Starting as dockworkers, they swept through Chongqing.

The harbor was shrouded in a light gray mist in the early morning.

The distant sound of a steam whistle pierced the damp air, like a heavy beast breathing heavily in the fog.

The smells of coal ash, salty and fishy odors, and the aroma of hot bread mingled together at the dock, carried by the sea breeze to people's faces.

Xilun stood at the back of the crowd, carrying an old leather suitcase.

The suitcase wasn't heavy; inside were only a few changes of clothes, medicine, a golden gun, books, some things Lund had left behind, and the letter he had folded and refolded.

What truly weighs on him is what's inside his body.

The chill deep within the bones, the seal left by the black feather, the almost instinctive stitching power of the evil god's severed limbs, and a storm that occasionally roars in the depths of the blood vessels.

These things are like several snakes locked in the same iron cage; they haven't killed each other yet, but they're not quiet for a moment either.

The Tulip stopped at Pier 3.

It was a two-and-a-half-story ocean-going steam passenger and cargo ship, painted in dark red, with mottled rust showing on the edges due to sea salt corrosion.

An oval bronze plaque hangs at the bow of the ship, engraved with a tulip bent by the wind.

The chimney was spewing black smoke, and sailors were running on the deck dragging thick cables, while the iron chain winches made a screeching sound.

The ship was not luxurious.

Unlike the white-painted cruise ships reserved for Victorian aristocrats, it lacked railings as clean as bone china and boarding stairs covered with red carpets.

The Tulip was more like an old beast that had been fighting on the sea for many years, covered in scars, but still strong enough to get through the storm and send a ship full of people with their own thoughts to the chaotic sea.

Xilun looked up at the ship's side.

It was already packed with people.

There were merchants in thick woolen coats, women holding children, sailors with tattoos all over their faces, mercenaries with knives at their waists and fierce eyes, and a few silent travelers wearing old cloaks.

They kept their distance from each other, sizing each other up, but pretended not to be looking at each other.

After leaving Victoria, many people will be given a new name.

Many people will also lose their names completely.

Xilun handed over the ticket.

The tall, thin crew member in charge of checking tickets glanced at the tickets, then at his face.

The ticket had a pseudonym written on it, the handwriting was neat, and all the seals were present.

The crew member didn't ask any questions, but simply pointed behind him.

"Second floor, starboard, cabin number seventeen. Don't go to the wrong one. After the ship sets sail, don't go into the lower decks. There are no lights there. If you fall in, no one will be able to save you."

Xilun nodded slightly, picked up his suitcase, and boarded the ship.

The wooden footboards swayed gently underfoot, and the seawater lapped against the hull of the boat, producing a dull, rhythmic sound.

With each step he took, he could feel a subtle tearing sensation deep within his body, like an old wound being awakened by the dampness and then slowly stitched back together by some kind of dark power.

That kind of stitching is not gentle.

It's more like cold iron wires piercing through flesh and blood, forcibly tightening the parts that should be closed.

Xilun remained unmoved.

By the time he was in Victoria, he had become accustomed to pain.

As I boarded the deck, the Tulip sounded its horn again.

On the dock, some waved, some cried, and some stood silently.

A young woman ran a few steps along the side of the boat, clutching a white handkerchief so tightly it was almost deformed.

The man on the boat didn't turn around; he just stood in the crowd with his head down, his shoulders trembling slightly.

In another corner, a group of men who looked like sailors were laughing loudly around a bottle of liquor. One of them had a scar on his face that ran diagonally from his ear to his chin, and his laughter sounded like a broken gong.

"Why cry when you're already on Prisoner Island? You can cry when you come back alive."

Someone nearby spat.

"Say less, it's bad luck."

Prisoner Islands.

Xilun silently repeated the name in his heart.

An archipelago deep in the Chaotic Sea, which is also where he is headed next.

The boat slowly moved away from the shore.

The mooring ropes were untied, the chains were rolled back, and the gap between the dock and the ship gradually widened.

Black seawater, churning with white foam, slowly pushed the familiar land on the shore away.

Saint Laurent was not behind this small port, but Siren could still see the vast city shrouded in gray fog.

Gunshots, rainy night, old courtyard, Lund's white cloth.

There were also the trembling yet warm hands of an old man adjusting his collar in the sunset in Tukor town.

"Live well."

Xilun closed his eyes.

The damp sea breeze swept across his face, bringing a pricking chill.

He gripped the railing, watching the harbor gradually shrink, the people on the shore turn into blurry black dots, and the land slowly sink into the fog.

This was the first time he had left this place.

But he knew he wouldn't be back anytime soon.

He cannot return until he has truly refined the pollution within his body, uncovered the secrets of the Storm Bloodline, and possessed sufficient power.

Victoria is no longer a way out.

