Spirit Pact Hundred Scenes Record

Chapter 5 Search

The morning light came sooner than Karen had expected.

As the first rays of pale light seeped through the arched window high in the archives, he was leaning against the fourth row of bookshelves, half-asleep. From within the Migration came the steady, soft breathing of Xiguang—the cub had finally fallen into a true sleep, not a painful semi-conscious state. Karen's own eyelids felt heavy as lead; the lingering metallic taste of blood from her nosebleed still filled her mouth; her arms and shoulders were stiff and numb from maintaining the same posture for so long.

But he dared not fall into a deep sleep.

Outside the window, the town of Chenguang was awakening, but in a way quite different from usual. There was no clamor of vendors unloading goods at the morning market, no mothers calling their children who were still in bed, no rhythmic hum of bellows from the blacksmith's shop. Instead, there was a subdued, intermittent sound: heavy boots clattering on the stone pavement, the forceful knocking of metal door knockers, brief commands, and the occasional, suppressed, fearful response.

The search has begun.

Karen shifted slightly, peering through the gap in the bookshelf. The archives door remained locked, but footsteps echoed down the corridor—not the light or weary steps of a government clerk, but rather orderly, powerful strides, each one carrying a clear purpose. Every thudding of boots on the stone slabs felt like a resounding tap on Karen's heart.

He pulled his head back and looked at Mig.

Xiguang was still asleep, its golden downy feathers rising and falling gently with its breath. After simple herbal treatment and a night's rest, the burns on its abdomen no longer emitted a putrid odor, and the swelling at the base of its wings had subsided somewhat. But Karen knew this was only a facade; the real injuries—especially the damage to its psionic abilities—were far from healed.

A faint thought rose like a bubble, from the slumbering dawn:

Mom... the clouds... warm...

It was dreaming, dreaming of its people, dreaming of its mother. Karen's heart tightened. He had to make sure the search didn't wake it, otherwise, if Dawn were to awaken out of fear, it might unconsciously release psionic fluctuations—as conspicuous as lighting a torch in the dark.

The footsteps in the corridor stopped outside the archives room.

Karen held her breath.

The key made a sound as it was inserted into the lock, but got stuck when it turned—the archives door had an old-fashioned brass lock, which Karen had locked from the inside with a spare key after entering last night. It was a trick her father had taught her: if you half-insert another key into the lock from the inside, it's hard to open from the outside, even with the correct key.

An impatient smacking sound came from outside the door.

"It's locked."

"Break through?"

"Wait, go ask the mayor for the keys. The captain said to avoid damaging public property unless absolutely necessary."

The footsteps faded into the distance.

Karen breathed a sigh of relief, but his heart was still pounding. He gently crawled to Mig's side, reached in, and stroked the top of Xiguang's head. The cub unconsciously rubbed against his palm in its sleep, conveying a sense of peaceful warmth.

"Go back to sleep," Karen said in a barely audible whisper. "It's okay."

He had to do something. Waiting passively for a search was too dangerous. Karen glanced around the archives—piled with scrolls, parchment, and notebooks—and if the soldiers came in and ransacked the place, they might find Mig. He needed to make it look…normal. So normal that no one would want to search it thoroughly.

Karen stood up, stretched her stiff limbs, and then began to move quickly.

He started at his usual table: he put the quill back in its holder, capped the ink bottle, and laid out the unfinished copy of "The Encyclopedia of Northern Creatures, Volume Three," next to several completed, dried manuscripts. He even placed a half-finished glass of cold water on the corner of the table—making it look as if the scribe had just temporarily left.

Then he moved on to other areas of the archives.

There were four rows of bookshelves in total, and he had to make sure that each row looked neat and orderly. Karen moved quickly between the bookshelves, straightening a few slightly crooked books, picking up a toppled wastebasket on the floor, and wiping away the thin layer of dust that had accumulated on the windowsill with her palms—creating signs that someone had been there frequently.

Finally, he stopped in front of the side door that led to the storage passage.

This door was usually left unlocked because only cleaning tools were stored behind it. Karen opened the door and quickly checked the passageway: it was empty except for a few buckets and mops. He stepped back and left the door ajar, leaving a two-finger-wide gap.

After all that was done, the footsteps in the corridor returned.

More than one person.

"...This is the room, the archives. Only that copyist kid uses it usually." It was Old Patton's voice, tired and helpless.

"Open the door." Another voice said coldly and abruptly.

The key turned. This time, the lock opened smoothly.

The door was pushed open.

