Klein prepared seven doses of Karen’s medicine, each with slightly different proportions. He sealed them with wax and arranged them by number on a wooden rack.
He had handwritten labels on the vials, and the ink was barely dry before he took them for a second round of in vitro testing.
The results were slightly better than expected. That cold blue spectral line was still present, but after lowering the concentration and adjusting the ratio of auxiliary ingredients, the line had thinned, and the reaction delay had lengthened. Instead of flashing instantly, it only drifted into view a good while after being added.
The direction was correct. The strength and rhythm needed fine-tuning, but at least he wasn't just spinning his wheels.
Klein wrote down the organized medication plan and precautions on a separate sheet of paper, making the handwriting as large as possible to give to Lyra tomorrow. Verbal instructions alone wouldn't cut it; having it in black and white was more reliable.
...Though Lyra wasn't very literate, he would likely have to explain it all out loud anyway.
“Start with the lowest dose, half a spoonful each time, mixed with warm water.”
“Observe him for an hour after he takes it. Write down everything he says and every movement he makes, regardless of whether it seems meaningful. Record it point by point.”
After finishing the last line, Klein set down his pen and folded the paper, pressing it under the corner of the table.
Karen’s situation was finally on track. He had done everything he could; the rest would have to be ground down bit by bit with time and the medicine's effects. There was no use in rushing.
But he didn't idle.
He put the leftover materials back in their places, wiped the surface of the spectroscopic prism clean, and tucked his manuscripts back into their folder. After finishing these mechanical closing tasks, he didn't continue flipping through formulas. Instead, he sat back in his chair and stared blankly at an empty glass box on the desk for a moment.
The activity of the residues in Karen’s blood sample exceeded his expectations. Although that cold blue spectral line was controllable, its mere existence spoke to one fact—the traces left by the will of the deep sea within a human body were far more stubborn than he had predicted.
This wasn't just a problem for Karen alone.
His gaze shifted to the side.
Ophelia had been staying quietly in the laboratory the entire time. She had helped a bit while he was mixing the medicine, and for the rest of the time, she simply sat nearby and watched him work. Occasionally, she would hand him a bottle or wipe a surface, not saying much.
At this moment, she was leaning against a cabinet with her arms crossed, her left hand habitually tucked under her right arm.
Klein looked at her for a few seconds before retracting his gaze. He looked down and opened the data log for Karen’s experiment, re-examining several marked lines.
“Is it over?” she asked casually.
“The mixing is done. I’m just waiting to give it to Lyra tomorrow.”
“Mm.”
Ophelia picked up the pitcher on the table and poured a glass of water. She took a sip, her eyes scanning the manuscripts spread out on the desk. She was literate and could understand basic alchemical symbols—having been exposed to them recently, she had picked up a bit.
“What are you looking at?”
“I’m thinking about something,” Klein said directly, not beating around the bush. “Your left hand.”
Ophelia’s movement of holding the glass paused.
It wasn't surprise; it was more like a brief moment of confirmation when a long-awaited topic was finally brought to the table.
She set the glass down and placed her left hand on the desk.
The cuff was still buttoned. She was in no hurry to roll it up.
“Previously, I didn't think I had enough experience.” Klein opened the data log for Karen’s experiment and pushed it toward her, pointing at several lines. “But testing Karen’s blood samples these past few days has given me a lot. The reaction patterns of the deep-sea will’s residues under in vitro conditions, the sensitivity thresholds for different base liquids, the spectral characteristics—all of this was blank before. Now, I at least have first-hand data.”
He paused.
“Karen’s mind was shattered by the sirens’ whispers; the erosion is on a mental level. Your pollution came from physical contact; it’s on a bodily level. The paths are different, but the source is the same thing.”
“What do you want to do?”
“Draw blood from your left hand,” Klein said. “Your treatment should also begin.”
He spoke with a normal tone, no different from when he said “start with the lowest dose.” But the data log on the table was still open to the page of Karen’s experiment, with the cold blue spectral line marked at the bottom—he had just used Karen’s case as a foundation before turning the conversation toward her.
Though it was clearly premeditated, the logical chain of this man’s actions was always hidden deep.
