Chapter 120 | The Crimson Moon Returns

May 20, 1399.

Everyone near the wharves of White Bird Port was fortunate enough to witness a remarkable spectacle.

From beneath one of the long piers of the harbor, a sudden explosion detonated like muffled thunder.

The sea bulged into a massive water bubble dozens of meters wide before a deluge of water erupted like a volcano, launching a massive multi-masted ship high into the air. Hovering several meters above the water for a split second, the vessel lost momentum and plunged back down with a thunderous impact, pitching and rolling violently as it bobbed on the waves, looking as helpless as a frail skiff caught in a hurricane.

A succession of sharp cracks echoed from deep within the hull as the ship snapped cleanly in half at the waist. The splintering groan of breaking timber rang out so loudly it reverberated across the entire dockland.

It was a catastrophic commotion, but fortunately, the surrounding area had been cordoned off in advance, leaving no nearby vessels to be crushed directly. Other disasters, however, proved unavoidable.

The crash of the falling ship merged with the shockwave of the explosion, sending two waves cascading outward in rapid succession. High walls of water surged across the harbor, rocking anchored boats violently and washing countless people overboard. As scores of survivors drifted in the turbulent waters, a chorus of curses erupted across the sea, with every direct ancestor of the culprit over the last thousand years receiving an impassioned greeting.

Though whether ancestral curses from an otherworldly audience held any weight was anyone's guess.

Fortunately, a fleet of naval skiffs had already gathered to enforce the blockade, and they immediately scrambled to rescue the victims. Dozens of bruised, battered, and grime-covered wretches were pulled from the broken vessel and ferried back to the docks in quick succession.

“Phew.”

Lynch leaped onto the dock, clutching the wooden chest he had reclaimed. Feeling the solid ground beneath his feet, he patted the box and let out a long sigh of relief.

After hours of hard work, I finally recovered the memories my neighbor left scattered around. Just a moment ago had been genuinely perilous—an explosion caused by a single person had surpassed the power of a modern torpedo from his old world. If he hadn't had such a formidable Soul Severer by his side, he likely would have needed to tap into Divine Authority just to survive.

Lynch had heard many times that when a person's will failed to resist corruption from mysterious filth, their soul would become twisted. In mild cases, their minds warped into madness, making them extreme and bloodthirsty; in severe cases, the corruption radiated from within to deform the physical body, triggering all manner of bizarre mutations or turning them into monstrous abominations.

Hailing from another world, Lynch had struggled to comprehend how the soul could shape the physical body until it mutated into a monster. He had subconsciously assumed it was mere exaggeration—until a moment ago, when Jefferson exploded right in front of him.

In the instant before the explosion, Knight Rick had clenched his fist. The shadows throughout the compartment responded to his command, coalescing into two massive fists of darkness.

One fist slammed down violently onto the deck, striking precisely between the holes gushing water into the watertight hold. Already compromised, the decking succumbed to the force, shattering to reveal a gaping hole that allowed seawater to spout upward like a geyser.

Simultaneously, the second fist grabbed Jefferson’s swelling body—just as it began to detonate—and plunged him straight through the hole, pinning him down toward the ocean floor.

It had all unfolded too quickly for anyone in the hold to process. Before the shock could settle, Lynch let out a sudden howl, clutched the chest containing the memories, and bolted for the exit. That broke the spell for the journalists, sailors, and soldiers, who screamed as if the apocalypse had arrived and scrambled over one another to escape.

Then came a thunderous blast and a violent surge of kinetic force. Tucking the chest against his chest, Lynch felt like a cat trapped inside a running tumble dryer—tossed wildly, spinning out of control, and nearly smashing his head open against the bulkheads. Only when the turmoil subsided did he stumble out of the vessel, where a rescue boat conveyed him safely to the wharf.

A gentle tap settled on his shoulder. Lynch turned to see Knight Rick, who had also been rescued, looking at him with a warm, approving smile. Observing Lynch turn around, Rick spoke softly, “We finally retrieved the item. What an arduous ordeal. Had you not uncovered the clues in time at every turn, intercepting it within Lande’s borders would have been impossible. You didn't just recover the lost property; you saved my honor and preserved the reputation of the Church. From today onward, you are my friend, Mr. Detective. Should you ever need my aid, simply send a letter. No matter the hour or distance, I will come to your assistance at once.”

“I'm a detective—I was merely doing my job.” Lynch chuckled, raising a hand to high-five Rick. “Truth be told, we got lucky. I still haven't fully grasped what went down in that watertight hold, beyond knowing it involved a spatial ability called Mirage.”

“That fish-headed monster was likely Walter Davis,” Rick remarked. “It seems he was no longer human.”

“Hm? 'No longer'?” Lynch immediately thought of Maya, who was transforming into a ghoul.

“Indeed. It appears he worshipped the Lord of R'lyeh and was turned into a fishman. Using tentacles to control living beings was likely a technique he derived from the Lord of R'lyeh as well,” Knight Rick explained. “Among the stolen authorities held by the Lord of R'lyeh is the Spatial Authority, and Mirage is one of its applications. From what I understand, while it functions somewhat like an illusion, it actually overlaps two spaces, swapping the original with a new one. If both spaces are identical, it becomes almost impossible to detect.”

“Two spaces...” Lynch frowned. “Could he have swapped the watertight hold of another ship in front of us?”

“Very likely. That’s why we initially saw the hold of another vessel. The object and Davis were hidden away in the concealed hold. You could feel the presence of the memories because they were physically there, yet what you saw and touched belonged to a different ship—until your gunshot disrupted his ability.”

“How was I able to do that?”

“I'm not certain—it's merely my hypothesis. It's highly probable his own body acted as the node anchoring the two spaces. Existing simultaneously in both, he hid near the ceiling to prevent physical contact with us. Your bullet striking him dismantled the ability, exposing him alongside the true hold before everyone.”

“Won't it cause problems for those people to have seen it?” Lynch asked anxiously. “Most of them are ordinary folk.”

“No need to worry. The sailors' memories will be lightly altered to erase anything beyond common sense. As for the journalists, there's even less cause for concern. Most of them possess some awareness of occult knowledge, and incidents so explicitly connected to mystery will be managed by specialized public relations agencies with unified official narratives, preventing panic from spreading to the general public.”

“That's a relief. No lingering loose ends then.” Lynch patted the wooden chest, grinning. “Though the delivery had its share of twists and turns, it was completed successfully in the end.”

“Judging by Jefferson's dying words, they don't plan on letting you off,” Rick sighed. “You should exercise caution, Mr. Detective. Are you certain Lady Red Moon's memories are intact?”