Starting as dockworkers, they swept through Chongqing.

The open space behind the old textile factory was even more crowded than what I saw in West London last night.

The morning mist had not yet dissipated, and the grayish-white water vapor pressed down on the low roof like a layer of damp, moldy cotton.

The tarpaulin was supported by wooden stakes and wires, with dirty water dripping from the edges. The ground was covered with broken bricks and cinders, but mud still seeped up from the cracks, making a sticky sound when you stepped on it.

There were more people in line than last night.

A homeless man, a dockworker, an unemployed female worker, a woman holding a child, and a few veterans with frostbite on their faces.

They all remained silent, occasionally coughing, then immediately covering their mouths with their sleeves, as if afraid of coughing out the last bit of breath that hadn't completely rotted out of their bodies.

Two iron pots were set up at the entrance of the camp.

The hot porridge was boiling, with very few grains of rice and mostly chopped roots and yellowed vegetable leaves, but that little bit of heat was enough to bring a brief glimmer of light to these people's eyes.

A person wearing a white mask stands next to a pot.

They wore grey robes with clean cuffs and white gloves, standing out starkly from the surrounding crowd smeared with mud and sickness.

Everyone entering the camp is first stopped and given a small cup of dark brown liquid.

Some people frowned, some people gagged, but no one refused.

If you refuse, there will be no porridge.

Without porridge, they could only go back to the alley and wait to die.

Xilun stood outside the crowd, the collar of his black trench coat slightly turned up, his gaze passing over the tattered hats and landing deep in the camp.

There was a row of temporary wards partitioned off with wooden boards, and the windows were covered with thick cloth, so you could only see the occasional shadowy figure passing by.

The air smelled of lime, medicine, damp, musty fabric, and a faint, sweet, rotten scent.

It's very light.

The smell was so faint that ordinary people would only find the campsite smelling unpleasant.

But Xilun could smell it clearly.

That substance shares a similar origin with the black liquid seeping from the cracks in the door of the Third Charity Hospital, the wriggling particles in the flesh and blood of the dead rat last night, and the black and red foam that burst from Gray Seventeen's corpse.

They are like different branches of the same river.

Some were murky, some were thick, and some were just the first drops of black water seeping from the ground.

Xilun strode forward.

A man wearing a white mask at the door quickly noticed him.

The other person was tall and thin, with fine wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and a steady gaze. He didn't seem like an ordinary pharmacist, but more like a trained guard.

"Sir, please join the queue at the back."

His voice was very polite.

They were polite, but there was no warmth in their words.

Xilun didn't look at the porridge pot, but calmly said, "I want to go in and take a look."

The man in the white mask paused slightly.

He looked up and sized up Xilun.

A black trench coat, leather gloves, a cane, clean boots, and a quiet aura that couldn't be concealed by mud even when standing among the poor.

"The camp is not open to the public."

The man said, "This place treats patients, and it involves privacy and the medical secrets of the charity hospital. If you are a donor, you can leave your name and the amount, and we will send you the account."

Xilun said, "I'm not here to donate money."

"Then I'm even more sorry."

The man in the white mask stepped to the side, blocking the entrance.

His movements were subtle, yet they precisely blocked Xilun's path forward.

The two grey-robed men who were distributing wooden bowls nearby also stopped what they were doing, their gazes sweeping over them almost imperceptibly.

Further away, in the shadow of the wooden fence behind the ward, a not-so-weak aura stirred slightly.

Xilun's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly.

Third order.

more than one.

There was another one who concealed his aura very well, standing at the back and breathing very lightly, as if he had hidden himself in the mist.

If he hadn't already reached the third level and his perception wasn't so sharp, he might have mistaken that person for an ordinary caregiver.

A camp for homeless people.

Free porridge and medicine were provided, and patients were admitted to hospitals.

However, it harbors at least two third-tier individuals, and possibly even more dangerous ones.

Xilun did not force his way in.

It's easy to force your way in.

But there are too many ordinary people here.

A panicked shout, an out-of-control run, or an overturned pot of porridge could all plunge these patients into chaos.

Moreover, he didn't know how the disease was spreading, nor what was hidden in the camp.

"Where do you get your medicine from?" Siren asked.

The man in the white mask, his eyes unwavering, said, "It will be allocated by the Third Charity Hospital."

Which doctor at the Third Charity Hospital?

"Sir," the man's tone remained polite, but with a hint of warning, "If you need medical attention, you can register. If you are just curious, please leave."

Some people in the crowd looked at Xilun with dissatisfaction.

A thin man with prominent cheekbones coughed and said in a hoarse voice, "Sir, could you please not block the way? We're still waiting for our porridge."