Ophelia looked down at her left hand resting on the table, the cuff covering it tightly.
Without overthinking, she nodded.
“Fine.”
Short and sweet, without a single extra word.
Klein instead gave her an extra look.
In the end, he said nothing and turned to the cabinet to find the tools for drawing blood.
He took a silver needle set from the sterilizing cabinet. The tips had been repeatedly polished and were much finer than ordinary ones. Beside them were matching glass blood collection tubes and hemostatic cotton. He placed the items one by one onto a tray and brought them over, arranging them neatly—needles, cotton balls, and collection tubes, lined up from left to right in order of use.
He had performed this process on Karen several times and was very familiar with the technique. But for some reason, his fingers paused for a moment while setting the tray down.
“Extend your left hand.”
Ophelia pushed her cuff up two inches, revealing a section of her wrist.
Under the light, that wrist was thinner than he had imagined. The silhouette hidden beneath armor and long sleeves was actually quite delicate, though the skin’s color and texture were no longer what a normal person’s should be—it had a faint, cold grey tone, like something that had lost its color after being submerged in seawater for a long time.
Klein didn't look too closely. He picked up a silver needle, found a spot on the inside of her wrist, and tried to prick it.
The needle slipped.
The silver needle slid across the surface of her skin without leaving even a white mark.
Klein frowned. He changed the angle, added a bit more strength, and tried again.
The moment the tip pressed against her, it bent slightly—not an exaggerated snap, but a deviation visible to the naked eye. It felt like he was trying to pierce a polished stone slab.
He pulled the needle back and held it up to the light. The tip was still sharp and hadn't dulled; the problem wasn't the needle.
“Your skin...”
“You won't be able to pierce it,” Ophelia said. Her tone wasn't boastful; she was simply stating a fact. “After over a decade of tempering the body with battle qi, the strength of my skin, flesh, and bone is no longer at an ordinary level. My left hand is even more difficult; the skin mutated after being polluted, becoming harder than my right.”
As she spoke, she rolled her sleeve up another notch. More mutated tissue was revealed—dark scales spread to the middle of her forearm, their edges jagged, eating into her normal skin tone like a coastline.
Klein set the silver needle down and pushed the set aside.
“Ordinary tools really won't work,” he said. “Do you have a way?”
Ophelia didn't answer. Instead, she raised her right hand.
She pressed the fingers of her right hand together, and a thin layer of golden light lit up at her fingertips. The light quickly contracted and compressed, turning from a diffused glow into a line with almost zero thickness—like a blade thinned to its limit, condensed between her index and middle fingers.
Shaping qi into a blade.
Klein had seen her use a sword, but he had never seen this technique at such close range. The golden line hung quietly between her fingers, as thin as a strand of hair, yet it emitted a quality that made the very air feel sharp. The lamp flame on the workbench was pushed down by the airflow it generated.
This was a battlefield technique used for armor-cutting.
Now, she was using it to cut herself.
She moved her right hand over her left forearm, choosing a spot at the edge of the scales. That happened to be the intersection between normal skin and mutated tissue, where the blood would have the most value for testing.
“Get the tube ready,” she said.
Klein quickly picked up the glass collection tube and pulled off the cap.
The golden blade-light fell, swift and precise.
A thin slit appeared on her left forearm. The cut wasn't deep, just enough to break the surface. There was no hesitation or wasted movement, just as decisive as when she swung her sword on the battlefield.
Blood flowed out.
The blood that flowed was blue.
Klein had seen it before—that was back before they went to the west coast.
However, seeing the person before him bleed blue blood still made Klein daze for a moment.
It was a genuine blue, like the ocean. It seeped slowly from the cut, trickling down the ridges of her scales and reflecting a cold light under the lamp. It wasn't a dull blue, but a translucent, faintly fluorescent hue, as if a small piece of the deep sea had been contained within her veins.
The laboratory fell silent for a while.
Klein snapped out of it, aimed the collection tube at the cut, and caught those few drops of blue blood.
The blood fell into the bottom of the tube, making a slight, almost inaudible sound. Yet in the quiet laboratory, that sound was exceptionally clear.
