the air become.

soot.

Fecal matter.

Disinfectant.

Inexpensive ointment.

There's also a sweet, rotten meat smell.

Occasionally, you can see people huddled up on the street.

They were wrapped in blankets, leaning against the wall, not even looking up when they heard the sound of wheels. Someone was coughing softly, the coughs like broken bellows, each one sounding as if it were tearing their lungs out.

A thin little girl squatted under a streetlamp, holding half a piece of black bread in her hands, her eyes fixed on the truck.

She has three dark spots on her cheeks.

Upon seeing this, Kusso tightened his grip on the gun.