parentshiftbook Chapter 638 The Youth of the Old Town
Chapter 638 The Youth of the Old Town
Eric's alarm clock rang at five in the morning.
He rolled over, habitually reached out and slapped away the old mechanical alarm clock on the bedside table, then lay in bed for two minutes before reluctantly getting up when the alarm rang for the second time.
The sky outside the window was a hazy gray, and it was hard to tell whether it was the morning mist or the black smoke billowing from the factory chimneys.
Mornings in the foggy city are always like this; you can never see the sun clearly.
He lives on the third floor of this old apartment building in a single room of less than ten square meters.
A bed, a table, and a wardrobe were all the belongings the owner had.
The window faces the narrow stone-paved road below, which is always wet, whether from rainwater or wastewater discharged from some factory, I don't know.
Eric spent ten minutes washing up and getting dressed, then took two banknotes from the tin can on the table and put them in his pocket.
The bakery downstairs sells leftover bread every morning for half the price. It's so hard it could kill someone, but you can barely fill your stomach by soaking it in hot water.
As he walked down the stairs, he habitually glanced out the window.
Then he froze.
Because the streetscape, which had remained unchanged for so many years, and which he had even vaguely thought would never change, had changed.
Across the street from downstairs, about three house numbers away, stands a dilapidated house that has been empty for at least seventeen or eighteen years.
Most of the plaster on the exterior wall had fallen off, revealing the blackened bricks and stones underneath. Two windows on the second floor were broken and boarded up. The paint on the front door was mottled, looking like it had a skin disease.
Eric has lived in this house since he was a child, and no one has ever lived there. The neighbors all say that the house is haunted.
Of course, in this world, "haunted" is not a metaphor.
For this reason, no one has rented the house since the previous owner died a violent death.
But now, the door to that house is open.
Of course, it wasn't the kind of "open" that had been pried open or blown open by the wind, since anything of value in that dilapidated house had long been taken away.
The door was neatly opened.
A wooden sign hung on the door frame, with a few words engraved on it. The handwriting was neat but not particularly beautiful.
Eric squinted for a moment before his slightly astigmatic eyes could make out the handwriting:
"Second-hand bookstore".
Eric raised an eyebrow.
Used bookstore.
In the foggy city, in the most chaotic and poorest old town, someone opened a used bookstore.
Although he wasn't involved in the underworld, a kid who grew up in this kind of place knows all the things he should know.
In this context, "used bookstores," like "grocery stores," "pawnshops," and "repair shops," are most likely businesses that are deceptive and misleading.
This "used bookstore" most likely doesn't sell books, but something else entirely.
Such as prohibited gene drugs, bizarre materials flowing from the black market, and even underground psychic intermediary services.
However, compared to those dangerous shops, the most common type of clinic in this situation is the unlicensed clinic.
Unlicensed doctors... or rather, people who claim to be doctors, provide medical care to people who are afraid to go to regular hospitals under the guise of these shops.
Most of the patients are small fry in the black market, fugitive psychics, or simply poor residents who cannot afford the fees of regular hospitals.
The quality of medical skills depends entirely on luck. It's common for people to die. If you throw the body into the sewers beneath the foggy city, no one will be able to find it.
However, he had already woken up rather late this morning, so Eric only glanced at it and didn't pay any more attention, instead rushing off to work.
As evening approached, Eric, exhausted from just returning from the factory, looked at the sky and couldn't help but mutter curses under his breath at the manager who was as fat as a pig.
The factory work is getting busier every day, but the pay is not increasing, and the time to get off work is getting later every day.
If it weren't for the eerie presence of the night, that fat pig would definitely have made everyone work until late at night.
Cursing under his breath, Eric, climbing the stairs, subconsciously spotted the old bookstore again.
Unlike this morning, the shop now looks much "cleaner," with broken windows and walls repaired and the door repainted.
Eric hesitated for a moment at the top of the stairs.
Eric couldn't resist his curiosity, so he went down the stairs, crossed the wet cobblestone path, and stopped in front of the house.
Inside the door was a small room, about twenty square meters.
Several rows of wooden bookshelves stood against the wall, with a few old books scattered on them. The spines of the books were badly worn, indicating that they were quite old.
In the center of the room was a table with an oil lamp on it and a stack of newspapers next to it.
There is a rocking chair behind the table.
A person is lying in the rocking chair.
The young man looked about Eric's age, probably around twenty-five or twenty-six.
He had an ordinary appearance, dark hair, light gray eyes, and wore a faded dark coat and a pair of old leather boots covered in mud.
He was holding a book in his hand, flipping through it lazily.
He saw Eric standing in the doorway, looking up with a calm expression that was neither warm nor cold.
"Please come in, feel free to look around," he said.
The voice was soft, carrying a casual and nonchalant tone.
Eric walked into the store and pretended to stroll around the bookshelves.
The book was real... which surprised him.
The pages of those old books were yellowed and brittle, and the writing on them was printed, not handwritten.
The contents seemed to be mostly literature, history, geography, and the like, not the kind of "codebook" or "password book" he had imagined.
But this only made Eric more convinced that it was an illegal clinic.
A real used bookstore wouldn't be located here.
These dilapidated streets and alleys are inhabited by factory workers, dockworkers, and low-income idlers who don't even have stable jobs.
