Chapter 231: Surveillance
The salty sea breeze, carrying the unique clamor and chaos of Port Beren, brushed against Moria’s pale cheeks. He stood at the entrance of a narrow, damp alley. The depths of the alley were filled with the pungent smell of rotten kelp mixed with cheap incense. On both sides of the alley were crowded, low-rise houses, their walls mottled and peeling from erosion by the sea breeze, hung with drying fishing nets and salted fish.
This was “Fog Bell Alley,” mentioned by Captain Remington, the residence of Sivell, “The Eye of the Tide,” who was said to be Port Beren’s most outstanding fortune teller.
Unlike the hustle and bustle of the main thoroughfares of the Port District, Fog Bell Alley was eerily deserted, even carrying a hint of dead silence.
In the shadows at the alley’s entrance, two figures in grey and white robes, with simple red crosses embroidered on their chests, were dimly visible. Their gazes vigilantly swept over everyone attempting to enter the alley. When Moria’s figure appeared at the alley’s entrance, the two figures’ gazes were like cold hooks, firmly fixed on him, carrying undisguised scrutiny and rejection.
The Divine Cult of Eternal Blessing… Moria silently recited the name. From the moment he disembarked, the presence of this mysterious sect had followed him like a shadow. The announcement boards in the port district, the corners of taverns, even the whispers of passersby, were filled with this sect propagating “Eternal Life.” The fervent eyes of their followers and their ubiquitous cross emblems added a touch of eeriness to this already mixed-bag port city.
He had no intention of interfering with others’ freedom of belief. It was just that this sect, whether in its doctrines, propaganda, or followers, gave him a strange sense of disharmony. It was certainly not a normal feeling that a rational faith, in line with people’s demands, could bring.
Perhaps he should find time to investigate the details of this sect? But that was not for now; there were more urgent matters.
He ignored the two unfriendly gazes and walked straight into the alley. The stone pavement under his feet, covered in green moss, was slippery and sticky. The dark sewage seeping from the cracks made him doubt if the sewers here were still functioning normally. Deeper in the alley, an inconspicuous wooden door was tightly shut. Above the door hung a wind chime made of shells and conches, which made dull clanging sounds in the breeze, like a fog bell for ships lost in the mist – this was probably the origin of the name “Fog Bell.”
Moria raised his hand and gently knocked on the old wooden door with his knuckles.
The knocking sound was exceptionally clear in the silent alley, but it was like dropping a stone into the sea; there was no response from inside the door. He knocked twice more, still the same. He tilted his head to listen, but it was dead quiet inside, as if no one was there.
This was very unusual. Captain Remington had clearly stated that Ms. Sivell lived here year-round and rarely went out. Moria frowned slightly. His intuition as a Transcendent made him feel something strange. He took half a step back and scanned the door and its surroundings.
The gap under the door was narrow, almost lightless. There were some unidentifiable stains on the door panel, like dried oil paint or some kind of viscous fluid. His gaze slowly moved up, finally stopping above the door lintel – on the thick hemp rope from which the wind chime hung, there seemed to be entangled a few extremely fine, almost transparent threads. If it weren’t for his far superior eyesight, and the fact that these threads occasionally refracted a faint, nearly imperceptible glow in the dim light filtering in from the alley entrance, they would have been impossible to detect.
An extremely weak, but instinctively repulsive, cold aura emanated from these threads. It was not the power of Glor, nor the aura of natural existence, but rather something like a meticulously arranged trap, carrying a sense of prying and curse.
Someone was watching this place, and their methods were quite hidden, bearing traces of the supernatural, and at the same time conveying an unmistakable warning – anyone who tried to approach this place would be marked and noticed.
Moria calmly retracted his gaze, understanding dawning within him. Ms. Sivell’s situation was likely more complicated than he had anticipated.
The dead silence within the door was more like a deliberate silence from the master, a period of lying low under invisible pressure.
