Spirit Pact Hundred Scenes Record

Chapter 3 Nighttime Sobbing

Karen pushed open the attic door so gently that the creaking of the wooden axle was barely audible.

The night's chill seeped in, clashing with the warmth that had accumulated inside all day, forming a thin mist. He stood in the doorway, listening intently. Dustlight Town was asleep—or rather, pretending to be asleep. There were no usual barks, no long chimes from the watchman, not even the ordinary sound of wind rustling through the eaves. The whole town was shrouded in a tense, oppressive silence, like a sponge soaked in fear, weighing heavily on every rooftop.

In the distance, towards the square, the silhouettes of three black iron airships gleamed coldly in the moonlight. The pale flame emblems on their prows resembled three eyes that would never close, silently overlooking the town. Occasionally, soldiers in black armor would patrol by, the rhythmic clanging of metal armor and heavy boots echoing on the cobblestones, each sound cracking a fissure in the night's silence.

But the sob did not come from the square.

Karen thought carefully. The voice was very soft, like a needle dropping into a pile of cotton, almost completely absorbed by the heavy night. But it had definitely existed, and... the direction was clear.

East side. Old warehouse district.

He hesitated for less than three seconds before stepping out the door, leaving it slightly ajar behind him. He was only wearing a thin linen shirt and an old wool coat, and the late autumn night wind immediately seeped into his collar and cuffs, raising goosebumps. But he didn't go back to put on more clothes—time might be crucial.

Karen knew every alleyway in Dustlight Town. He avoided the main roads and slipped into the narrow lanes between the houses. Some of these lanes were gaps between two houses, while others were passageways left over from the early planning, so narrow that only one person could pass sideways. The town's children loved to play hide-and-seek here, and Karen was one of them when he was a child—though more often than not, he was the one searching for a hiding place alone.

The moonlight was cut into fragmented strips by the towering rooftops. He moved swiftly through the alternation of light and shadow, his steps light. Years of solitude had taught him how to move inconspicuously, how to make his footsteps fall on the seams of the stone slabs to reduce the sound, and how to use shadows to conceal his figure.

The sound of patrolling soldiers' footsteps came from a street away, accompanied by low conversation:

"...The captain said the spiritual vein readings in this town are abnormal, especially in the east."

"That run-down warehouse district? We'll search it tomorrow."

"Let's finish this quickly and go back. This poor place doesn't even have a decent tavern."

The sound gradually faded into the distance.

Karen held her breath and waited until the footsteps completely disappeared before emerging from the shadows of the porch where she was hiding and quickening her pace.

The old warehouse district is located on the easternmost side of the town, near the edge of a cliff. Decades ago, when Dustlight Town was a small town mainly engaged in ore transshipment, this place was filled with ore awaiting transport and goods from all over the world. Later, the main mine was depleted, trade routes were changed, and the warehouses were gradually abandoned. Now, only rows of crooked wooden structures remain, with broken roof tiles and walls covered with withered vines, groaning hollowly in the night wind.

Karen stopped at the edge of the warehouse area.

Even the patrolling soldiers didn't want to come here. The moonlight shone down without obstruction, illuminating the broken tiles and overgrown weeds scattered on the ground. The wind picked up, blowing from the direction of the cliff, carrying the dampness and chill unique to the sea of ​​clouds, and a faint... sweet, fishy smell.

It tastes like blood.

Karen's heart skipped a beat. He looked in the direction of the smell—towards the edge of the cliff, the largest and most dilapidated warehouse. Half of its roof had collapsed, and huge cracks ran through the wooden walls, like the gruesome corpse of a disemboweled beast.

The sobbing started again.

This time it was clearer, right there in that warehouse. It wasn't a continuous wailing, but rather intermittent, weak, trembling sounds, mixed with painful gasps. It sounded like some small animal, badly injured, curled up in the darkness, using its last strength to cry for help—or perhaps it was simply in too much pain, unbearable agony.

