Where Ince Zangwill disappeared, the light vanished abruptly, replaced by the deepest, most intense darkness.
In the darkness, the sound of chanting poetry drifted out, peaceful and soothing, lulling one to sleep. Even the countless pale arms that were frantically reaching out from beneath the dark water slowed down, as if they had received spiritual redemption.
In this " Evernight," a figure emerged—it was Ince Zangwill, who had just been dragged into the Spirit World.
Compared to before, he had lost his soft hat, his clothes on his left shoulder were tattered, a piece of flesh had been torn off, and pale yellow pustules were bubbling out one after another.
His eyes were no longer indifferent; they were filled with pain, as if he were enduring unimaginable torment.
The quill pen "0-08" continued writing:
"Some people feel regret, while others feel fortunate Ince Zangwill possesses a ' Evil God's Umbilical Cord,' which originated from the baby in Megose's womb and came from the ' True Creator.' By using the 'umbilical cord,' he successfully broke free from the constraints of the unknown entity and forcibly returned to the real world. However, he also completely lost that magical item and will bear the resentment of the god's offspring being unable to be born for a short period of time."
"This makes his strength like some merchandise in a department store during a seasonal change, only 55% of its original value—well, that's a very precise number."
On a street deep in the East Borough.
Old Kohler, clutching the ham in a paper bag, hurried back to his rented apartment.
He looked around warily, afraid that those hungry creatures with eyes gleaming like wolves would pounce on him and steal his "New Year's gift."
He had seen wolves when he was still in the countryside, but he never expected to feel that familiar feeling again in Backlund.
"It's still too expensive and too big. I can only buy one with someone and cut it into several pieces... This is enough for my New Year's holiday. I can have two, three, no, at least five slices of ham for every meal. I can also cut some off to stew with potatoes, without even adding salt..." Thinking of this, Old Kohler looked at the ham in his arms, saw the red meat mixed with a lot of white, and his throat couldn't help but move as he swallowed.
As he walked, he felt the fog around him thicken considerably. The church bell tower, which was still relatively clear in the distance, was gradually swallowed up by a mixture of pale yellow and iron black. Even the pedestrians around him, after more than ten steps, were just blurry shadows.
Old Kohler instantly felt forgotten by the world and raised his hand to cover his mouth and nose.
"Why does the fog smell so bad today?" he muttered, quickening his pace.
One step, two steps, three steps, Old Kohler felt his face burning, his forehead seemingly on fire.
He felt tightness in his chest and discomfort in his throat, and soon developed symptoms of difficulty breathing.
"Am I sick? Damn it, I was hoping to have a wonderful New Year, and now I have to send all my savings to the clinic and the hospital... No, maybe a good night's sleep will do the trick, just cover myself with my blanket and I'll be fine!" Old Kohler muttered to himself, his head getting hotter and hotter, and he becoming more and more confused.
He heard his own labored breathing, his hands went limp, and the paper bag containing the ham fell heavily to the ground.
Old Kohler instinctively crouched down to pick it up, but tripped and fell.
He pressed down on the bag of ham, trying to pull it into his arms.
At that moment, he felt a gush of phlegm rising up and blocking his throat, so he struggled and made a sound like a bellows being pulled.
Thump! Old Kohler's blurry vision caught sight of someone else falling a few steps away, gasping for breath. The person was about his age, around fifty, with graying temples.
Suddenly, he had an epiphany and realized that he was about to die.
This reminded him of his wife and children, who had also suddenly contracted the plague and died quickly.
This reminded him of the time he was hospitalized for treatment. The patients in his room were still chatting and laughing that night, but by the next morning they had been sent to the morgue.
This reminded him of the friends he had made when he was homeless. Over the course of a winter, many of them disappeared, eventually being found stiff and lifeless under bridges or in sheltered street corners. A few others died from sudden access to food.
This reminded him of his days as a decent worker, when his neighbors in the neighborhood would die so suddenly. Some died from headaches and convulsions, some accidentally fell into molten steel, some died with their bones aching and swollen, and some even collapsed silently in the factory, one after another.
This reminded him of something he overheard a drunkard say in a bar when he was gathering information. The drunkard said:
"People like us are like straw in the field; a gust of wind will knock us down, and even without wind, we might still fall over..."
The wind is blowing... Old Kohler suddenly had this thought.
He clutched the paper bag of ham tightly while reaching into the pocket of his old jacket, trying to pull out the crumpled cigarettes he had been reluctant to smoke.
What he couldn't understand was why he, who was in good health, would suddenly fall ill, even though he had experienced such dense fog before.
What he couldn't understand was that his life had just gotten on track, developing in a wonderful direction, and he had received the advance payment from Detective Moriarty, bought a piece of ham he had been longing for to welcome the New Year, and was looking forward to tasting its deliciousness, so why did he suddenly collapse?
Old Kohler pulled out the crumpled cigarette, but his arm was too weak to lift, and he slammed heavily to the ground.
