Starting as dockworkers, they swept through Chongqing.

The old woman looked up, her eyes cloudy.

"Is it really free?"

"That's what everyone says. At least you can take a shower and sleep in a bed there. It's better than waiting to die here."

Another drunkard leaned against the wall and laughed, "What's a bed? The sewers are the real place. The rats there are as fat as piglets; you can catch ten and exchange them for half a bottle of wine."

Aren't you afraid of getting sick?

"Illness?" The drunkard spat. "Only poor people are afraid of illness? Aren't we always sick?"

The group laughed.

His laughter was laced with the sound of phlegm.

Xilun walked past them, his eyes lowered.

The lower suburbs of Victoria are never short of suffering.

Hunger, cold, workplace injuries, gangsters, aristocratic horseshoes, police batons.

Therefore, when a new disaster occurs, the first people to encounter it may not even realize that it is a disaster.

They only see high fever as a cold, lumps as a disease, free porridge as a blessing, and fat rats as good luck.

Xilun found a very ordinary hotel.

The hotel sign was crooked, and an oil lamp was hanging at the entrance, almost going out. The owner behind the counter was a middle-aged man with a bulbous nose and swollen eyelids. He immediately perked up when he saw Xilun's clean trench coat.

"One room."

"A superior room costs one shilling per night, a common room costs eight pence, and a bed costs three pence."

"Standard room".

The boss was taken aback.

People dressed like Xilun usually don't live in ordinary houses.

But once the money was handed over, he couldn't be bothered to ask any further questions.

"Don't open the window on the second floor, at the very back. There's a drainage ditch outside, and it smells terrible. Ignore any noises at night; there are lots of rats."

Xilun took the key.

The room was very narrow.

A wooden bed, a table with a missing leg, and a cracked basin.

The walls were moldy, there were holes gnawed by rats in the corners, and the air smelled of dampness, sweat, and cheap kerosene.

He closed the door and sat on the edge of the bed.

This place is very close to the slums.

Even at night, you can hear the crying of the neighbor's child, the cursing of a drunkard, the hushed coaxing of a woman, and the faint sound of rats running in the sewers.

These sounds reminded him of his childhood.

Dilapidated houses, moldy bread, cold nights, and an ever-insufficient supply of matches and food.

Back then, he, like these people, lived in the shadows of the city.

But later, he climbed out.

Or rather, being kicked deeper and deeper by fate time and time again, only to grit your teeth and climb out again and again.

Xilun sat there for a long time.

He took out a copy of "The Breath of the Styx" and opened it to the first page.

The words are cold.

The lungs and internal organs then contracted slightly.

This breathing technique is perfect for the spectacular snow-capped mountain scenery.

But now, he can't fully focus his attention on cultivation.

The Black Death Cult.

Camp for wanderers.

Fat rat.

Fever and cough.

Subcutaneous mass.

Holy Yuan Black Death Cult.

Lund left seven days later.

These clues, like scattered needles, gradually formed an unsettling shape in my mind.

A faint scratching sound came from outside the window.

Xilun looked up.

Two tiny lights, the size of mung beans, shone from a mouse hole in the corner of the wall.

A fat rat poked its head out.

It is not afraid of people.

It even stared at Xilun for a moment before slowly crawling out.

Its body was abnormally large, its belly bulged, and there seemed to be hard lumps protruding under its fur. It sniffed the air, crawled towards the table leg, and nibbled at the fallen bread crumbs.

Xilun did not move.

After the mouse finished eating the crumbs, it looked up at him again.

For a moment, there was a numb, cloudy look in its eyes.

Unlike wild animals.

Like a patient.

Silen flicked his finger.

A chill swept by silently.

The fat rat froze on the spot, then collapsed.

He walked over and used ice chips to pry open the rat's fur.

The next moment, Xilun's face turned completely cold.

The rat's skin was covered with bluish-black spots, and there were several ulcers on its ventral side, with pus congealing into sticky lumps.

The deepest flesh was necrotic, yet it still twitched faintly.

It looks very similar to the items on those two Black Death cult followers.

It's just rougher.

More primitive.

It is also more suitable for dissemination.

Xiren looked at the corpse.

Suddenly, more faint crawling sounds came from the sewer.

rustle.

rustling.

Like a tide.

The corridor on the second floor of the hotel was very narrow.

The night wind slipped in through the cracks in the broken window, causing the oil lamp on the wall to sway gently, its flame flickering and casting long and short shadows on the damp footprints on the floor.

Xilen stood in the room, looking down at the dead rat.

The obese body was encased in thin ice, its abdomen still swollen, and the bluish-black spots under its skin resembled spoiled seeds buried in its flesh, waiting to sprout.

He did not perform an autopsy immediately.

The source of the disease is unknown.

The mode of transmission is unknown.

Cutting it open rashly will only turn the room into a more dangerous place.

Xilun raised his hand, and the chill gradually pressed into the rat's corpse.

The ice layer first seals the fur, then the blood vessels, and finally spreads inward along the ulceration.

