Spirit Pact Hundred Scenes Record

Chapter 12 Psionic Storm Warning

On the morning of the third day, Karen woke up in the dawn. The abrasions on his back had scabbed over, and the dull pain in his left shoulder joint had lessened to a negligible level. He sat up from the hammock, and Xiguang immediately came over and rubbed his hand against the top of his head—after two days of adjustment, the cub had gotten used to the small space. Although it still longed for the sunlight and wind outside, it no longer conveyed that feeling of being imprisoned.

"Good morning," Karen said softly, her fingers stroking the downy hair behind Xiguang's ear. Through the connection of the spirit runes on his wrist, he could feel the cub's recovery progress: the burns on its abdomen had mostly healed, leaving only a patch of light pink new skin; the new flesh at the torn base of its wings had grown firmly, and the broken light energy bones were repairing themselves, slowly growing and reconnecting like shattered crystal. Although it couldn't fly yet, or even fully unfold its wings, at least it was no longer in pain.

The echo of the wake-up clock came from the hallway. Karen quickly made the bed, left Xiguang some water and ground meat, and then climbed onto the deck.

The voyage through the clouds entered its third day. The sky was a clear, azure, almost cloudless—except for the rolling silver-grey sea of ​​clouds below. The sun shone unhindered on the deck, making the planks slightly warm. The wind was steady, and the three enormous triangular sails were billowing full, allowing the Narwhal to sail north at a satisfactory speed.

Karen was already used to the morning cleaning routine. He picked up a broom and started from the stern, sweeping along the grain of the planks to collect the dust and debris that had accumulated overnight, then wiped it with a seawater-soaked mop. His movements were much more practiced than on the first day; he could adjust his center of gravity as the boat rocked and no longer stumbled.

When the camera swept near the mainmast, he saw the old navigator emerge from the navigation room at the bow.

The navigator was a gaunt old man named Alvin, with sparse, graying hair tied in a small bun, and his face etched with wrinkles from the storms of life. His eyes were unusual—the pupils were cloudy, a greyish-white, clearly indicating years of blindness, yet he never needed assistance walking, his steps precisely avoiding every obstacle on the deck. Karen had heard that Alvin was a renowned "Star Whisperer" in the North in his youth, able to navigate by the positions of stars and the flow of psychic energy, an ability that had not diminished even after he went completely blind.

At that moment, Erwin was holding something in his hands.

It was a brass sphere, about the size of an adult's head, its surface covered with intricate runes and markings. The sphere was supported by a complex bronze stand, inlaid with several gemstones of various colors, which were now emitting a soft glow. The sphere itself was translucent, and inside, a milky-white fluid swirled slowly, like a trapped cloud.

Psionic Weather Instrument.

Karen had seen a simplified diagram in her father's notes, but had never seen the actual instrument. It was an extremely sophisticated device, said to be able to monitor the flow of psionic energy within a radius of a hundred miles, predict psionic storms, and even detect hidden ley lines. The manufacturing technology was almost lost, and most of the existing weather instruments were excavated from ancient ruins, each one priceless.

Irwin walked to the center of the deck and placed the weather instrument on a fixed base—a spot clearly reserved for it. His thin fingers traced the surface of the sphere, causing the runes to glow faintly in turn, and the milky-white fluid inside to swirl faster.

Sailors would glance at it as they passed by, but no one bothered them. Irwin's weather instrument was one of the guarantees that the Narwhal could navigate safely on dangerous routes, and everyone was already used to the old man's routine check every morning.

Karen continued sweeping, but her eyes remained fixed on the weather gauge.

At first, everything was normal. The fluid inside the sphere rotated at a constant speed, and the gem on the support glowed steadily. But after about five minutes, Alvin stopped moving. His fingers hovered above the sphere, and although his gray-white eyes were unseen, the expression on his face became serious.

"Something's not right," the old man muttered to himself, his voice hoarse like the wind blowing through withered leaves.

He bent down, his ear almost pressed against the surface of the sphere. The internal spinning sound was faint, but Karen could still hear it—a regular, ticking sound, like the turning of clock gears. Only now, the rhythm of the ticking began to erratically, sometimes rapid, sometimes drawn out.

Irwin straightened up, turned towards the stern, and called out, "Captain! We need your help!"

Heinrich quickly emerged from the wheelhouse. He walked to the weather instrument and peered down at it. "What's wrong, Erwin?"

"The flow of psionic energy is abnormal." The old man pointed to the sphere. "Look at the vortex inside—it should normally rotate clockwise at a constant speed, but now it's vibrating, and... flowing backwards."