He used his last bit of strength to try and utter the words that had been building up in his heart, but he could only let the weak words linger on his lips, unable to escape.
He heard his own last words.
He heard himself asking:
"Why?"
Inside an apartment building on the edge of the East Borough.
Liv hung up the last piece of clothing she had starched, waiting for it to dry.
She glanced at the sky outside, but the thick fog made it difficult to judge the time.
"Anyway, it's still early, and our washing work is all done..." Liv's expression gradually became serious.
Finishing work too early is not a good thing. It doesn't mean you can rest; it only indicates insufficient work and insufficient income.
Liv took a breath, turned to her eldest daughter Freja, who was wiping her hands and staring intently at the vocabulary book in the next room, and said:
"The New Year is approaching, and most of our employers have left Backlund for vacation elsewhere. We can't continue like this; we need to find new jobs."
She spoke as she walked towards the door:
"During holidays like these, the wealthy will host banquet after banquet. They might not have enough servants, so they might hire temporary kitchen helpers. I'm planning to ask them. Freja, you stay home and pick up Daisy when it's time. We need income. Those sons of bitches, thieves, robbers, and human traffickers also need income to welcome the New Year."
In the East Borough, for any woman who didn't work in a factory to survive, she needed either skill or a fierce personality.
Freja answered briskly:
"OK."
Her thoughts had already drifted to the small table next door and her vocabulary book.
As soon as Liv opened the door, she suddenly stumbled and fell to the ground.
Cough, cough, cough! She coughed violently, her face flushed red, and every joint in her body ached terribly.
Freja ran over in a panic and crouched down:
"Mom, what's wrong? Mom, what's wrong?"
"No, cough cough, I'm fine." Liv's breathing became increasingly labored.
"No, you're sick, you're sick! I'll take you to the hospital right away!" Freja struggled to help her mother up.
"Too expensive, too, too expensive, cough, go to, charity hospital, charity hospital, I can wait, no, it's not a big problem," Liv replied breathlessly.
Freja burst into tears, her vision blurring rapidly.
Just then, she felt her lungs burning, her body went limp, and Liv fell to the ground again with her.
" Freja, what's wrong? Cough cough, are you sick too?" Liv called out anxiously, "The money's... cough, hidden in the cabinet... cough, in the hole in the wall! You... hurry, hurry to the hospital! Find a good, good Doctor!"
Freja wanted to say something, but no sound came out. Her gaze drifted upwards and fell on the door of the next room.
That was their bedroom, with their bunk bed, her favorite little table, and vocabulary book.
Her body suddenly convulsed.
Liv's cough stopped abruptly.
Inside a public elementary school on the edge of the East Borough, the fog wasn't very thick yet, but many students had already started coughing.
The teacher on duty, who had received training, immediately gave the instructions:
"Quick, to the church, to the church next door!"
Daisy stood up in a panic and ran with the crowd toward the church next to the school.
Suddenly, she felt a pang of fear, a sense of panic at the thought of losing something important.
"Mom... Freja..." Daisy suddenly turned her head, wanting to rush home against the flow of people.
However, she was stopped; she was grabbed by the teachers and forcibly dragged toward the church.
Daisy struggled desperately, screaming at the top of her lungs:
"Mom! Freja!"
"Mom! Freja!"
In the East Borough, in the Dock Borough, in the Factory Borough, the elderly and those with hidden illnesses fell one after another in the fog, like felled trees. Those who came into contact with them contracted the plague and died quickly. Even adults and children who were still relatively healthy experienced mild discomfort.
In their eyes, the mist, a mixture of pale yellow and iron black, resembled the approaching Grim Death.
On a Tuesday in the last week of 1349, Great Smog of Backlund.
In the corner of the hall, Klein pressed himself against the stone wall, trying to avoid being discovered by Mr. A.
Soon, he heard muffled groans and smelled the stench of rotting flesh.
"Give your life for the Lord's coming!" Mr. A's voice suddenly rang out.
Thump, thump, the sound of a figure falling heavily reached Klein's ears, and a strong Spirituality fluctuation emerged, echoing continuously.
Mr. A sacrificed his four servants? Klein had barely entertained this thought when he heard layers of illusory weeping sounds: someone calling for their mother, someone coughing violently, someone groaning in pain.
As a semi-expert in the occult, Klein seemed to see illusory, transparent figures filled with resentment, entering the ritual one after another. Meanwhile, the numbness, despair, pain, and resentment that had accumulated over many years in the Factory Borough, Dock Borough, and East Borough surged forth like a tide.
Has it officially begun? Klein closed his eyes, leaned against the wall, clenched his right fist tightly, then relaxed it.
For him, the best option at this moment was to slip out of the hall and escape to a distant place while Mr. A was focused on the ceremony.
His right hand loosened and tightened repeatedly.
Seven or eight seconds later, Klein opened his eyes, a smug smile playing on his lips.
He reached out and gripped the revolver, then suddenly turned and sped off.
Dressed in a black double-breasted tuxedo, he raised his right hand and aimed at the altar.