Karen didn't rush in immediately.

He crouched down, grabbed a handful of dry soil from the ground, and scattered it towards the warehouse. The soil stirred up fine dust in the moonlight, nothing unusual. There were no traps, at least no trigger-activated psionic traps. He then picked up a piece of broken tile and gently tossed it towards the warehouse entrance.

The tile hit the ground with a crisp cracking sound.

The sobbing stopped abruptly.

A deathly silence fell over the warehouse; even the painful gasps ceased. The creature knew someone was coming; it held its breath, it was terrified.

Karen waited for ten seconds, then slowly stood up and walked towards the warehouse.

The main door was long gone, leaving only a crooked frame. He stepped inside, his eyes quickly adjusting to the darkness. Moonlight streamed in through holes in the roof and cracks in the walls, forming slanted beams of light. The air was thick with the smells of dust, mildew, rotting wood, and an increasingly strong, sweet, metallic scent—fresh blood.

The warehouse was spacious, with most of the wooden shelves that had once held goods collapsed and scattered all over the floor. Karen's gaze swept across the corners, across the shadows, and across the places where people might be hiding.

There was no movement.

But he could feel—not hear, not see, but some more primal sensation—that something was here, and nearby. His skin tingled slightly, and the pendant hanging on his chest emitted an unusually clear warmth, almost burning.

"I won't hurt you," Karen said softly, her voice unusually clear in the empty warehouse. "I just... heard something."

no respond.

He took a few steps forward, his foot landing on a loose plank with a creak. Almost simultaneously, a rapid scraping sound came from behind a pile of collapsed wooden frames to his right, as if something was frantically shrinking back, followed by a suppressed, painful whimper.

Karen turned in that direction.

He navigated around the obstacles on the ground, slowly approaching the pile of wooden frames. The moonlight was blocked here, creating a deep shadow. But as he drew closer, he saw—

gold.

Even in the darkness, it was a dazzling gold. Not the luster of metal, but a softer, warmer color, like the color of sunlight shining through amber. That golden huddle huddled in the corner formed by the wooden frame and the wall, trembling.

Karen crouched down, her eyes finally adjusting to the darkness.

He saw it clearly.

It was a cub. About the size of a medium-sized dog, but more slender and elegant. Its entire body was covered in fine, golden fur, which shimmered like silk when the moonlight occasionally swept across it. Its head resembled a lion's, but was more refined, with two tufts of fine down at the tips of its ears, now pressed tightly to its scalp in fear. Most striking was its back—where a pair of wings should have been, and Karen knew from the bestiary that the wings of the Lightwing Lion were made of pure light energy, and even a cub should have some form of them.

But at this moment, its back only had a bloody, mangled laceration.

The base of the left wing was completely ripped open, the golden blood had congealed into a dark red scab, but clear tissue fluid was still seeping from deep within the wound. The remaining wing structure—a few incompletely formed light-energy bones—was exposed, the broken ends flickering with an unstable glow, like a broken light bulb.

Not just wings.

It had a charred burn scar on its side, with irregularly radiating edges, the flesh rolled back, and a faint burnt smell emanating from it. Karen had seen that kind of scar in the encyclopedia—it was "Azure Flame," a wound caused by the Azure Flame Order's signature psionic flames, which had the property of continuously eroding spiritual veins.

The cub raised its head.

Its eyes were pure amber, like two small, trembling lamps in the darkness. The pupils were dilated with pain and fear, reflecting Karen's crouching figure. It tried to shrink back, but there was a wall behind it, nowhere to retreat. A low, threatening growl escaped its throat, but the sound was so weak and intimidating that it only made it seem more pitiful.

"It's alright now." Karen's voice softened further as he slowly extended his hand, palm up, to show that he was unarmed. "I won't hurt you."

The cub stared at his hand, its amber eyes filled with wariness. But it was too weak to even maintain a threatening posture. The pain from its abdominal wound caused its body to convulse, and it lowered its head, letting out a suppressed, small whimper.