There is a government, a church, Tussor, remnants of the Black Death, Fowles, and the silent, cold upper echelons hidden behind archives and high walls.

More importantly, Lund is buried there.

Xilun stood there for a long time, until the morning mist was torn apart by the sea breeze and the sunlight shone on the gray-blue sea, before he picked up his suitcase and turned to walk towards the cabin.

The second-floor starboard corridor was narrow and dark.

The wooden planks underfoot gleamed from being trodden by countless boots, and a few kerosene lamps swayed on the wall.

Every few steps you could smell different odors: cheap perfume, damp clothes, ointment, alcohol, coal smoke, and the sour smell of people who hadn't bathed in a long time.

Cabin number seventeen is at the end of the corridor.

Xilun opened the door with the key.

The room was tiny, with a narrow bed fixed to the wall, a small table nailed to the wall, a wooden cabinet that could barely fit a suitcase, and a porthole no bigger than the palm of your hand, the edges of which were covered in salt frost.

The ship trembled slightly, and the small lamp on the table made a soft rustling sound.

Xilun locked the door with his backhand.

Instead of resting, he first checked the entire room.

There was no one under the bed, the back panel of the wooden cabinet had no hidden compartments, the sea was visible to the starboard through the porthole, and shadows could be seen from the door crack below the corridor.

After confirming that there was nothing wrong, he took off his coat and unbuttoned his shirt.

The mirror was small, set inside the cabinet door, and its edges had turned black.

Xilen stood in front of the mirror and saw a body that was even more unfamiliar than before she left Victoria.

My chest, shoulders, back, and sides are covered in fine cracks.

Unlike ordinary scars, those cracks had an unhealthy grayish-white edge, while a black aura slowly moved within them.

They burrowed through flesh and blood like living things, stitching the broken pieces together bit by bit.

In some places, you can even see black lines embedded under the skin, contracting slightly with each heartbeat.

Xilun raised his hand and pressed it against his left rib.

That place was once torn apart by Clement's sword energy, and later completely shattered in the war of the gods.

The wound has now closed up, but a hollow pain still lingers deep within the bone.

He then touched his right shoulder.

It was once pierced by crossbow bolts, then cracked by the force of Fowles' punches, and then almost completely rebuilt when Lady Black Raven descended.

Now, beneath the skin and flesh, there is a faint, hard texture like feather bones, and when touched, a flash of scarlet heat will pass by.

Xilun slowly exhaled.

The temperature inside the cabin dropped suddenly, and a little white frost formed on the edge of the porthole.

He immediately suppressed the chill.

The white frost stopped.

This indicates that the Xuan Yin Breathing Technique is still functioning, and although the core of the spirit is covered with cracks, it has not completely collapsed.

The Breath of the Styx lies dormant in the deeper reaches, like a cold, dark river.

The Great Thunder Breathing Law was noticeably weaker, with only scattered sparks of thunder intent remaining, making it difficult to sustain a third-tier battle.

And the power of the evil god's severed limbs...

Xiren stared at the deepest crack on his chest.

Suddenly, a wisp of black smoke seeped out, like insects that had smelled blood, crawling along the crack.

The next moment, the black energy was frozen by the chill in his bones and then sealed back into the depths of his flesh by the black feathers.

It did not demonstrate any independent consciousness.

At least not now.

It's more like an instinct.

If the host dies, it will repair it.

When flesh and blood begin to rot, it is stitched up.

It doesn't care whether the repaired thing is still the original flesh and blood.

"This symbiotic feeling...it's as if we were originally one, sharing a common origin and coexisting!"

"Don't believe it."

"Silen said in a low voice."

This is a warning left by Lady Black Crow.

It was also his own judgment.

He closed his eyes, pressed two fingers against his temples, and massaged them slowly.

The pain in my body came in layers, like countless tiny gears turning inside my bones.

If it were an ordinary person, they would probably have been driven insane by this constant torment.

Xilun simply sat down on the edge of the bed and gradually calmed his breathing.

There is a lot to do next.

First, understand your own situation.

He needed to know the extent to which the remnants of the evil god could be stitched together, and under what circumstances they would erode one's mind.

Ms. Black Crow said that the weaker he was, the more susceptible he was to contamination that would seep into his brain from the site of the trauma.

Childhood pain, Lund's death, and the mother's curses can all become rifts.

Second, understand the sea of ​​chaos.

The rules in Victoria were already complex, but at least there were overt frameworks such as the government, the church, the nobility, and gangs.

Unlike the Chaotic Sea, where order is loose and power is chaotic, one can live, or one can die silently in the waves.

Third, subsequent spiritual practice.

He can't rely solely on the Xuan Yin Breathing Technique to survive.

Breath of the Styx requires materials, an environment, and more complete knowledge of third-tier cultivation.