Karen put down the broom and moved closer. Indeed, the milky-white fluid inside the sphere was no longer rotating smoothly, but churning like boiling water, forming tiny vortices and countercurrents on the surface. The gems on the support also began to flicker erratically, especially the deep purple one, whose light flashed intermittently, like a faulty light bulb.

"Storm?" Heinrich asked, his voice still steady, but Karen noticed that his fingers tightened slightly on the hilt of the knife.

“This is no ordinary storm.” Alvin shook his head, his withered fingers sliding across the markings on the sphere’s surface. “The air pressure is stable, the temperature is normal, and there’s no sign of cumulonimbus clouds forming. This is pure psionic disturbance—a strong psionic turbulence is forming ahead, or… it has already formed and is moving toward us.”

He paused, then added, "And it's quite intense. Based on this reading, it's at least a 'Level 3 psionic storm,' possibly reaching Level 4."

The air on the deck instantly became heavy.

Karen heard several sailors nearby gasp in shock. Although he didn't know the specific classifications of psionic storms, judging from the reactions of the crew, a level three or four storm was definitely not something that could be easily dealt with.

Captain Heinrich paused for a few seconds, then issued the order: "Attention all crew! A psionic storm may be approaching. Check that all cargo is secured, close any non-essential hatches, and furl the upper sails. Leah, notify Grom to check the protective array in the engine room. Elwin, continue monitoring and report any changes immediately."

The order was like a pebble thrown into calm water, creating ripples that spread rapidly. The deck instantly sprang into action: sailors rushed to the ropes and began furling the sails; several cargo handlers scurried into the holds to inspect the ropes and nets; Leah hurried down to the lower deck to inform Grom.

Karen stood there, unsure what to do. His cleaning duties were clearly no longer important, but he hadn't been assigned any other tasks yet.

Heinrich looked at him. "Karen, go to the cargo hold and assist Grom in inspecting the protection of the psionic-sensitive cargo. Especially the barrel of whale oil and the resonant crystal—the psionic turbulence in the storm could destabilize them."

"Yes, Captain." Karen turned and ran towards the stairs.

When they descended into the cargo hold, Grom was already at work. The dwarf crouched beside the sealed barrel of whale oil, holding a psionic resonator, his brow furrowed. The instrument's pointer trembled at the edge of the red zone, emitting a soft, warning buzz.

"Perfect timing." Grom didn't even look up. "Bring over that roll of runecloth over there, and the silver dust from the toolbox."

Karen quickly found the item. The runecloth was deep blue, with intricate patterns embroidered on its surface in silver thread, and it stung slightly to the touch—a remnant of protective psionic energy. The silver dust was contained in a small ceramic jar, shimmering with a cold, faint light.

Grom took the runecloth and began wrapping it around the grease bucket. His movements were quick but meticulous, ensuring every inch of the bucket was covered, the seams connected with runes drawn in silver powder. He explained as he worked:

"The essence of a psionic storm is a violent disruption of the flow of psionic energy in nature. Just as a storm at sea can create huge waves, a psionic storm can create a 'psionic surge.' Ordinary objects are unaffected, but psionic sensitive objects—like this one," he patted the grease can, "—can have their internal psionic structure disrupted by the surge, becoming unstable, or even exploding."

After wrapping the grease drum, they turned to the box of resonant crystal ore. Grom drew a complex magic circle around the box with silver powder, and then attached small, rune-engraved metal pieces to the four corners.

"These are 'tranquilizing charms'," Grom said. "They can absorb and disperse external psionic shocks, protecting the structural stability of internal items. The Narwhale's cargo hold itself has basic protective arrays, but it needs additional reinforcement to withstand storms of level three or higher."

They spent about half an hour inspecting and securing all the psionic-sensitive cargo in the hold. Karen helped as she learned: which runes were for isolation, which for absorption, and which for channeling. Grom, though short-tempered, was patient when teaching—or rather, he didn't want Karen's mistakes to lead to cargo damage or even shipwreck and loss of life.

As the work was nearing its end, Karen suddenly felt a pang of heart palpitation.

It wasn't a physiological connection, but rather a distant resonance transmitted through the spiritual patterns on his wrist. He stopped moving, his hand unconsciously pressed against his chest.

"What's wrong?" Grom noticed his unusual behavior.

"I don't know." Karen frowned. "I suddenly feel... uneasy."

