Fossilized Book

The New Continent, Outer Ring Sea.

Deep within the mist lies an isolated island, as if forgotten by the world.

The briny sea breeze carries a damp chill as it sweeps across the jagged cliffs, emitting a low, wailing moan. As the tide recedes, it reveals reefs covered in barnacles and shellfish, with pale whale bones piled high in the crevices.

They seem gathered here by some deliberate force, forming a bizarre, circular barrier.

Outside the island, there is deathly silence; inside, life thrives.

It is a world of insects.

On the damp, humus-rich soil, pitch-black dung beetles push disproportionately large balls of waste. In the cracks of dead wood, the larvae of Hercules beetles slowly squirm, the rustling sound of their mandibles gnawing on decaying timber exceptionally clear in the stillness.

Above them, a hummingbird hawk-moth with blue and purple markings hovers in mid-air, its needle-like proboscis probing into a rotting fruit.

Deeper still, the rhythm of life is visible everywhere.

The center of the island dips into a basin, holding a pool of clear lake water where semi-aquatic water striders use their forelegs to slice through algae.

Moonlight pierces the water mist, revealing shadows at the bottom of the lake.

Those are not the patterns of rocks, but the curled-up molted shells of some gargantuan arthropod, the gullies on their surfaces exposing long-fossilized centipede-like segments...

And by the lakeside sits a small wooden cabin.

"Shell-bearing Species? Sickle-Tooth Clan?"

A hoarse voice shatters the silence inside the cabin.

Fabre's body trembles slightly, his fingers gripping the insect fossil embedded in the limestone.

"So that's it! So that's it! We were all wrong, all wrong!" A look of exhilaration spreads across his face, his eyes erupting with a terrifying, piercing light.

He should have forgotten.

Every time he uses his ability to observe the ancient life within the fossils, he must discard something else. At first, it was the hair on his body, then some useless knowledge, and eventually, he had forgotten who he was.

Fabre could only recall his identity, his friends, and his family from the records he had written two years ago.

Then, he would record them in his books once more.

And once more, he would forget.

If not for Pasteur frequently visiting with the latest scientific breakthroughs, he would have lived like a savage.

He was nearing that final step.

Either go mad.

Or die.

This is the fate of ability users as they enter old age.

Fabre knows this well; he is already standing on the edge of insanity. Those forgotten memories manifest in his dreams as terrifying swarms of insects, gnawing away at his remaining sanity.

But he cannot go mad, and he certainly cannot die; his Insect Records are not yet complete—how could he die like this?

Fabre has been racing against time.

He cannot stop using his ability, for stopping is merely a slow death.

The more the ability is used, the more uncontrollable it becomes, which has caused every record he writes to be imbued with the power of oblivion. Pasteur has not visited for a week.

Until today.

His ability has backfired, but this is a good thing.

An unprecedented clarity washes over him.

Accompanied by a sharp pain in his temples, countless fragments of memory surge back like a tide, and Fabre watches as his fallen white hair grows thick once more.

The blank notebooks on the bookshelf suddenly sprout dense lines of text, each page shimmering with blue light.

And he has gained more than just his own memories.

He has also obtained precious knowledge from a young man—knowledge regarding the Shell-bearing Species and the true origins of humanity.

Fabre stumbles toward the door.

There stands an antique floor-length mirror, and in it, he sees a strange, white-haired old man.

"Fabre, what is going on?" The image of Pasteur in the mirror suddenly speaks, his voice laced with undisguised panic. "Why did I suddenly forget you earlier? Has something happened to you?"

"Hey, my dear Pasteur, my friend."

Fabre smiles and offers a greeting. "I feel wonderful now, everything is fine, because I have remembered everything!"

"You..."

Before the Pasteur in the mirror can respond, Fabre straightens the back that has been hunched for years, his eyes flashing with the kind of fanaticism that only appears when encountering a new insect species.

"I am leaving the island," he says suddenly, his wrinkled fingers gently brushing the surface of the mirror. "I am going to England to meet a lovely young man."

The pocket watch in Pasteur's hand drops to the floor.

He stares wide-eyed, as if he has heard the most absurd thing in the world. "Have you lost your mind?"

"For two years, you haven't even stepped off the beach!" His voice trembles. "Even when your father brought your wife, Mary, over to persuade you last time..."

"I am not mad." Fabre stroked the thick white hair atop his head. "That young man... he did me a great favor."

Speaking of this, he narrowed his eyes, the corners of his mouth curling into a familiar, cunning arc. "By the way, you still owe me fifty francs. When do you intend to pay me back?"

Pasteur's tense nerves relaxed in an instant.

This was the penny-pinching old friend he knew, not some stubborn old fool with a failing memory.

He deliberately stiffened his face and let out a huff through his nose. "Miser! If you want the money, come to Paris and get it yourself!"

But the smile in his eyes betrayed him.

"When will the ship arrive?" Fabre pressed.

Pasteur bent down to pick up his pocket watch and sighed softly. "Two weeks at the earliest. It's the monsoon season on the outer rim of the New Continent, and those lazybones in the navy..."

"Very well, I can wait."

Fabre looked out at the lake water beyond the window; under the moonlight, the centipede-like fossil segments appeared somewhat hideous and terrifying.

"It's just as well, as I need to prepare a gift for our meeting."

He rubbed the new stubble on his chin. "Do me a favor and ask if they can add a shockproof storage crate to the navy survey ship—one large enough to hold a lion."

"Fabre, what on earth are you planning to do?"

Pasteur, within the mirror, furrowed his brows tightly. "I wanted to ask just a moment ago: who is this young man you are going to see? Why don't I recall you knowing anyone in England?"

"I don't know him, and he doesn't know me."

Fabre replied.

"What?"

"But that doesn't matter. I know of his existence, and he has indeed helped me, so I must pay him a visit."

Pasteur opened his mouth, but in the end, he said nothing.

He highly suspected his old friend had lost his mind, yet seeing how clearly the man spoke, he didn't seem like a madman.

Pasteur scrutinized his old friend's face in the mirror; the madness and clarity in those eyes seemed to coexist, appearing neither completely insane nor entirely sane.

A sane madman?!

His heart trembled, and he quickly spoke up: "Fabre, you must hold on! I swear in the name of God, I will make sure the survey ship comes to pick you up!"

"Mm, I will wait."

Fabre's voice was surprisingly calm.

Pasteur's image in the mirror began to blur.

"The time limit for the Mirror of Light is almost up today. Remember, Fabre!" His voice began to stutter and fade. "You must... come before the mirror... tomorrow..."