Yang Zicang pulled out the cork, and the child hastily peered in with one eye, tilting the jug as if trying to see inside more clearly by holding it up to the sunlight.
Then the first sip went straight into her eye instead.
–Wawa!–
The child was stunned.
She had heard the rescued man describe Yang Zicang’s marvels in simple terms, saying he had –water,– so she had chased after him all this way.
It was actually real.
–Amay, ayowa.–
The child hugged the magical gourd-shaped earthenware pot, pointing at it with uncertain confusion.
–You’ve got some manners, you little rascal.–
Yang Zicang ruffled her hair: –Keep it, I said I’m giving it to you, didn’t I?–
With that, he stood up, his tall and straight frame moving forward—she couldn’t understand his words, but his gestures would surely make sense.
The child looked from the jug to Yang Zicang, a spark of calculation flickering in her gaze.
She tilted her head back for a few gulps of water, yelped something at Yang Zicang, trailing after him a bit farther, then, clutching the earthenware pot in her arms, she darted away with the leaf atop her head swaying wildly.
Yang Zicang turned to watch her leave, but before she’d gone far, the child—whether too exhilarated or because the sand was too scorching and slippery—suddenly tumbled to the ground.
The earthen water jug shattered into several pieces, and the remaining clear water seeped into the sand, disappearing swiftly.
The child froze for a moment, then burst into loud sobs.
In the desert, obtaining such a peculiar water storage tool was unprecedented, yet she had ruined it.
–You really don’t have much luck.–
In the distance, Yang Zicang stood with his arms crossed, watching her with a chuckle; minutes later, the child was still crying.
–Oh, you wouldn’t happen to know what you broke, would you?–
He walked over to the child.
–Anyway, I’ve got plenty of time, so I’ll just set up the kiln right here again. This time, I’ll mold something even prettier.–
He brought the child back near that tribe and, from far away, fetched clay, wood, and coal for making pottery, building a kiln before them.
Over twenty days later, after several failed attempts, ugly-looking functional pottery emerged from the kiln.
At first, it was just the child by his side, but as days passed, more and more primitives gathered around.
Initially, they were merely curious or drawn in by his martial prowess—how his few hurled stones could scare off the sand centipedes.
But soon, they lost their cool.
As various shapes of pottery materialized before their eyes, everyone stared at Yang Zicang with awe, as if witnessing a sage rather than just a man.
–Here, take this to play with.–
Yang Zicang casually picked up one of the frog-shaped clay figurines from this batch of kiln-fired pieces and handed it to the little kid.
–Wow wow.–
The child’s eyes sparkled like stars, making the surrounding children burn with envy.
–Atata!– The kid raised the clay frog aloft, as proud as if holding a crown.
–Ah tata ah tata!–
Then, her treasure was snatched away.
Yang Zicang watched them laugh and tussle.
Days later, more than half of the people in this primitive tribe had learned to use pottery to hold water.
Thus, another forty-odd years passed.
Yang Zicang had traveled through countless unknown lands.
He had long since grown tired of cursing the ancient Light Postal Emblem, and he no longer harbored illusions about the statue—only seeking useful skills while keeping an eye out for that item.
Draped in a straw cloak, Yang Zicang looked up at the dissipating clouds in the sky, then turned his head with his hands on his hips.
He rolled up his pant legs, waded into the water, and headed toward the small boat ahead.
To call it a boat was generous; in truth, it was a dugout canoe made by felling a tree and hollowing it out, only larger than ordinary canoes.
Though over the decades he had found iron ore and forged crude, brittle iron tools to replenish his arrows, he still couldn’t master the craftsmanship needed for shipbuilding.
Yang Zicang turned to look at the primitive people who were bowing to him. This small tribe had developed relatively quickly, already possessing a simple language and knowing how to bind things with vines.
But there were only a dozen of them, and Yang Zicang guessed they might have learned this from elsewhere.
Having crafted a more complex vine net in front of these people and used it to catch fish and small wild beasts, perhaps someone would eventually figure out more uses for it.
–Farewell for now, savages!–
–Kula-gula!–
The savages, carrying saw blades and axes, reluctantly bid farewell.
Yang Zicang raised the animal hide sail and set sail from this place, intent on crossing the sea—he wanted to seek out more distant lands.
Perhaps there would be new discoveries on the sea.
Maybe as soon as he set out, he would spot a derelict cargo ship of the East India Company anchored in the distance, he thought with anticipation.
–Sixty years have passed—it’s time for a new attempt! From now on, I am: Zheng · Magellan · Columbus · Jack Zang!–
The young man placed one foot on the ship’s rail and donned a straw sun hat with one hand. Though his craftsmanship was mediocre, it carried a rugged aesthetic of its own.
If it failed again, this postal emblem would be considered ruined by my greedy hands.
Suddenly, the savages on the shore behind him yelled even louder, and many voices were filled with terror.
Yang Zicang turned in confusion, following their gazes as he looked up. In the sky, a streak of meteor light appeared, like a tiny needlepoint hanging in the distant horizon.
–Hoho, that’s a shooting star—no, wait, it should be a comet.–
Yang Zicang laughed heartily. These primitive people were so simple-minded.
Still, he couldn’t really blame them. Such a comet, with its tail visible even in broad daylight, was rare beyond measure. Suddenly witnessing this bizarre sight in the sky would indeed be hard for anyone to fathom.