The black particles that were originally wriggling slightly were stimulated by the cold and struggled violently for a short time, like insect eggs being scorched by fire.

Then, they slowly died.

Xilun's eyes remained fixed.

Effective, but not thorough.

With his third-level chilling power, he could freeze and kill the pathogens on a single rat. But how many rats were there in the entire slum?

several hundred?

several thousand?

Or more?

But how many people have actually been in contact with these things: homeless people, pharmacies, sewers, and campsites?

He recalled a note in the Black Death cult's materials.

Suspected of being artificially cultivated.

nourish.

This word is more terrifying than its spread.

Transmission only allows the disease to spread.

Cultivation means that someone is screening, improving, and accelerating the process to make the disease more suitable for a certain purpose.

Xilun took out a small glass bottle, put the sealed dead rat inside, wrapped it in a cloth, and placed it in an inner bag.

He then pushed open a window and looked towards the back of the hotel.

There's a drainage ditch right outside the window.

The black water flowed slowly, carrying oil and wood chips.

The walls beside the ditch are riddled with holes, and rats can be seen darting in and out from time to time.

They are fatter and slower than ordinary mice, and some even drag their swollen hind legs, yet still stubbornly crawl toward the smell of food.

In the distance, a homeless man is rummaging through a trash can.

He pulled out half a moldy loaf of bread and was about to put it in his mouth when a rat darted out from the bottom of the bucket and bit the other end of the bread.

The homeless man cursed and swung the stick down.

Snapped.

The rat's head was smashed.

He picked up the half-eaten bread stained with blood, wiped it on his clothes, and continued eating.

Xilun's fingers tightened slightly as he gripped the window frame.

Frost crept out from the cracks in the wood, only to be pushed back down by him.

Don't rush.

He is no longer fighting alone in an abandoned mine.

This is a city.

Once panic breaks out, more people will die than the plague itself.

The source must be identified first.

Camp for wanderers.

The Third Charity Hospital.

Sewer rats.

The triggering pathogen within the bodies of Black Death cult members.

The four lines likely point to the same place.

Xilun closed the window.

He didn't sleep.

All night, he sat on the edge of the bed, reading "The Breath of the Styx".

There was only a small oil lamp on the rotten wooden table, its wick blackened and its light dim. The sounds of rats outside the window came and went, like some kind of tide in the darkness.

The first level of the Breath of the Styx is called "Na Han".

It does not seek power, but only to allow the lungs and internal organs to adapt to the cold and damp air.

It is different from the Xuan Yin Breathing Method.

The Xuan Yin Breathing Method allows coldness to permeate the body, becoming part of the body's natural rhythms.

The breath of the Styx is more feminine and tends to affect breathing, illness, and erosion.

It doesn't freeze the enemy instantly, but rather acts like a cold mist that seeps into the throat, slowly spreading along the alveoli, tooth roots, eye sockets, and eardrums.

pain.

cold.

Nausea.

Disorder of the five senses.

Like a sudden, serious illness.

The more Xilun looked at it, the more he felt that this technique was not grand enough, but it was extremely suitable for dark environments.

If it could be combined with the Xuan Yin Coldness, it might be able to supplement his ability to suppress the enemy's internal organs from a distance.

More importantly, it requires an extremely cold environment to get started.

The snow-capped mountain scenery is absolutely stunning.

Before entering the spectacular snow-capped mountains, he must figure out whether the anomalies in the slums have spiraled out of control.

As dawn approached, a commotion arose downstairs.

"Boss! Another one died last night!"

"So what if he/she dies? What does it have to do with me?"

"He's sleeping in your backyard shed!"

"Then drag him out! Don't block the door! The inspection team is coming today, bad luck!"

Siron closed the book.

He pushed open the door and went downstairs.

In the lobby on the first floor, several laborers renting out beds were gathered around the back door.

The owner, with a bulbous nose, wore a coat, looked impatient, and held half a sausage in his hand.

A man was lying on the muddy ground in the backyard.

He was about forty years old, so thin he was just a skeleton, and he was wrapped in a tattered blanket.

His face was ashen, with blackish-red blood foam remaining at the corners of his mouth, and two swollen lumps on the side of his neck, resembling rotten fruit covered by skin.

A young laborer was covering his nose.

"He was still alive last night, coughing all night. He went silent before dawn."

The boss yelled, "Didn't I tell you not to let sick people in?"

He gave two pence.

"Drag him out!"

"Where to take it?"

Annoyed by the questions, the shop owner pointed to the end of the street.

"Doesn't the homeless camp take people in? Throw them out at their doorstep!"

Someone in the crowd whispered, "I heard there's hot porridge at the camp today."

"There's still medicine."

"If you go too late, there won't be any beds left."

"Why don't we go check it out? There are so many people coughing these past few days."

Xiren stood in the shadows of the stairs, without saying a word.

His gaze fell on the deceased's wrist.

There are fine bluish-black lines under the skin.

It was much shallower and more chaotic than the two stalkers from last night.

Like the crude spread of the same disease.

