Three days later, Zhang Jiuxuan stood on the deck of a small research vessel sailing south from Sicily.
The sun blazed bright over deep blue waters, and the wind carried the sharp, clean scent of salt.
But his gaze stayed fixed on the horizon, where the sea seemed to dip and swirl in patterns no current should make.
Lin Weiyao leaned against the rail, checking readings on a portable scanner.
“After the sanctuary fell, three hidden nodes went dark across Europe—except one.
It’s anchored to a sunken temple off the coast of Malta.
Old records say the Black Cross used it to channel energy from ancient shipwrecks and drowned shrines for nearly eight hundred years.” Huo Yunxi traced a finger over a nautical chart.
“Local fishermen have reported strange fog banks and ghostly lights there for generations.
No one who sails into that patch of water ever comes back the same.” By mid-afternoon, the sea grew still as glass.
The sky turned hazy, and the air hummed with the same low, thrumming pressure they had felt in Macau.
Zhang Jiuxuan kicked off his flip-flops and tied the two seals tight around his waist.
“Stay within sight of the edge of the calm water,” he said.
“This place feeds on confusion.
If you lose your way, anchor fast and wait for the light.” He dove straight down.
Golden light wrapped around him as he descended past sunken reefs and broken columns, until he reached a massive stone structure rising from the seabed—ancient, weathered, wrapped in thick black chains that coiled around every pillar and arch.
At its center stood a circular altar, and on it rested a jagged crystal that drank all light around it.
Dozens of shadowy figures drifted through the ruins—sailors, merchants, monks, their forms blurred and tangled together, trapped in an endless loop of drowning.
“Lost souls,” Zhang Jiuxuan murmured.
“Bound to the altar so their despair can fuel the curse.” He swam forward, but the water suddenly thickened, turning cold and heavy as tar.
Shapes rose from the depths—twisted mermen with teeth like harpoons, their eyes hollow, their claws dragging chains behind them.
“Tide wardens,” he said.
“Corrupted guardians of the deep.” He didn’t strike.
He held up the seals and sang a single, clear note that cut through the murk.
The tar-like water cleared.
The wardens froze, then slowly lowered their claws, the black marks on their scales fading away.
They bowed, then turned and herded the tangled souls toward Zhang Jiuxuan.
He touched the crystal altar.
Golden light spread outward, unwinding the chains one by one.
The trapped souls separated, their faces clearing, and one by one they drifted upward toward the surface, free at last.
As the last chain fell away, the crystal shattered.
The whole temple glowed soft blue, then sank gently back into the sand, its long vigil over.
Zhang Jiuxuan rose slowly toward the surface.
When he broke through, the haze had lifted, and the sun shone warm again.
Lin Weiyao and Huo Yunxi waved from the deck, grinning.
“That’s the Mediterranean cleared,” Zhang Jiuxuan said, pulling himself back aboard.
“But there are still nodes in the Andes, the Sahara, and the Pacific islands.
The Order scattered its roots wide to make them hard to pull.” He looked out across the endless blue, then smiled faintly.
“Good,” he said.
“We have time.
And we have all the world to walk.”