The woman next to him hugged the child tightly and whispered in agreement, "Yes, sir, they give us food and medicine here. What do you want to investigate? Investigate the tax collectors, not this."

Xilun remained silent for a moment.

He noticed the wariness in their eyes.

That's not about being wary of cults.

It was a wariness of someone like him, a "clean person".

In these people's eyes, at least the white mask was given porridge, but he gave nothing except to block the entrance.

This is how this city tames its people.

A simple bowl of thin porridge is enough to make a dying person speak for the blade.

Xilun took a silver coin from his pocket and placed it on the wooden table next to him.

"Give the child in the back a bowl of thicker porridge."

The man in the white mask glanced down at the silver coins but didn't touch them.

Xilun turned and left.

He walked slowly, his boots treading on the wet mud, and his figure was quickly swallowed by the mist.

Inside the camp, the figure standing in the shadows of the ward slowly lowered the corner of the curtain.

"What did he discover?"

A low, hoarse voice came from inside the room.

The man in the white mask walked in, took off his gloves, and said with his head down, "I'm not sure. He didn't force his way in, nor did he question the patient; he only asked about the source of the medicine."

The room was dark.

A woman lay on a simple wooden bed, her belly swollen high, but her face was as pale as a sheet of paper soaked in water.

Her wrists and neck were covered with bluish-black lines, and small hard lumps occasionally bulged under her skin, as if worms were wriggling in her flesh.

A person wearing a gray mask was sitting by the bed.

The mask has no facial features, only two closed slits carved around the eyes.

"Silon".

The gray-masked man uttered the name softly.

The man in the white mask, his back slightly hunched, asked, "Should we notify the church?"

"Give him a heads-up," the gray-masked man said, "but don't touch him. He's already at Tier 3, and everyone in the lower city is watching him. Whoever makes the first move will be targeted."

"That camp?"

"As usual."

The man in the gray mask raised his hand and gently pressed his fingertips against the pregnant woman's swollen belly.

Suddenly, there was a movement in her abdomen.

It wasn't the baby's normal movement, but rather something cold and wet bumping against his fingers through his belly.

The woman opened her mouth silently, and a wheezing sound came from her throat, like a broken bellows.

The gray-masked man's voice was gentle: "Don't be afraid, suffering will give you your place. The living have no value; only those who have endured suffering and survived have value."

The man in the white mask lowered his head and stopped speaking.

At the street corner outside the camp, Xilun stopped next to a crooked gas lamp.

He didn't turn around.

The puddles after the rain rippled gently at my feet, reflecting the blurry outline of the campsite.

Those wearing white masks resumed distributing the porridge, the line continued to move forward, and everything seemed normal.

But in the subtle trembling of the water vapor, Xilun caught another familiar scent.

It's very light.

Like old gun oil, after being washed away by rain, only a trace of the smell remains, embedded deep within the wooden handle.

Lund.

Xilun's expression changed slightly.

Instead of immediately following the scent, he continued forward, bypassing two alleys, and stopped in front of a shop selling used leather boots, looking behind him through the reflection in the shop window.

On the ruins of the clock tower on the north side of the camp, a hunched figure stood in the shadows.

Lund wore an old hat and a gray coat draped over his shoulders, looking as if he had grown into the broken brick wall.

He did not look at Xilen.

His gaze remained fixed on the depths of the wanderers' camp.

He remained motionless for a long time.

Like a hunter who has found the prey's den but is not in a hurry to fire.

Xilun frowned.

He walked over there.

But when he rounded the street corner and climbed onto the ruins, the clock tower was already empty.

Only a few drops of murky rainwater fell from the cracks in the stone, hitting the wooden planks and making a dripping sound.

Xilun crouched down.

There was a very faint boot print on the dust.

Lund's old left foot injury caused his steps to be slightly unbalanced, a fact that Siren would never admit to.

He reached out and touched the broken bricks beside him.

Icy.

The person had just left.

Xilun stood in the ruins, looking down at the camp below, his unease growing even deeper.

Lund said he would leave in seven days.

But he was already looking at the camp.

Perhaps he wasn't preparing to leave Victoria, but rather to walk into a place from which he would never return.

Xilun did not pursue the matter further.

If Lund wanted to avoid him, it would be difficult to find him in a short time.

That old gunman knew the alleyways, rooftops, abandoned wells, and hidden doors of the lower town better than many local gangs did of this decaying labyrinth.

He left the clock tower and went first to the old courtyard in the southern suburbs.

The gate to the courtyard was locked.

Savi is not here.

The fire in the stove had gone out, the cups on the table were washed clean, and Lund's usual chair had been pushed back into place.