It was this sob that rang out.

Just like what she'd heard in the attic before, but now it was so close, every trembling syllable clearly audible. It wasn't just a sound—the instant the sobbing reached her ears, a chaotic jumble of images exploded in Karen's mind:

Darkness. Falling. Tearing pain. Burning pain. Where is Mom? So cold. So dark. A golden human? Danger? No, his eyes…are different…

Karen froze.

This wasn't just what he "heard," but what he directly "understood." It was as if the sob itself carried information, which was directly decoded into fragments he could comprehend within his consciousness.

Can he understand the language of spirits?

No, impossible. He is a pulseless being, his spiritual veins are blocked, and he cannot even achieve the most basic spiritual energy resonance. How could he possibly understand spiritual language? Spiritual language communication is a deep communication that can only be achieved after a contract is established and the spiritual veins are connected. Even the most experienced spiritual contract master cannot directly understand the thoughts of wild spiritual beings without a contract.

Yet those images are so clear, so real.

The cub whimpered again, this time weaker, filled with a desperate urge to collapse.

More images flood in: the sky. Clouds of light spread out beneath its feet. The herd migrates, adult light-winged lions unfurling their enormous wings, like moving golden rays of light. Mother is beside it, protecting it with her warm feathers. Then comes the shadow—a black airship, spewing pale flames. Chaos. Screams. Mother pushes it deeper into the clouds: "Hide!" The fall. The impact. Darkness. It awakens here, wings broken, belly burned, mother gone…

"You..." Karen's voice was a little hoarse, "Are you looking for your mother?"

He froze as soon as the words left his mouth. Was he speaking to a young spirit creature, expecting it to reply in human language?

But the cubs' reaction shocked him even more.

It suddenly raised its head, and a near-scorching light burst forth in its amber eyes. It wasn't anger, nor vigilance, but an incredulous emotion mixed with hope and confusion. It opened its mouth and let out a series of rapid, tearful sobs.

This time, the images that flooded Karen's mind were more coherent:

Mom! Do you know Mom? Where is she? Golden human, can you hear me? Can you really hear me? It hurts, my wings hurt, my stomach hurts, Mom is gone, the big black bird (airship) spewed white fire, Mom pushed me away, and then she disappeared. I fell down and am hiding here, so scared, it hurts so much…

The cub struggled to stand up as it "spoke." But its front paws gave way, its body tilted to the side, and its belly hit the ground. The burning wound was squeezed, and it let out a sharp scream.

Karen instinctively lunged forward, gently pressing her hands against its body to prevent it from struggling further and aggravating its injuries.

"Don't move!" His voice held an urgency he himself didn't realize. "The wound will reopen!"

The moment they made contact, a flood of information rushed into his consciousness.

It wasn't just emotions and fragments of memory, but also more direct feelings: the excruciating pain of the broken wing, the burning sensation of the blue flames encroaching on the abdomen, the cold and weakness brought on by blood loss, and the deepest loneliness and fear that almost devoured the young mind—the mother was gone, the tribe was gone, and the child was trapped in this strange and hostile place, where he could be found and killed by those black humans at any time.

Karen's hands were trembling.

It wasn't out of fear, but because of... empathy. He felt that pain, that despair, firsthand. It was as if the injured one wasn't this strange, spirit-like cub, but a part of his own body.

"It's alright," he repeated, his voice a little hoarse. "I'll help you."

The cub quieted down, its amber eyes fixed on him. Its body was still twitching slightly from the pain, but it no longer struggled. Karen could sense the change in its emotions: the wariness remained, but it was overshadowed by a faint yet real hope. It was assessing, probing, clinging to the only seemingly harmless human in the darkness.

Golden human...aren't you afraid of me? You're not afraid of me? All the other humans are afraid, those black humans want to kill me, but your eyes...are so warm...

Karen took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. He needed to treat the wound, now, immediately. Otherwise, the cub wouldn't survive until dawn.