He stared at the blue in the tube for two seconds.
His mind was already racing, but something was stuck in his throat, causing him to remain silent for a moment before speaking.
“...It’s different from Karen’s,” he said. His voice was a bit softer than usual, but his speaking speed was faster, as if he were using analysis to suppress other emotions. “Karen’s blood sample is dark red when dried, and the blue reaction only appears when the base liquid is added. Your blood is simply blue—it means the level of pollution is deeper than a mental erosion; it has already altered the very nature of the blood.”
As he spoke, he carefully capped the collection tube and placed it in the rack. His movements were steady, no different from how he handled any other experimental sample.
But when he screwed the cap on, he had to do it twice; he missed the threads the first time.
Ophelia retracted her battle qi, and the cut on her left hand had already mostly stopped bleeding. The edges of the small wound were closing at a speed visible to the naked eye—the self-healing ability of the mutated tissue was also much faster than normal skin. In less than a dozen breaths, only a faint mark remained of the cut.
She looked down at the blue blood residue on her arm and wiped it with a cotton cloth. The blue soaked into the white cloth, like a small flower blooming on the surface.
“Scared?” she asked.
Klein was writing in the data log and didn't look up. “Scared of what? It’s not like I’ve never seen something blue before.”
His pen didn't stop, and his tone was indeed flat.
“Is that so?” Ophelia laughed instead, her voice carrying a hint of teasing. “I wonder who it was that gave me their word back then, promising they ‘wouldn’t let sea monster blood circulate here,’ only to secretly keep a few vials for themselves.”
Klein’s pen paused, and he could only clear his throat awkwardly.
Ophelia watched his rare look of embarrassment, and the curve of her lips widened a bit more. She pulled her sleeve down and re-buttoned it, covering the healed mark and the dark scales around it.
The movement was natural, something she had done thousands of times.
Klein caught a glimpse of her wrist disappearing under the cuff again and looked down to continue writing.
He wrote a small line of text in the blank space of the data log. The handwriting was neater than the lines above—likely because this wasn't a note for himself, but a judgment that needed to be treated seriously:
“Sample color—pure blue, no red residue. Speculated that the blood in the left hand region has been completely replaced by deep-sea matter. Further verification required to determine if this is reversible.”
Reversible.
He drew a line under those two words.
He didn't put a question mark; he drew a line.
Klein placed the collection tube into the centrifuge rack and observed it under the light for a while longer.
The blue blood sat quietly at the bottom of the glass tube, thicker than Karen’s sample and with a higher refractive index.
When the light passed through the walls of the tube, most of it was blocked by this layer of blue. The little bit of light that filtered through cast a small, eerie blue shadow on the table.
He added a drop of base liquid.
According to the experience gained from testing Karen’s samples, the medicine currently in use should first float on the upper layer after contacting the polluted blood, then slowly permeate downward, forming clear layers—transparent on top, blue on the bottom, with a narrow reaction zone appearing in the middle. The color and width of that reaction zone could be used to judge the concentration of the pollution.
But no layering appeared at the intersection of the liquids.
The two liquids merged directly, and the color actually became deeper. The base liquid was like a drop of water falling into a pool of ink, swallowed whole by the blue without even a bubble surfacing.
Klein stared at the tube for two seconds, his brow slowly tightening.
Something was wrong.
He changed the ratio and tried again. He tripled the amount of medicine, using a pipette to add it drop by drop.
The result was the same. The blue showed no sign of receding; every drop of base liquid that fell in was like feeding a mouth that could never be satisfied. The surface of the liquid in the tube was even a shade darker than before the addition, a heavy, dark blue.
His movement of setting down the pipette was half a beat slower than usual. It wasn't that his hand was shaking, but rather that his mind was running data so fast that his hand couldn't keep up.
“What is it?”
Ophelia was still sitting by the workbench, one leg dangling with the tip of her boot an inch off the floor. Her sleeve was already down, and she was using a clean cotton cloth to slowly wipe away the remaining blue traces on the back of her hand. Her movements were casual, like wiping away a bit of accidentally smudged ink rather than her own blood.