The unease intensified rapidly. Like an icy tide rising from his feet, seeping into his very bones. His breathing became rapid, and the edges of his vision began to darken. Worse still, the silver spirit runes on his wrist began to heat up—not the gentle heat they had before, but a warning, stinging heat.

At the same time, he "senses" the dawn.

Not through sight or sound, but through that golden connecting thread. The cub's emotions surged like a flood: fear, pure fear that almost consumed reason. It wasn't fear of concrete things, but a more primal fear of something "existence" itself.

Then, the imagery appeared.

It's not a complete picture, but fragmented, chaotic pieces:

Darkness. Not the darkness of night, but a deeper, thicker darkness, like ink, that swallowed all light.

A vortex. A massive, slowly rotating vortex, composed of purple and black energy, with pale arcs of electricity leaping along its edges.

Torn apart. Clouds were ripped into wisps, starlight was twisted into bizarre arcs, and the flow of psychic energy darted about like mad snakes.

There are also sounds—not sounds, but the shrieks of countless chaotic thoughts that act directly on consciousness: pain, madness, loss, destruction.

Finally, there is a clear, core image derived from the dawn:

The dark vortex swallowed the light.

Karen stumbled, grabbing onto a nearby cargo box to avoid falling. Cold sweat instantly soaked his back, and his fingers felt icy and numb.

"Kid!" Grom grabbed his arm. "You're as white as a corpse! What happened?"

"Dawnlight..." Karen gasped, "It sensed it...the storm...not an ordinary storm..."

He pointed deep into the cargo hold, towards the corner where he and Xiguang were.

"It transmitted to me... a dark vortex... devouring light..."

Grom's blue eyes widened. The dwarf released his grip and strode quickly toward the corner. Karen followed behind him, her steps unsteady.

Xi Guang curled up in the hammock, her golden fur standing on end like a frightened hedgehog. Her amber eyes were wide open, pupils narrowed to pinpoints, fixed on a certain direction—not the cargo hold wall, but a point further away, piercing through the ship's hull. The cub's body trembled violently, and suppressed, whimpering growls escaped its throat.

Grom crouched down, not daring to approach rashly. He observed for a few seconds, then took out a smaller instrument from his toolbox—it resembled a pocket watch, but its surface had no hands, only shimmering ripples.

He aimed the instrument at the sunlight.

The instrument immediately emitted a sharp, high-frequency alarm. The ripples on the surface pulsed wildly, eventually coalescing into a continuously rotating, purplish-black symbol.

"Psionic contamination sensing..." Grom muttered a dwarven curse, which sounded like profanity. "This little thing isn't afraid of the storm; it's afraid of 'things' inside the storm."

He stood up, turned to look at Karen, his expression more serious than ever before.

"Ordinary psionic storms are just energy disturbances, like raging waves—dangerous but predictable. But some storms... are 'contaminated.' They might be fragments leaking from the spirit world, remnants of ancient wars, or curses released when certain mad spirits died. In a contaminated storm, there will be... something alive. Or rather, something that once lived."

He packed up the equipment and strode towards the stairs.

"Stay in the cargo hold and keep an eye on your lion. I'm going to find the captain."

After Grom left, only Karen and Dawn remained in the cargo hold. The alarm continued, but it sounded distant and muffled, blocked out by the heavy hatch. The ship's rocking began to become irregular, no longer a smooth undulation, but a disturbing, convulsive tremor.

Karen walked to the hammock, sat down, and gently stroked Xiguang's back. The cub's trembling lessened slightly, but the fear remained intense. It raised its head, its amber eyes reflecting Karen's pale face.

"Don't be afraid," Karen said, though she herself was scared. "We'll get through this."

Xi Guang nuzzled his hand, conveying a faint but clear message:

Darkness... has come...

Almost simultaneously, a hoarse, almost screaming warning came from the deck:

"The storm's edge has arrived! All contracted spirits must stabilize! Repeat, all contracted spirits must—"

Before he could finish speaking, the entire ship was struck by an invisible, enormous force, causing it to tilt violently.

Karen was thrown from the hammock and slammed heavily against the cargo container. Xiguang cried out and rolled to the ground. The cargo in the hold began to slide, and the ropes groaned under the strain.

Outside the ship, the sky suddenly darkened.

It wasn't dark clouds blocking the sunlight, but some deeper, light-absorbing darkness that surged in from all directions and instantly engulfed the Narwhale.

In the darkness, purple lightning snaked across like a giant serpent, tearing through the field of vision.

A psionic storm has arrived.