Fear came naturally to them.
–This is just a dream.–
Several days later, gazing at the vast, desolate sea stretching in all directions, Yang Zicang murmured to himself.
Though it was a dream, he felt as if he had already become a part of this world.
The only human.
A beryl sea beneath an azure sky. Fortunately, he had no need for food or water, nor even to sleep; otherwise, he would have died over the ocean hundreds—no, thousands of times by now.
Yang Zicang glanced toward the horizon. That comet was still on the edge of the sky, having advanced only a short distance. To traverse the entire expanse, it would take quite some time yet.
–Will it be I who crosses the ocean first, or you who pierces the sky?–
Yang Zicang said, amusing himself.
As tens of days and nights passed, the weather gradually cooled.
At noon, the light snow had just ceased. The bored Yang Zicang stirred the water a few times with a flat, sword-like iron spear when suddenly a chill gripped his heart—an ominous aura pervaded the surrounding air.
Frowning, he removed his straw hat, whose brim had long since frayed, and glanced around, yet found nothing amiss.
Suddenly, an immense sense of dread and terror surged forth.
–What the hell is that?!–
On the side of the wooden boat, shadows gathered around the flat iron spear, as if something was about to take shape from it.
A long-forgotten memory sprang to mind.
A Nightmare!
Yang Zicang stared in shock at this shoddy iron spear—wasn’t this something he had made himself? Why would a Nightmare be born from it?
It wasn’t even a projection from Earth.
–Squeak!–
On the stone-tipped wooden spear, a strange, eye-like pattern grew, with a crimson gleam bobbing within it before locking onto Yang Zicang.
[I, the great Quad, sense hostility.]
On his chest, the Moxel symbol flickered into view on its own.
The stone spear, discarded on the ground, morphed into a serpentine shadowy monster, its red eyes like a viper’s. It coiled its body, then sprang forth.
A golden phantom flickered instantly around Yang Zicang’s hand as he punched at it.
Bang!
The nightmare dragon that had just been born within this iron spear was instantly obliterated.
The Lance shimmered with countless eerie runes, as dark red smoke condensed back into the weapon, which fell to the decks and lay still.
Yang Zicang picked up the spear, and several voices of thought whispered in his mind.
[**The Councilors call it—a Spirit Weapon. **]
A Spirit Weapon? Not a Chronos weapon?
Yang Zicang’s eyes snapped wide open.
Just now, when he destroyed it, he hadn’t used any Chronos! Not a single second was lost!
–Woo-hoo~–
An eerie, sobbing wail rose like a vision from a dream, seeming both beside his ear and deep within his heart.
A memory surfaced—ancient yet fresh—of a similar voice… a voice belonging to that so-called [Matrix] when it spoke with him.
A heightened sense of dark and terrifying dread washed over Yang Zicang as he looked left and right, finally fixing his gaze on the unfurled animal-hide sails.
From drifting endlessly on the sea, it had nearly become damp and begun to rot.
On the sail, countless shadows coursed like blue-black veins across the hide and the little mast, as if something was about to be resurrected from within.
–Another nightmare dragon? No, two of them!–
The golden spear slammed into the deck.
Thud! The grey mist that had just begun to coalesce around the canoe was forced aside as the dark red weapon, like an iron halberd, plunged deep into it.
Yang Zicang could hardly accept it. If it were only this, it might have been bearable, but…
On land!
He dared not think further.
–This is a dream, just a dream! Even… Ah! Die!!–
He angrily raised his fist, gleaming with golden light, and smashed it toward the mast, but this thing, neither too large nor too small, couldn’t be struck at its core with mere fists wrapped in Chronos.
–Puff-puff!–
Two jets of grey mist shot forth.
[**Deploy! **]
The grey mist could also have its trajectory redirected by the deployment ability; they were shot into the ocean.
Beneath the water, several fish hit by this grey mist writhed in pain, distorting their forms on the spot, sprouting extra limbs like octopuses.
Even though his Chronos should be able to defend against such an attack, Yang Zicang still felt his scalp tingle.
He pulled out the uncanny Lance and thrust it forward, eliciting an illusory scream from the mast.
The sound, instead, calmed Yang Zicang down a bit.
–I need to gather more data while I have the chance.–
This was a phenomenon he’d been searching for decades; he couldn’t simply kill it all off like this.
He picked up a wooden rod from the canoe and swung it down hard.
This ordinary piece of wood, aside from making a muffled thumping sound on the already rotting leather, proved indeed to be useless.
–Looks like it’s the same as those nightmares. Though you differ from them somewhat and don’t require Chronos to be depleted, you still can’t be harmed by ordinary attacks.–
Puff puff puff!
A few more streams of gray mist shot toward him, but when drawn into the water as always, Yang Zicang thoroughly pulverized them with a few strikes from the spiritual artifact in his hand.
On the mast, now reduced to nothing but a stump, the black patterns gradually ceased to flow.
A viscous sap oozed forth in dark cyan-red, and once dried, it coated the surface with a translucent crystalline film.
Yang Zicang reached out and touched it with his hand.
[**Probably a spiritual artifact that can accelerate the canoe. **]
After waiting a while longer, no more peculiarities emerged from the canoe.
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