“The medicine is ineffective.” Klein picked up his pen and recorded the observation. The tip of the pen moved quickly across the paper, his handwriting becoming quite hurried. “The extraction plan used for Karen is completely ineffective on your sample. The concentration is on a different level entirely.”
He finished the line and stopped, thinking for a moment about how to explain.
“To use a somewhat flawed analogy—the formula for Karen is like taking a cup of strong tea and mixing it with ten cups of water, diluting it to a drinkable level. Yours...” He glanced at the tube of heavy, dark blue. “Yours is like chewing the tea leaves directly, and fresh ones that haven't even been roasted at that. The base liquid is just being swallowed whole.”
Ophelia gave a huff, her tone caught between amusement and helplessness. “Sounds like my blood has quite an appetite.”
“It really does.” Klein didn't laugh. He seriously flipped the data log to the previous pages, comparing Karen’s experimental records with the data he had just written. He circled several key values and connected them with arrows. Every arrow pointed toward the same conclusion—the existing plan wasn't enough, not by a long shot.
Ophelia didn't rush him.
She turned the cotton cloth over and continued wiping the last bit of blue from her wrist. When she was quiet, the profile of her face was very soft, unlike the hardness she displayed when wearing armor and holding a sword. The lamp light cast the shadows of her eyelashes onto her cheekbones in a fine row.
After a while, Klein set down his pen and leaned back in his chair, letting out a long breath.
“In the short term, there’s no way to directly apply Karen’s plan,” he said, his gaze falling on the table as if organizing his thoughts for himself. “But looking at it from another perspective, your sample has a high concentration, which makes it more suitable for source analysis. If I can isolate the basic structure of the deep-sea matter from your blood and figure out exactly what it is, then I can work backward to design a corresponding suppression plan—”
He stopped halfway and shook his head.
“That’s getting ahead of myself. Let’s call it a day.”
Ophelia hopped down from the workbench, her armored boots making a sharp thud against the wooden floor.
“That idea you just had was good,” she said, walking over to stand beside him. She looked down at his open data log. She couldn't understand most of the dense numbers and symbols, but she could tell which ones were newly written—the ink wasn't dry, and the handwriting was messier than the rest.
“The idea is good, but the workload is massive.” Klein closed the data log and stood up to put the experimental tools back on the rack. The silver needles went back into the sterilizing cabinet, the cotton balls into the sealed jar, and the collection tube was secured in the centrifuge rack. As he tidied up, he said, “I’ll run through the process with Karen first to get a handle on the basic principles, then I’ll come back to yours. If we’re lucky, I can use the same framework to help alleviate your symptoms—at least to stabilize it first and prevent the spread from accelerating.”
He spoke plainly, as if he were just scheduling tomorrow’s experiment.
But Ophelia heard it.
“Alleviate” and “stabilize,” not “cure.”
She looked at Klein. He was facing away from her, putting bottles and jars into the cabinet with steady movements, showing no signs of anything unusual.
“Okay,” she said.
Just one word, clean and simple. No follow-up questions, no words of comfort, no stance taken. It was like receiving a military order on the battlefield that wasn't good news; if you accepted it, you accepted it, and all extra emotions were spared.
She took two steps toward the door, then stopped.
“Klein.”
“Mm?”
“Don’t stay up too late. I’ll be waiting for you.”
Klein turned to look at her. Ophelia had already pulled the door open, her body halfway into the corridor. The light only caught one of her pauldrons and half of her face. Her golden eyes glinted in the shadows, her expression hard to read, but her lips seemed to be curved into a smile.
The door was pulled shut, but not all the way, leaving a crack.
The sound of her boots hitting the wooden floor drifted from the corridor, the rhythm steady, step by step, growing more distant. Interspersed was the faint clinking of armor plates, like a string of irregular wind chimes.
Klein stood in front of the cabinet, still holding an empty bottle, dazing at the crack in the door for two seconds.
Then he smiled, put the bottle in the cabinet, and closed the door.
He sat back down at the workbench and read through tonight’s records from start to finish.
He had written two full pages, but there were only a few truly useful conclusions.