Karen was standing in front of the third row of bookshelves, his back to the door, holding a thick book titled "Dustlight Town's Annual Tax Records," pretending to be looking it up. Hearing the sound, he turned around, his face showing just the right amount of surprise—an expression he had practiced many times in front of the mirror, used to deal with those officials in the government office who suddenly came looking for trouble.

There were three people standing at the door.

Old Patton was at the front, looking as if he had aged ten years overnight, with puffy eyes and deep wrinkles. Behind him were two soldiers in black armor—not the same group seen in the square the night before; their armor lacked the silver thorn pattern, clearly indicating they were ordinary soldiers. Both wore helmets, and the dark red windows behind their visors scanned the interior of the archives.

"Karen," old Barton began, his voice hoarse, "these two are from the Order... well, investigators. They need to inspect every room in the administration building."

Karen put down her book and nodded slightly. "Of course. Do you need my help?"

A soldier entered, his gaze sweeping over the bookshelves, the long table, and the windowsill. His steps were steady, each one carrying a scrutinizing air. "Are you the scribe here?"

"Yes, sir. Karen Everett."

"Does someone work here alone?"

"Most of the time, yes. The mayor and other clerks come in occasionally to look up information."

The soldier walked to the table where Karen had been sitting, glanced down at the unfolded parchment and the manuscript beside it. "What are you copying?"

"The Illustrated Compendium of Northern Creatures, Volume Three, Your Excellency. The Government Office plans to update the town library's collection."

The soldier ran his finger along the writing on the parchment, then glanced at the ink bottle. "Working here late last night?"

Karen's heart skipped a beat, but she remained calm. "Yes. There was a celebration in town last night, and I... don't like noise, so I stayed and copied a few more pages."

This explanation makes perfect sense. A person without a vein, working alone in the archives on the night of the celebration of the vein resonance ritual—it sounds both pitiful and believable.

The soldier stared at him for a few seconds, then turned and walked toward the bookshelf.

He started conducting spot checks.

She didn't flip through every single book; instead, she randomly picked a few, quickly glanced at them, and then stuffed them back in. The movements weren't rough, but they certainly weren't caring. Karen watched as her carefully organized books were treated so carelessly, her fingers curling slightly at her sides, but she said nothing.

Another soldier came in, and he walked to the other side of the archives room, checking the windowsills, corners, and even looking up at the roof beams.

Old Barton stood in the doorway, his hands clasped together, his knuckles white. His gaze briefly met Karen's, his eyes filled with a complex mix of emotions: apology, worry, and a hint of pleading—don't cause trouble, kid, let them finish their investigation and leave.

Karen looked away.

The first soldier checked the fourth row of bookshelves.

Karen's breathing almost stopped.

The soldier stood before the bookshelves, his gaze sweeping over the heavy ancient books and records. He reached out, pulled out a copy of "A Study of Geological Changes in the Northern Territory," flipped through it, and put it back. He then pulled out another copy of "Early Immigrant Diaries of the Floating Zone," this time without even opening it, merely weighing it in his hand before shoving it back into the box.

His fingers were less than twenty centimeters from the lattice where the sunlight was hidden.

Migri, Dawn stirred slightly in her sleep. Karen immediately sensed a subtle ripple of psychic energy—not a release, but simply an unconscious flow of psychic energy during sleep, like a human turning over in their sleep. But to a well-trained psychic mage, or to the Order's soldiers who might be equipped with psychic detection devices, this subtle fluctuation was as noticeable as a spark in the dark.

The soldier stopped moving.

He didn't turn his head immediately, but remained in the posture of pulling out the book, his helmet slightly tilted towards the bookshelf. The dark red viewing window behind the visor seemed to brighten a little.

Karen's blood seemed to freeze. He had to do something, distract himself, anything—

Just then, a soft sound came from the other side of the archives.

It was the sound of pottery shattering.

Everyone turned their heads at the same time.

Beside the second row of bookshelves, a ceramic vase that had been on a low shelf had fallen to the ground and shattered into pieces. Next to the vase, a completely black cat crouched.

It was not large in size, but its posture was elegant, and its fur was so black that it shimmered like satin in the morning light streaming through the arched window. Most striking were its eyes—a pure, deep black as if the night itself had been condensed into them, but deep within the pupils seemed to shimmer with tiny silver specks, like distant stars.

The black cat seemed completely unconcerned about the broken vase. It raised a front paw, slowly licked it, and then raised its eyelids to scan the few humans in the room.

"Where did this cat come from?" the second soldier frowned.

Old Patton paused for a moment. "There are indeed a few stray cats near the government building, but this one... I've never seen before."

The first soldier's attention was completely diverted. He left the fourth row of bookshelves and walked towards the black cat. "Animals are not allowed in the administrative area. The Order stipulates that all unregistered creatures must—"

He reached out to grab the cat.