Two laborers used the broken door panel to lift the body, preparing to walk out.

Xilun raised his hand to stop him.

The shopkeeper frowned: "Sir, don't come any closer, it's dirty."

Xilun handed over a banknote.

The boss was suddenly speechless.

"Buy him a coffin, but don't send it to the camp."

The boss was taken aback.

The people around were also stunned.

In places like this, it's considered dignified for the dead to be rolled up in a straw mat and taken away.

coffin?

That's something only people with families would think about.

The shopkeeper clutched the banknotes, his eyes filled with greed and hesitation: "Sir, a coffin isn't cheap."

The rest is yours.

The boss immediately changed his expression: "Don't worry, I'll have someone take care of it myself."

Xilun glanced at him.

"Do not cut the body, do not touch the blood, and sprinkle lime on the ground after moving it. Anyone who has touched the body should wash their hands and boil water to do so."

The boss nodded repeatedly, but whether he would actually do it or not, nobody knew.

Xilun turned and left the inn.

The sky was just beginning to lighten on the street.

The mornings in the slums are not like those in the North, which are awakened by the sounds of horse-drawn carriages and newsboys, but are gradually torn apart by coughs, arguments, and the scraping of iron pots.

At the alley entrance, a woman was holding a child and queuing to buy black bread. The child's face was flushed red from the fever, and a wet cloth was stuck to his forehead.

An old man was squatting by the wall, holding a small brown bottle given by the charity hospital's partner pharmacy; the bottle was already empty.

As Xilun passed by, the old man was muttering to himself.

"Why do I feel even colder after taking the medicine..."

He suddenly coughed violently, and a little dark red seeped out from between his fingers.

Xilun paused in his tracks.

The small brown bottle was stamped with a black seal.

From a distance, it looks like a closed eye.

He didn't grab the bottle.

There are too many people here.

Any unusual behavior will attract attention, and this attention will accelerate the spread of the information.

Siren bought the cheapest hot soup from a street vendor.

The stall owner was a one-eyed man with a messy beard, and the iron pot was bubbling with bones and vegetable roots that had been simmering for who knows how long.

"Sir, you don't seem to live in this area."

"Just passing by."

"Don't linger when you pass by," the one-eyed man said in a low voice. "It hasn't been very clean lately."

Xilun took the hot soup.

"Not clean?"

"Illness." The stall owner gestured towards the end of the street. "First it was under the bridge, then it was the drainage ditch on the east side, and then several rat catchers also collapsed. The people at the charity hospital said it was a cold-season ailment, and that medicine would cure it. But it doesn't seem like it to me."

Why?

The stall owner wiped his hands with a rag.

"When I was young, I worked on ships and witnessed the port plague."

That thing comes fast, and dies fast too.

But this time it was strange; some of the sick died, some didn't, and those who didn't die started heading towards the southern camp.

"Is nobody doing anything about it?"

The stall owner chuckled.

"Who cares? The police handle our fights, collect taxes, and catch coal thieves. Illness? Illness is a problem for the poor."

Xilun took a sip of soup.

It tasted terrible, so salty it was bitter.

Where is the camp for homeless people?

The stall owner gave him a wary look.

Why are you asking this?

"An acquaintance might have gone."

"Behind the old textile factory on the south side," the stall owner said. "But someone like you is better off not going. There are too many people there now; it's easy to get in, but hard to get out."

Xilun put down his bowl.

Thank you.

He continued south.

The further you go, the more people there are.

They were all homeless people in tattered clothes, unemployed workers, patients, and women with children.

Like fish drawn by the same scent, they slowly flowed in the same direction along the streets, underpasses, and along the edges of drains.

Some people were whispering among themselves.

"I heard they eat porridge twice a day."

"There are doctors available to see patients."

"You can even take a shower."

Will they register my name when I go?

"Let's register, what are we afraid of?"

"I heard that some people went in and never came out."

"Once you're better, of course you'll find work. Who's going to come back to sleep under a bridge?"

At the edge of the line, several people wearing white masks were maintaining order.

They wore long gray coats with clean cuffs, but the soles of their shoes were covered in the same dark brown mud.

The mud smelled of lime powder and some kind of medicinal liquid.

Xilun did not get too close.

He stood under the eaves of a closed blacksmith shop across the street, observing the water vapor.

A wooden fence was set up at the entrance of the homeless camp.

Inside the enclosure were several large pots, steaming hot. A makeshift tent was set up nearby, and behind the tent was the dilapidated red brick building of an old textile factory.

Everyone who enters will receive a bowl of porridge.

Before they drink the porridge, the person in the white mask gives them a small spoonful of dark brown liquid.

Some people complained about the bitter taste, so the person in the white mask gently said, "After taking the medicine, you won't cough at night."

The tone was very gentle.

Like a true philanthropist.

But Xilun noticed that among those who drank the medicine, several had their subcutaneous bluish-black lines fade significantly, and their expressions had also softened considerably.

The medicine can suppress the symptoms.

But suppression is not the same as treatment.

If they cultivate the pathogen, then the medicine is the chain.