He closed the data log and rubbed the bridge of his nose. His eyes were a bit sore—not entirely from the harsh lamp light; with the events of the day combined with this round of experiments at night, his mind had truly been running for too long.
The tube of blue blood stood quietly in the rack on the table. Klein’s gaze fell upon it and stayed there for a while.
Blue.
This color was actually quite beautiful under the light.
But he didn't want to see such a color in a living person.
Just then, there were three knocks at the door.
It was Raymond’s way of knocking. This man was so disciplined that even his knocking was like clockwork.
“Come in.”
The door pushed open, and Raymond stood outside. He had changed into a clean, dark jacket with the collar buttoned to the top, his hair combed impeccably, and the grey-white at his temples neatly trimmed.
Looking at his attire, he hadn't come over on a whim. Klein noticed a faint crease on the sleeve of his jacket—it had just been taken out of the wardrobe, having been folded before. In other words, he had specifically changed clothes before coming.
Combined with the fact that Ophelia had just left, Klein understood the gist of it—the old steward had likely been waiting at the end of the corridor, only coming over once the mistress had departed.
Raymond’s sense of propriety in these matters had always been precise to a maddening degree.
“Is something the matter?” Klein asked.
Raymond walked in and closed the door—not just pulling it to, but closing it properly until the lock clicked. Then he stood two steps away from the workbench, his back as straight as a board.
“Regarding the wedding.”
Klein’s hand tidying his things paused, then continued. “Mm.”
“Tell me, then. How are the preparations coming along?”
“According to the plan you previously decided on, the florist has been hired from town—the same one we’ve used before, whose skill is reliable. I’ve also secured three craftsmen for the decorations: a carpenter, a blacksmith, and a fabric specialist. I checked their work today; they will do,” Raymond said, his points organized and clear, like reading from a pre-prepared list. “I’ve also spoken with the cook, and a draft for the banquet menu has been prepared. I’ll have you look it over later.”
Klein turned his head to look at him.
“Fine.”
“The ceremony will follow traditional wedding customs; it won’t be extravagant, but all the necessary steps will be included. The guest list... as you arranged, no one else has been invited. The venue is set for the manor’s back garden. I’ve drawn a sketch for the placement of the flower stands and chairs—”
Raymond pulled a folded piece of paper from his inner jacket pocket and unfolded it on the table. Klein looked down; on it was a floor plan of the garden drawn in charcoal, with the position of every chair marked, and even the spacing was noted with numbers.
“—Essentially, we can begin formal preparations immediately,” Raymond finished and pushed the paper toward Klein.
“Fine.”
Raymond didn't leave.
Klein looked up at him.
The old steward stood there, his lips moving slightly before closing again. His face wore an expression that was quite rare for him—hesitation. It wasn't the hesitation of a guilty conscience, but the kind that said, “I have something to say, but I’m not sure if I should.”
Seeing such an expression on Raymond’s face was a rare thing. This man always spoke his mind; idle talk and beating around the bush weren't his style. In the dozen or so years Klein had lived with him, he could count on one hand the number of times Raymond had shown such a look.
“Anything else?”
Raymond weighed his words.
“Master, I must ask—is the wedding truly only to be held within the manor?”
Klein put the data log into a drawer and turned the lock. “Yes.”
“While the manor’s garden isn't small, it is only a rural-scale venue after all.” Raymond’s tone was very restrained, and his choice of words was careful, but they hid a layer of disapproval. “Might it be lacking in terms of a surprise for the Madam?”
After those words came out, Raymond even slightly averted his gaze, as even he felt a bit awkward.
Klein leaned back in his chair, looking at Raymond without answering immediately.
The laboratory lamp burned steadily, the flame straight without a hint of flickering.
It was completely dark outside the window, so dark that even the silhouette of the manor’s walls was invisible.
The sound of water drifted faintly from the corridor—Ophelia was washing up, the sound of water falling into the stone basin intermittent.
Klein listened to that sound for a moment.
He said, “A simple affair is fine. Neither she nor I are the type to crave surprises.”
“Perhaps... that is exactly what she wants?”
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