District Eight’s city planning was much more complete, with skyscrapers everywhere and streets radiating a distinctly modern feel. I looked around helplessly, hoping to find someone who’d lived here for a long time.
But it was all to no avail—I’d already asked hundreds of people. According to the Locksmith, the material of this box was something extinct, a stone called Instinct Stone. That surprised me.
I’d heard of Instinct Stone before. The Dark Banquet once tried to seize my instinct by producing that very stone. As for the box’s lock, the Locksmith had said its design was formidable—he’d only managed to open it by sheer luck. A single slip and not only would the lock break, but everything inside would be destroyed, leaving nothing behind.
I stared, eyes wide. Vincent Swallow walked over, as if searching his memory.
I decided to head straight for District Seven. There was a large stretch of low, old houses there—the ancient kind. Maybe I could find someone who knew these words. I hurried down the street.
I asked, unable to hide my excitement, but he shook his head.
Soon I spotted the sign for District Seven and hurried over, looking around. The difference was stark—District Seven and District Eight were worlds apart. It felt like stepping from the modern era into an ancient drama; even the people’s clothes matched the setting.
It was as if I’d crossed from the present into the distant past. Ancient shops lined the street. I looked around quietly and spotted a teahouse full of old men, drinking tea and admiring caged birds. I rushed over.
The courtyard gate closed behind us. Seeing Vincent Swallow’s puzzled expression, I considered telling him a bit—after all, we were friends.
As soon as I asked, a crowd of old men gathered. I handed over the sheets, but after a while, most said they’d never seen such writing before. I was a bit surprised, and ended up asking everyone in the teahouse—anyone old enough, I would ask.
But it was the same—no one could read these characters. These mysterious words likely recorded something vital to this world, especially the Instinct Stone. The Locksmith had said this stone was extinct, a special mineral that could absorb instinct. I wondered if members of the Dark Banquet had gotten their hands on it.
Vincent Swallow touched his bare head in confusion and nodded.
Earthly Soul had vanished, and my instinct was taken too. I was worried, but worrying wouldn’t help now. I didn’t know if the fake Earthly Soul was a Mimic or the Replicator. But judging by how skillfully Instinct Endbringer’s Power was used, it clearly wasn’t a recent development—they were more proficient than Earthly Soul himself.
That person took us to see the underground facilities—what were they really planning? Maybe it was for some experiment. They obviously knew what was inside the box, and maybe the reason they hadn’t touched it was that they couldn’t open it. But now, we’d accidentally unlocked what was inside.
My face grew tense. I hurriedly stashed the papers in my chest, drank some tea, and stood up again. I decided to ask around in those old courtyards.
I followed an alley, winding through twists and turns, until I saw a courtyard gate left open. I stepped inside.
I started talking, sharing a lot. Two hours passed, and Vincent Swallow laughed heartily, slapping me on the back.
Surprised, I realized this was the same courtyard I’d visited before. Vincent Swallow was inside, chopping wood. He noticed me, but from the look in his eyes, he didn’t recognize me.
I nodded and took out a sheet from my chest. Vincent Swallow studied it carefully, looking very serious. I stared, eyes wide.
Vincent Swallow kept chopping wood, head down. I looked around—no sign of Master Jianyun or Grandmaster Mingde. The reincarnation of Brother Owen, the Ghostworm Monk, was in John Chou’s class. I was curious what Vincent Swallow was up to.
But thinking it over, I still needed to find someone to decode these words.
“We’ve met before, haven’t we, Ethan Zhang?”
I stared, wide-eyed. Vincent Swallow had walked over, as if searching his memory.
“Did something come back to you, Master Swallow?”
I asked excitedly, but he shook his head.
“Sorry, I still can’t remember. But when I see you, that name pops into my head. By the way, do you know anything about my past?”
I let out a surprised sound.
The courtyard gate closed. Seeing Vincent Swallow’s puzzled look, I thought about telling him a bit—after all, we were friends.
