Registration

Monday morning. The sky was overcast, heavy clouds pressing down over East Port, and a salty sea breeze constantly swept into the city.

The carriage rolled slowly along the cobblestone road. Outside the window, the harbor remained busy. Cargo ships were docked, steam whistles blew, cranes rose and fell, and crowds of workers pushed handcarts back and forth between the warehouses and the docks.

If one only looked from a distance, it seemed no different from usual—at least on the surface.

Inside the carriage, Alvin was flipping through official documents sent by City Hall. Simon sat opposite him, resting with his eyes closed, while Ryan looked out the window with his notebook in his arms.

This was his first time visiting East Port in an official capacity.

The newspaper reports over the past few days about the spreading illness had caused quite a stir, but now that he was actually on-site, he couldn't see many anomalies.

It was only when the carriage entered the core streets of the port district that Ryan gradually began to notice the issues.

The number of police officers patrolling the streets had clearly increased; a police presence could be seen at almost every intersection.

Ambulance carriages occasionally passed by in the direction of the hospital, and temporary notices were posted on some shop doors, urging anyone with symptoms of fever or coughing to proactively go to a clinic for an examination.

The atmosphere was not exactly panicked, but it carried a sense of oppression, as if everyone were waiting for something to happen.

Half an hour later, the carriage pulled up in front of the Port Authority, and everyone got out one by one.

Two police officers were already waiting at the entrance. After briefly checking their documents and confirming their identities, the group was escorted into the office building.

The corridors were bustling. Clerks carrying files could be seen everywhere, and Port Authority staff constantly moved in and out of the offices.

A few doctors in white coats were discussing something with officials, and the figures of church nuns could even be seen nearby.

Clearly, this incident had drawn attention from multiple parties.

In the second-floor meeting room, the long table was piled high with documents. Police records, hospital records, church registries, and Port Authority personnel statistics formed thick stacks that took up almost the entire table.

The official responsible for receiving them gave a bitter smile.

“Thank you all for coming to assist us. These documents have been piling up for nearly a week. Our people simply can't keep up with organizing them.”

Alvin swept his gaze over the room and, without wasting words, immediately began assigning tasks.

“Blair, you're responsible for the hospital records,” Alvin directed. “George, take the death certificates, and Hudson, compile the church data. Simon and Ryan, you're with me to verify the port registries.”

Everyone immediately sprang into action. This was precisely the kind of work the Archive excelled at—complex, tedious, and dry, but work that someone had to do.

The first file Ryan received was a hospital record, totaling thirty-seven pages, all handwritten by different doctors.

The handwriting varied wildly; some pages were neat and clear, while others looked like spiders had crawled across the paper.

Names, ages, occupations, addresses, onset dates, hospitalization status, and whether the patient had died—everything had to be transcribed again, standardized in format, and compiled into files.

Just dealing with the first file took Ryan nearly an hour.

During this time, the meeting room was so quiet that only the scratching of fountain pens against paper could be heard. Occasionally, someone would stand up to exchange files or discuss the authenticity of a certain record in low voices, but otherwise, there was silence.

As ten o'clock approached, the first round of data organization was completed.

Ryan rubbed his aching wrists. A thick stack of newly organized files had already piled up on his desk.

Compared to the original chaotic mess of information, everything was now noticeably clearer.

Alvin picked up a few pages, flipped through them, and nodded in satisfaction.

“Keep going.”

No one complained; they simply buried their heads back into their work.

Around eleven o'clock, a new task arrived. The port police station had found a large number of duplicate registrations that needed to be re-verified.

So, Alvin took Ryan and Simon to the police station.

The police station was not far from the Port Authority, just a ten-minute walk.

The lobby was incredibly crowded. The benches were packed with people waiting to register. Some looked anxious, others exhausted, and a few women were asking officers about the status of their relatives.

A faint smell of disinfectant lingered in the air.

The inspector in charge of receiving them let out a visible sigh of relief when he saw the team from the Archive.

“You're finally here. These lists are driving us insane.”

With that, he pushed several documents across the desk.

“Some people registered at the hospital once, then ran to the church to register again, and then their families came to the police station to report it a third time,” the inspector explained. “Many names appear three or four times. Right now, it's impossible to calculate the actual headcount.”

Simon opened a file and skimmed through it briefly.

“How long has this been going on?” Simon asked.

“About nine days,” the inspector sighed. “And the numbers are still rising.”

Ryan took the list and began cross-checking. It was packed with names; on the first page alone, there were seven duplicate entries.

Some individuals were even treated as two separate patients due to spelling variations.

Though this issue seemed simple, resolving it was extremely time-consuming.

For the next few hours, Ryan and Simon spent almost all their time in the records room, constantly comparing data—filtering, deleting, correcting, and confirming.

Officers continuously brought in new files during this time. Some complained about the heavy workload, others about the shortage of hospital beds, and some worried that port trade would be affected.

Yet, on the whole, it still resembled a standard official investigation. There were no mysterious incidents, no bizarre rumors, and no traces of the extraordinary—at least on the surface.

The focus of all the agencies remained solely on one question.

Why were there more and more sick people?

After a simple working lunch at noon, everyone continued their work.

By one o'clock in the afternoon, the new statistical results were compiled one after another, and the numbers were beginning to look somewhat alarming.

East Port District One: sixty-three registered patients.

East Port District Two: eighty-one registered patients.

East Port District Three: seventy-two registered patients.

The total exceeded two hundred people, and this was only the number of those already registered. The actual figure was bound to be higher.

In the meeting room, the Port Authority officials looked increasingly grim.

“It has doubled since last week,” one of them said.

Beside him, the head of the health department nodded.

“And the rate of increase is still accelerating,” he added. “If this continues, the hospitals won't last two weeks.”

No one spoke, and the room fell silent, because everyone understood that this situation had already begun to affect the port's operations.

Over the past few days, some merchant guilds had already requested a reduction in cargo handling, and some sailors were refusing to enter the East Port area.

Several insurance companies had even begun raising freight rates.

The illness itself might not be fatal yet, but the chain reaction it caused was becoming increasingly apparent.

Outside the window, the docks remained busy. The cranes kept operating, steam whistles blew from time to time, workers went about their duties as usual, and merchant ships entered and left the harbor.

The entire port appeared no different from usual on the surface, but everyone sitting in the meeting room knew that something was slowly deteriorating.

It might not be a disaster—at least, not yet—but if they couldn't find the cause, it would sooner or later turn into a much larger problem.

Ryan silently recorded the minutes of the meeting, his fountain pen making a soft scratching sound as it slid across the paper.

This was his job, and it was the very reason the Archive existed.

To record, organize, and preserve—bringing order back to chaos.

The meeting lasted until after three in the afternoon before finally wrapping up.

As he left the meeting room, Ryan stood by the corridor window and glanced at the distant harbor.

The sky remained overcast, and the sea was a dull grey. A cargo ship was slowly sailing into the bay, workers on the docks were as busy as ants, and pedestrians bustled to and fro on the streets. It seemed as though nothing had changed.

Yet, he suddenly recalled the scene in the church yesterday, thinking of the constantly increasing number of sick people, the praying congregants, and the increasingly crowded pews.

Then, he thought of the figures compiled today.

Over two hundred people.

Nine days.

Doubled.

Ryan closed his notebook. He said nothing, simply following Alvin and Simon down the stairs.

The afternoon's work was not yet over, and the registries of East Port, quite clearly, were far from fully organized.