Should he force his way in? If he weren’t affected by the curse, he might try it, but it was definitely not a wise choice now. This would not only immediately alarm the observers but might even put Ms. Sivell in a more dangerous situation.
Moria hesitated not at all. As if he had just passed by an unoccupied house, he naturally turned around and walked steadily towards the alley entrance along the slippery stone path he had come from. There was no haste or evasion in his movements, like an ordinary visitor who chooses to leave after being refused entry.
The two figures in grey and white robes at the alley entrance still stood in the shadows. When Moria’s figure reappeared in the light at the entrance, their gazes focused on him again, with scrutiny and undisguised rejection. One of them seemed to want to come forward and question him, but was stopped by a subtle gesture from his companion. The calm aura of a Glor priest that Moria possessed, and his seemingly “sensible” departure at this moment, led them to choose to wait and see.
Moria looked straight ahead, crossing the street, and naturally blended into the more boisterous crowd of the Port District.
The salty sea breeze, the shouts of sailors, the collisions of goods being moved, and the smell of cheap alcohol and grilled fish mingled together, forming the unique background noise of Port Beren. He didn’t go far, but stopped by a stall selling fishing gear and ropes, pretending to select some rough hemp rope, while his eyes, through the gaps in the crowd, quietly fixed on the entrance to Fog Bell Alley.
He was waiting, and observing. The observers could not be limited to just those two obvious figures at the alley entrance. Since Sivell was so tightly “protected,” there must be more hidden eyes around her residence.
Time slowly passed amidst the clamor of the port, and Moria’s patience was like a rock. He noticed that the two cultists at the alley entrance had not relaxed their vigilance, their gazes occasionally sweeping over the pedestrians near the entrance.
About half an hour later, there was finally new activity at the alley entrance. A short, stocky man wearing a greasy leather apron, his face weathered, carrying a half-empty sack, walked out of Fog Bell Alley with his head down and his pace hurried. His movements seemed somewhat stiff, his eyes darting, afraid to meet the gazes of the cultists at the entrance. He almost slunk along the wall as he emerged.
Moria’s gaze instantly locked onto this person. The timing of this worker’s entry was very subtle, and his demeanor upon exiting… It was less like completing a job and more like the tension and urgency to escape after completing a task.
This was him.
Moria put down the rope, followed him unhurriedly. He maintained an appropriate distance, using the continuous flow of people in the port as cover, like a shadow trailing behind the worker.
The worker clearly didn’t notice he was being followed. After leaving the Fog Bell Alley area, his pace obviously quickened. He weaved and turned, passing through several narrow back alleys piled with barrels and fishing nets, and finally arrived at a more dilapidated slum area on the edge of the Port District, where sewage flowed freely. The houses here were simple and dirty, emitting a strong smell of mold and excrement.
The worker walked to a hovel barely cobbled together with broken wooden boards and tarpaulin. He cautiously looked around from left to right before lifting the dirty door curtain and ducking inside.
Moria did not approach the hovel. He stopped in the shadows of a nearby corner piled with discarded fishing nets, where he could observe the entrance of the hovel without being easily discovered. He closed his eyes, not to rest, but to heighten his senses to the extreme. The keen spiritual sense of a Glor priest, like invisible tentacles, silently reached out towards the simple wooden shed.
Suppressed gasps and low curses, along with the dull thud of heavy objects landing, could be heard from inside the shed. The worker was venting some kind of emotion.
“…This damn place… Those lunatics…” the worker’s hoarse voice came intermittently, filled with fear and anger. “Guarding that witch every day… delivering food… and still being watched by that ghost thing… Damn it…”
Witch? He was likely referring to Sivell. Delivering food? It seemed that although the Divine Cult was monitoring her, they had not completely cut off Sivell’s contact with the outside world, at least maintaining basic living necessities. This confirmed Moria’s guess: they needed Sivell alive, at least for now.