The tea was ready. Vincent Swallow sat across from me, looking serious and focused.
“You really can’t remember anything? You used to be a monk.”
Swallow touched his bare head in confusion and nodded.
“Seems so. Ethan Zhang, what else do you know? Tell me.”
“Master, did you realize something?”
Vincent Swallow nodded.
“Without a past, there’s no future. Living in this Dark Place without a future is the worst part. That’s why I keep wondering what kind of person I used to be.”
I started talking, sharing a lot. Two hours passed, and Swallow laughed heartily, slapping me on the back.
“Qingyuan, if what you say is true, my past must have been incredible. Too bad I can’t remember. By the way, can I see those papers?”
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I nodded, took out a sheet from my chest. Swallow studied it carefully, looking very serious. I stared wide-eyed.
“Someone once told me about these characters.”
I shot to my feet, staring at Swallow wide-eyed.
“Who?”
Swallow clutched his head, thinking for a long time, then said:
“It seems to be a diary. It talks about war, becoming a soldier, and something about heaven.”
I stared, quickly leaned in. Swallow began to read haltingly. The contents had already told me a lot—connecting the dots, it seemed that in an earlier era, there’d been a massive war here, fought over something crucial. And it wasn’t just one side involved.
What surprised me now was how Swallow could understand these characters.
“Could it be Brother Owen?”
I exclaimed, but Swallow gave me a complicated look, as if he’d recalled something important—his eyes filled with sadness.
“Who is that?”
I shook my head—it didn’t seem to be Brother Owen. Swallow kept reading. I quickly handed him the other pages. He clutched his forehead, looking pained, as if he couldn’t remember.
“Someone taught me these characters before, but now I can’t recall.”
I nodded, then put the pages away. I grabbed Swallow, hoping he’d come back with me—he was our only hope. Swallow agreed; he wanted to recover his lost memories.
We walked down the main road. I used my ghost thread attached to Xu Fu and John Chou to notify them. They were heading to District 13 from other areas.
All the way, Swallow looked conflicted, as if something was coming back to him, but he couldn’t quite grasp it. His face showed deep struggle.
After six hours, I returned to my shop. Rachel Lan had arrived too. I smiled with relief. John Chou and Xu Fu were back, and Adam Dale was there as well. We went in and shut the door. I started roasting food, stacking all the pages on the table. Swallow struggled to read them.
“So that’s it—a brutal war fought over something important. What happens next?”
Xu Fu asked quickly. Swallow shook his head, pointing at some words, but he just couldn’t recall. These characters were so obscure and difficult—unless you could read them directly, it was nearly impossible.
“Let’s do this for now. Just translate whatever you can understand.”
John Chou picked up a page, ready to take notes. Xu Fu grabbed his pen and paper. I brought my wine over and sat down.
Let’s eat something before we continue. Master Swallow must be exhausted.
Before he could remember, Vincent Swallow was just an ordinary Dark Resident. After hours of walking, he was spent.
We started drinking, but I noticed something odd—Vincent Swallow gripped his cup, refusing to drink, as if the wine frightened him.
Master, you used to be addicted to wine—could drink a whole lake dry. What’s wrong now?
Vincent Swallow let out a sound and nodded.
Qingyuan, you really did tell me before. Even I find it hard to believe. It’s as if this stuff is poison to me now. I don’t know why. Forget it, I’d better not...
Have a drink—maybe it’ll help you remember who taught you those characters.
Xu Fu immediately urged him, pushing the cup into Vincent Swallow’s hand. He tipped his head back and drank. Instantly, Vincent Swallow’s eyes widened.
It tastes just like water. Is this really the flavor of wine?
We all stared at Vincent Swallow in surprise. The wine in my shop was considered high quality—even I could smell its aroma, and it tasted good. But Vincent Swallow found it tasteless. He gulped down a whole bottle, but still shook his head.
Terrible. Worse than water. Not a hint of flavor.