The Storm Bloodline cannot be tapped solely by instinct. If Lady Black Raven is not mistaken, the power within him from the Storm Duke lineage may be the key to suppressing the evil god's corruption and advancing to a higher level.

There are also resources.

Money, materials, identity, residence, intelligence channels.

If a person has no place to stay, he can only drift at sea forever.

Xilun can kill, can flee, and can grit his teeth and advance in desperate situations, but he knows very well that true long-term cultivation cannot rely solely on bloodshed.

He needs a starting point.

An identity that would allow him to temporarily gain a foothold in the Prisoner Islands.

Xilun raised his right hand and slowly clenched his fist.

A slight popping sound came from his knuckles, and a chill gathered in his palm, which he then withdrew in the next instant.

The power did not disappear. In fact, due to the evil god's instinctive stitching, many of the body's damages were forcibly repaired.

He can still fight as a third-order aberrant, but every time he goes all out, it can cause a crack in the balance within his body.

He then tried to manipulate the water vapor.

A distant echo came from the sea outside the porthole, like countless tiny silver threads trembling slightly in my senses.

The Water Dividing talent remains. The Storm Bloodline's affinity for the tides seems even clearer than before.

Xilun loosened his fist.

"At least, we can still fight."

This sentence was spoken very softly.

But it was like driving a nail into yourself.

He buttoned his clothes up again, took out the medicine and drank a small sip, then took the black bone whistle out of his inner pocket and glanced at it.

The bone whistle has cracks and a dark color, as if it had been burned or soaked in blood for many years.

It lay quietly in his palm, yet it instinctively made Xilun feel a kind of distant gaze upon him.

This is not a distress signal.

This is positioning.

He put the bone whistle away.

The ship suddenly rocked violently, and shouts and laughter came from outside the corridor.

The Tulip has completely left the coastal waters and begun sailing into deeper waters.

The sea outside the window was no longer the gray mixed with mud and sand near the port, but gradually turned into a deep blue, like a boundless piece of cold iron.

Xilun sat on the edge of the bed, closing his eyes to rest.

Half an hour later, a long-lost feeling of hunger returned to my stomach.

A third-tier body requires a lot of food, not to mention that there are several forces within him vying for repair materials.

Xilun put on his coat, made sure the cane with its hidden blade and the Soul-Suppressing Nail were still there, and then opened the hatch.

In the corridor, children were crying, women were whispering to comfort them, and a drunkard was scolded and driven away after knocking on the wrong door.

He walked through the sounds and came to the lower-level restaurant.

The restaurant on the ship was more lively than he had imagined.

Dozens of fixed wooden tables were placed in the spacious cabin, their surfaces polished to a shine by oil stains.

A copper lantern hung on the wall, and the aroma of stewing fish soup wafted from the direction of the stove.

Sailors, merchants, travelers, and mercenaries sat together, their voices, the clinking of bowls and spoons, and the stomping of boots creating a cacophony.

Xilun brought over a dark bread, fried fish, and hot soup, and chose a corner seat.

He didn't rush to eat.

His gaze swept over the surroundings first.

Soon, he noticed a group of people at a table by the window.

Five people were sitting at the table, dressed much more neatly than ordinary travelers. The cuffs of their jackets were embroidered with the same pale yellow emblem, like a simplified ear of grain, or perhaps a merchant's mark.

Leather ledgers and sealed wooden crates lay beside them. They spoke in relatively low voices, occasionally mentioning words like "Prisoner Star Island," "assessment," "warehouse," and "family."

Xilun cut off a piece of fried fish and chewed it slowly.

Two sailors at the next table were also talking about those people.

"Someone from the Langte Trading Company, right?"

"Hmm, the local small businesses on Prison Star Island used to be quite good, but they haven't been doing so well in recent years."

"It's quite an achievement that the small trading company in Chaotic Sea has survived for more than ten years. Without a powerful backer, it will be swallowed up sooner or later."

"I heard that their family is currently looking for someone with extraordinary abilities."

"Can you find it? Which one is cheaper, level 2 or higher?"

Xilun lowered his eyes.

Local businesses on Prison Star Island.

Seek out the extraordinary.

He picked up the hot soup, took a sip, and gradually formed a judgment in his mind.

This might be a starting point.

……

The restaurant was noisy.

After the Tulip entered the open sea, the ship began to rock much more noticeably than before.

The soup bowl on the table slid gently with the waves; if it hadn't been wedged in the wooden trough at the bottom, it would have tipped over long ago.

Many first-time voyage passengers turned pale, forced themselves to eat a few bites, and hurriedly left. The rest were mostly people who were used to life at sea.

After finishing the fried fish on his plate, Xilun ordered a pot of hot tea.

He did not get up immediately.

The people from the Langte Trading Company were still whispering among themselves at that table.