He looked around, his gaze landing on some scattered rags in the corner of the warehouse—probably scraps of rags or tarpaulins left behind by previous workers. He carefully moved the cub to a relatively flat spot, took off his coat and placed it under the cub, then went to pick up the rags.

Most of the fabric was dirty and tattered, but he found a few relatively clean pieces. He then took out the small knife he always carried with him from his waist—which he often used to cut paper or sharpen quills as a scribe—and cut off the relatively clean lining fabric from the hem of the shirt.

Back with the cub, it followed his every move with its amber eyes.

"It might hurt," Karen said softly, both to the cub and to herself. "Just bear with it."

He first treated the burns on his abdomen. The fuzz around the wound was charred and stuck together, and he dared not tear it off forcefully. He could only gently moisten it with a cloth dipped in saliva (the only "cleaner" he could find at the moment) and carefully clean away the charred impurities bit by bit. The wound was deep, and the erosion from the flames had given the flesh an unhealthy grayish-white color, with the edges slowly ulcerating.

The cub's body was tense, and it made a suppressed whimper, but it did not resist.

Every time Karen touched the wound, she felt excruciating pain through that strange connection. She tried to move as gently and quickly as possible.

After cleaning the abdomen, he turned to the laceration on the wing. This was more troublesome; the broken light-energy skeleton was exposed and needed to be repositioned—at least roughly—otherwise, healing would be problematic. Karen had no relevant experience and could only rely on the anatomical diagrams she had seen in the encyclopedia and basic common sense to make a judgment.

He reached out his trembling hand and gently touched the broken, shimmering main bone.

Instantly, the cub let out a piercing scream!

That wasn't a sound emanating from the throat, but a pure scream of pain that exploded directly into Karen's mind! At the same time, a violent surge of psionic energy erupted from the cub's body, and golden light burst out uncontrollably, illuminating the entire corner of the warehouse as bright as day!

Karen was thrown backward by the shock, a burning pain shooting through his palms—not from flames, but from the impact of pure, high-concentration light energy. The pendant on his chest became scalding hot, so hot that he almost thought his skin was about to be burned.

What's most terrifying is that this psionic energy fluctuation is so strong that it's impossible to conceal it.

Outside the warehouse, shouts immediately came from afar:

"East! Psychic energy erupts!"

"The warehouse area! Let's go take a look!"

The sounds of boots running and armor clashing came from afar.

The cub realized it had caused trouble; fear almost overflowed in its eyes. It struggled to get up and run away, but its injuries were too severe. It could only move half a meter before collapsing, only able to let out a desperate, faint whimper.

I'm sorry... I didn't mean to... They're coming... Golden humans, run... Don't worry about me...

Karen got up from the ground, the stinging pain in his palms still lingering, the pendant on his chest still burning hot. He looked at the dying cub on the ground, at the pure fear and remorse in its eyes that almost overwhelmed him.

Then he heard soldiers shouting outside the warehouse, and heard them approaching.

There is no time.

He bent down, wrapped the cub completely in his coat, and held it in his arms. The cub was very light, much lighter than it looked, as if its bones were hollow. It trembled in his arms, its cold nose brushing against his wrist.

Karen did not use the main entrance.

He carried the cub and rushed to the deepest part of the warehouse, where there was a side window that had long since rotted away. He smashed open the loose wooden frame with his shoulder, and covered in sawdust and dust, leaped into the weeds behind the warehouse.

Under the moonlight, he turned around and glanced back.

At the warehouse entrance, the figures of black-armored soldiers had already appeared, their weapons gleaming with a dark red light.

Karen held the trembling golden cub tightly in her arms, then turned and disappeared into the deeper darkness.

The sobs in her arms gradually faded, leaving only a final, fragmented thought, like a candle flickering in the wind:

Golden human...why...are you helping me...?

Karen did not answer.

He just ran, toward the town, toward the government office, toward the archives—the only place he could think of that might be safe.