The old map of the Southern Continent that had been laid out was also gone, leaving only a mark pressed into the corner of the table.

Xilun stood in the room, his gaze sweeping over the old gun rack against the wall.

One gun is missing.

The one Lund usually used.

He reached out and pressed his hand on the table, a chill spreading silently from his fingertips, tiny frost flowers spreading along the wood grain, then quickly receding.

It's so quiet here.

It was so quiet that it didn't feel like I'd been away from home for just a few days.

Xilun closed his eyes.

A moment later, he turned and left.

The carriage traveled north along the old streets of the southern district, its wheels making a dull thud as they rolled over potholes.

Outside the car window, the smog in Victoria was getting thicker and thicker, with black smoke from the chimneys mingling with the damp fog, like a low, dirty net.

Instead of returning to the Brotherhood's mansion, Celen went to the guild hall where Midas was.

The clubhouse was quiet in the morning.

Several clerks in dark uniforms hurried past carrying account books. When they saw Xilun, they immediately stopped and bowed, their eyes filled with awe and curiosity.

"Mr. Celen."

Midas received him in the small reception room on the second floor.

The fraternity director was still wearing a well-fitting dark gray suit, his lapel pin perfectly aligned, with a half-full cup of black tea beside him.

More like a banker or a negotiator for a large trading company than a gang leader.

"You seem to be in a bad mood," Midas chuckled. "Did Tusol send another letter of condolence, or have the armed insurgents finally lost patience?"

Xilun sat down opposite him.

Do you know that nomad camp to the south?

Midas paused slightly as he served the tea.

"I've heard of it," he said. "The Third Charity Hospital spearheaded a project, with several church charities and businessmen donating money to specifically shelter the homeless and sick. With the recent flu outbreak in the downtown area, it's not surprising that such a place exists."

"influenza?"

Xilun looked at him.

Midas put down his teacup, his expression becoming more serious: "At least that's what we say to outsiders."

"There are signs of the Black Death cult inside."

The room fell silent.

The distant sound of a factory whistle drifted in from outside the window, long and hoarse, like a sick beast panting in the fog.

Midas sighed softly: "Siron, plagues are hard to harm extraordinary beings."

"I know."

"No, you may not know." Midas clasped his hands together and leaned forward slightly.

"For ordinary people, a plague is a disaster, a death knell, a hand that drags a family from the dinner table to the grave."

But for the extraordinary, for the nobles, for those who possess purification potions, private doctors, and independent water sources, it's more of a number on a neighborhood statistics sheet.

Xilun did not speak.

Midas continued, "Every year people die in the lower city—freezing to death, starving to death, dying in coal mine collapses, dying in factory boiler explosions, dying in gang fires."

For many important figures, whether they get sick more or less often doesn't change the final profit on their books.

"What if this isn't an ordinary plague?"

"That depends on where it burns."

Midas's voice was low. "If it burns in the slums, it's a security problem; if it burns at the docks, it's a labor problem; if it burns on the North District trade route, it's an economic problem. Only when it burns into the Upper City will it become a disaster that must be addressed."

Xilun's eyes turned cold.

Are you telling me to mind my own business?

"I'm advising you to first figure out what you're facing," Midas said, not avoiding his gaze.

"You are now at Tier 3, a deterrent, an honorary director of the Brotherhood. Every action you take is no longer merely a matter of personal good or evil."

"If you destroy that camp, you won't save many people, but it will let everyone involved in the camp know that Siron is going to be their enemy."

Xilun suddenly remembered the people waiting for porridge at the camp entrance.

They don't understand intrigue, power struggles, or the Black Death.

All they knew was that there would be a bowl of hot porridge today.

If he were to overturn the porridge pot, he might incur their resentment before he even had a chance to find the source of the illness.

"Has Lund been here?" Siren asked.

Midas shook his head: "No."

Has anyone seen him?

"I can ask for you, but if Mr. Lund wants to avoid all acquaintances, you probably won't get any results."

Xilun remained silent.

Midas looked at him and suddenly asked, "Has something happened to your teacher?"

"not yet."

"Then there's still room for maneuver."

Xilun stood up.

Midas rose as well, and as he saw him to the door, he whispered:

"Mr. Celen, Victoria is a very large city, so large that anyone could die inside and not be discovered."

Yet it is also very small, so small that all real disasters eventually flow to the same place.

"where?"

"A place where interests converge."

Xilun glanced at him.

Midas smiled bitterly: "I'm just an accountant, I don't understand much. But ledgers don't lie, and neither do the dead."

If you really want to investigate, don't just focus on the camp. See who's paying for the medicine, who's supplying the patients, who's taking the patients away, and who's picking people from among the patients.