How I wish that what woke was the song of morning birds, the fragrance of the garden outside the door, and the sunlight shining on the bed. Instead of the sea breeze wrapped in cold rain, the sll of charred charcoal, and the icy floor that steals body heat.
But in any case, it’s always a good thing to wake up before the fireplace is reduced to ashes and before the monsters gnaw to the bone.
I propped up what felt like a body not my own, feeling every piece of flesh ache. But my mind was unexpectedly clear. Except for still not rembering the past, everything that happened these days was vivid in my mind.
Those charred black monstrous shadows that can move inside walls, oozing ash-like blood, might be the monsters watching from outside the Long House. They followed to the coastal street, waiting to erge after nightfall — those human-shaped stains I saw in the hall were their scouts.
This stone tavern really saved . If the charred monstrous shadows broke through the walls, it wouldn’t be possible for to simply collapse from exhaustion, let alone miraculously fend them off.
Will they return again tonight? I don’t know, but it’s clear that it’s no longer safe here. Still, I don’t want to leave this cozy attic in defeat, especially after defeating them.
It should be morning now. I have one whole day to hesitate. The urgent priority is to get food, and this does not conflict with finding a new sanctuary.
The charred monstrous shadows left nothing behind. I placed the tal can and grain next to the burning fireplace to heat up, tidied the attic a bit, picked up the tal can, and ate the remaining stale grains with comforting hot water.
Before setting off, I picked two coals with corners that had caught fire from the fireplace filled with wet coal and put them into an oil lamp, taking the largest contributor from last night, the kitchen knife, and crawled out of the attic.
I didn’t move the tables and chairs blocking the entrance but opened a window, climbed over the windowsill, and ca to the street.
Cool drizzle fell, and that’s when I realized I forgot to bring sothing to shield from the rain. But it didn’t matter, because I imdiately entered an unmarked tavern next to the sanctuary.
This shabby tavern had only one level, but it wasn’t truly just one level. The wide door and passage leading to the basent indicated that the main body of the tavern was downstairs. But when I stood at the basent entrance and raised the oil lamp, I saw only the deep accumulated water that rippled with tremors two steps down.
I don’t want to step into this cold, deep, monster-lurking water, and I can’t find what I want in there either.
After a simple inspection of the back kitchen, I walked out of this "shabby" tavern and continued to explore the neighboring tavern.
Almost every building on this street is a tavern. "Black Beauty," the collapsed broken sign blocked the entrance, and I climbed into the tavern through a broken window, hoping to find so gains here. My left hand carried the "oil lamp," and my right hand gripped the kitchen knife tightly. I swept past the abandoned tables and chairs in the hall and briefly checked the counter. As expected, nothing was left in the liquor cabinet, but when I opened a drawer, I saw a shilling sticking inside.
Realizing it couldn’t possibly be torn out intact, I diverted my attention and checked the back kitchen, guest rooms, and cellar in sequence.
The surprise ca from the basent wine cellar. Though the calf-deep cold water almost cramped my feet, as I waded through the ink-black accumulated water to the wine barrel and shook it, I heard the wine sloshing inside, almost able to imagine the delicious red wine or whatever wine lting on my tongue.
Unfortunately, even a drunkard needs food to sustain themselves.
But after hesitating, I left the chilly wine cellar, retracing my steps back to the surface. Indeed, I don’t dislike alcohol; I even quite like it, but in a perilous world, getting drunk yields nothing but illusory satisfaction.
The true surprise ca from a grocery store — although I still didn’t find food in the shop, I found a sealed small half-barrel of kerosene in the shop’s basent.
This ans I finally get rid of the crude dim "oil lamp" and truly possess a continuous and bright fuel source.
The sealed barrel filled with kerosene was hidden in the deepest part of the basent, tied with hemp rope around the handle, which was why I could see it.
I placed the "oil lamp" beside , one hand gripping the taut hemp rope, and the other hand cutting with the kitchen knife. The soaked water made the hemp rope obscure and hard to cut. I could only cut the rope bit by bit, then move the "oil lamp" to better see the incision.
Suddenly, utterly unexpectedly, I saw a jet-black monstrous claw erging at the edge of the "oil lamp." I was first startled, realizing it was on the sa plane as the ground. Then, I froze instinctively because the jet-black monstrous claw was extending towards the "oil lamp." As I remained frozen, the tip of the claw touched the "oil lamp."
Whoosh—
The vigorously burning coal, which not even water could extinguish, extinguished like a fla in a mont. The darkness and fear descending instantaneously engulfed . I forgot I was still clutching the kerosene barrel, staggered, and nearly stumbled, but also tore the last strand of the hemp rope.
Fear made clutch the kerosene barrel like a drowning person clutches anything they can touch, hysterically sprinting towards the gleam above the stairs.
In the basent filled only with my heavy breathing and screams, the shadowy, sticky, jet-black form chased along as I charged toward the seemingly infinitely distant surface.
A misstep made knock my head, causing it to bleed, but I dared not pause for a mont. Finally, before the ultimate horror descended, I stumbled out of the basent, lying on my back gasping like a fish washed up on the shore by the waves.
At the entrance to the basent before , the disgruntled and loathso shadow retreated into the blackness.
I didn’t need a mirror to know how disheveled I looked at that mont — the hot flow from my nose dripped onto my clothing, my knees and calves throbbed with pain, and my arms were abrasively scraped and starting to bleed.
I lay slumped on the ground, with the back of my head resting against the cold floor.
Covered in injuries, having lost the kitchen knife, and probably facing another day of hunger,
I patted the kerosene barrel clutched to my chest.
But at least it wasn’t all for nothing.
Fearing that the monstrous claw from the basent would chase out, I didn’t dare rest for long. Propping up my tattered, weary body, I limped toward the sanctuary.
Back by the fireplace that symbolized safety, I first placed the kerosene barrel beside it, treated my wounds, pried open the kerosene barrel with a spatula, and from the shadow of the kerosene sll wafted out. I poured so onto the floor, then fetched a burning wooden stick and approached, and the fla suddenly flared up. The quality of this barrel of kerosene was excellent; it hadn’t been dampened or waterlogged and could be directly ignited.
Snuffing out the fla with the sole of my shoe, I casually tossed the stick back into the fireplace, drank hot water to warm my body and mind, unwilling to be forced to rest before noon.
Looking out at the rain-shrouded bay through the window, I don’t want to spend the next few hours in hunger and regret. I dare not approach Rodest Port, but perhaps on the beach, I could find so dead fish washed up by the waves and then turn them into the various delicious fish soups that co to mind — I must have been quite good at cooking fish in the past.
I persuaded myself this way, clenched my teeth, covered my cloth-wrapped knee with one hand, and once again left the attic.
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