The black cat leaped lightly and landed on the long table in the center. Its tail was held high, the tip slightly curled, and its deep black eyes stared at the soldier, showing no fear, but rather a sense of... assessment.

"Grab it!" A second soldier also joined in.

The two approached the long table from the left and right. The black cat leaped again, this time landing on the table where Karen had been working. Its claws scraped across the open parchment, making a tearing sound—several clear claw marks ripped through the text Karen had been copying for most of the night.

"No—" Karen blurted out, then immediately shut up.

The black cat glanced at him.

That look was brief, but Karen inexplicably felt that a barely perceptible...smile flashed in the cat's eyes?

Then it started to "cause trouble".

It swept the ink bottle to the ground with its paws, splashing black ink that bloomed into an ugly flower on the stone floor. It jumped onto the bookshelf and knocked over several upright scrolls with its body. It darted to the windowsill and pushed a small succulent plant (left by the previous scribe) off, shattering the pot and scattering soil everywhere.

Two soldiers were being led by the nose through the archives, but couldn't even touch a single cat hair. The black cat's movements were incredibly agile; it would always twist its body at an unbelievable angle at the last moment before being caught, leaping to the next spot and continuing to create chaos.

"Enough!" The first soldier finally lost his temper and drew his longsword.

The sword emitted a deep hum as it was drawn from its sheath, and dark red energy patterns flowed along its blade—this was the cult's standard weaponry, which dealt extra damage to psionic creatures.

The black cat stopped.

It perched on the top shelf of the third row of bookshelves, looking down at the soldier who had drawn his sword, its deep black eyes narrowed. For a moment, Karen felt the air in the archives seem to freeze, and the light dimmed, as if all the shadows were converging on the cat.

But the next second, the black cat turned around and nimbly leaped towards the arched window.

There was a narrow stone windowsill on the outside of the window. It landed on it, glanced back at the room, and then leaped out of the window and disappeared.

"It jumped? This is the third floor!" The second soldier rushed to the window and looked down.

Below was a deserted alley, without a single person or cat in sight.

The archives were a mess: shattered vases and flowerpots, spilled ink, scrolls scattered everywhere, and torn parchment. Old Patton looked at it all, his lips trembling, before finally letting out a long sigh.

The first soldier sheathed his sword, his breathing behind his visor becoming heavier. He surveyed the chaotic room, clearly having lost the patience to continue the thorough search.

"That's all for this room," he said briefly, walking towards the door. "Next room."

The second soldier glanced at the archives one last time, his gaze lingering on the fourth row of bookshelves for half a second—but the chaos created by the black cat was too conspicuous, making the bookshelves seem unremarkable in comparison. He shook his head and followed his companion away.

Old Patton stayed until the end.

He walked over to Karen, looked at the mess in the room, then at Karen's pale face, and said in a low voice, "I'll have the cleaners clean it up. You... don't work today, go home and rest."

"Mayor," Karen's voice was a little dry, "that cat..."

"Just a stray cat," old Patton waved his hand, exhausted. "At a time like this, who cares about a cat?"

He turned and left, closing the door behind him.

The archives returned to silence.

Karen stood there, listening to the footsteps in the corridor fade away, and the sounds of other room doors opening, being searched, and closing. He waited for a full five minutes, until the sounds of the search in the government office moved downstairs, before slowly walking to the fourth row of bookshelves and collapsing to the floor.

Migri, Xiguang was still fast asleep, completely unaware of what had just happened.

Karen reached in and stroked its warm fur, feeling the cub's steady breathing and heartbeat. It was safe; it was safe for now.

But his gaze fell on the arched window, on the direction where the black cat had disappeared.

Was that cat... a chance encounter?

Its timing was perfect, just as the soldiers were about to detect the fluctuations in the Dawn's psionic energy. Its movements were incredibly agile, far beyond what one would expect from a typical wildcat. And then there was that final look in its eyes—

Karen shook his head, suppressing the thought. Now was not the time to delve into it. He needed to clean up the archives, at least to remove the obvious clutter and avoid arousing suspicion. More importantly, he needed to think about what to do next. The cult's searches wouldn't be a one-time event; the three-day registration deadline hung like a sword of Damocles over his head.

He stood up and began to tidy up the books scattered on the floor.

On the roof of the government building, the black cat crouched in the shadows beside the chimney. Its deep black eyes gazed toward the archives, silver specks flickering in its pupils, as if observing, or perhaps waiting.

It raised its front paws, licked its paw pads, and let out a barely audible, satisfied purr.

Then it turned and leaped lightly into the dawn light, disappearing without a trace.