Who has spare money to buy books?
Who can read?
Eric was able to read because his mother had worked as a clerk in a textile factory and had taught him some words.
In fact, 80% of the people around him can't even write their own names properly.
What's the difference between opening a used bookstore in this kind of place and opening a fishing boat shop in the desert?
Therefore, it must be an illegal clinic; the bookshelves and old books are just a disguise.
Eric thought with absolute certainty.
However, it's not necessarily a bad thing. If he gets injured in the future, he can seek medical treatment nearby, which is better than having to go to a shady clinic on another street.
His gaze secretly swept across every corner of the room, trying to find a door leading elsewhere.
Then he noticed an inconspicuous wooden door behind the bookshelf, through which a faint light shone.
"What's behind that?" Eric pointed to the door, trying to sound casual.
The young man in the rocking chair glanced at him, and the corners of his mouth curved slightly.
The smile was neither too deep nor too shallow, making it impossible to tell what he was thinking.
"The storeroom," he said. "A place where old books are piled up. It's a bit damp, not really suitable for entertaining guests."
Eric nodded and didn't ask any further questions.
Whether it's the warehouse or the clinic, it has nothing to do with him.
He's not here for medical treatment or to cause trouble; he's just purely curious.
"Do you live here alone?" Eric asked.
"Um."
"This house has been empty for years. Has the landlord finally decided to rent it out?"
The young man put down his book, picked up the teacup on the table, and took a sip of water.
He moved very slowly, as if he wasn't in a hurry to do anything.
Such a temperament is out of place in this old town.
"The landlord is nice," he said. "The price is fair."
Eric nodded again, but didn't say anything.
He stood in front of the bookshelf, randomly picked up a book, flipped through a couple of pages, but couldn't concentrate on a single word.
He shoved the book back in, turned around, and realized he had no reason to stay there any longer.
"Well... I'm leaving," he said.
"Take care." The young man didn't try to stop him, nor did he even try to stand up. He simply raised his hand slightly as a farewell.
Eric stepped out of the door, stood on the wet cobblestones, and glanced back at the wooden sign that read "Old Bookstore".
For some reason, he had a very strange feeling.
The young man looked ordinary, spoke ordinary, and dressed ordinary, but there was something inexplicably... off about him.
It's like mixing a black stone into a pile of coal. The color and shape are similar, but when you pick it up and weigh it, the weight is wrong.
Eric shook his head, trying to shake off the feeling.
It's probably just my imagination.
Living in the old town for a long time, you eventually have to learn to curb your curiosity.
He walked back to his apartment building along the stone path, climbed to the third floor, pushed open the door, and sat down on the edge of the bed.
The room was very quiet.
The fog outside the window was as thick as usual, and the factory chimneys in the distance drew several thick black lines against the gray sky.
The sounds of the bakery owner calling out her wares came from downstairs, and the child next door was crying, his voice sharp and piercing.
Eric sat on the edge of the bed, and for some reason, the image of the young man from earlier kept popping into his mind.
That person was about the same age as him and already owned a shop.
Although it's a "used bookstore" that's all talk and no action, it's still a store.
Having your own business and your own income means you don't have to get up at 5:30 every morning to go to the factory, stand next to the roaring machines for twelve hours, and then go home so tired that you don't even want to eat and just fall asleep.
And what about himself?
Eric looked down at his hands.
His fingers were short and thick, his palms were covered in calluses, and his fingernails were stuck with black oil stains that he couldn't wash off.
He is 26 years old and has worked in the maintenance workshop of this textile factory for eight years.
My hand was crushed by a machine three times, and two fingers were broken. Although they were reattached, they still hurt when it's cloudy or rainy.
My hand was crushed by a machine three times, and two fingers were broken. Although they were reattached, they still hurt when it's cloudy or rainy.
He remembered what his mother had said when he was a child.
"Eric, you need to study. Only by studying can you leave this place."
When my mother said this, she was still alive and working as a clerk in a textile factory.
She was literate and could do accounting; she was considered an educated person in that factory.
Every night she would teach Eric to read, writing each character carefully on the back of scrap paper, the light of the kerosene lamp casting their shadows on the mottled wall.
She died later.
The factory machine malfunctioned, and her arm got caught in the roller. By the time she arrived at the hospital, it was too late.
Eric was thirteen years old at the time.
He never went to school again.
He is now twenty-six years old.
He worked in the factory for eight years and saved up a small amount of money—not much, but not nothing either.
If he wants to learn something...like medicine?
Eric was startled by his own thought.
Medicine? Him? A factory maintenance worker?
But the young man who ran the used bookstore didn't look like he had ever been to college.
Besides, how many of those "doctors" who run illegal clinics in the old city actually have licenses?
Most of them had been apprentices with an old doctor for a few years, learned a little bit, and then dared to go out and treat people.
If they're lucky, they'll cure a few patients and their reputation will spread.
If you're unlucky, you might kill a few people while treating them, then you can move to a different place, change your name, and start all over again.
If he could learn some basic medical knowledge, could he also open a shop like that?
Eric leaned against the headboard, staring at the crack in the ceiling that stretched from the corner of the wall to the window, and began to think about the problem seriously.
He didn't know whether the young man was a real doctor or a fake one.
But he knew that there had never been any kind of clinic on that street.
The nearest proper hospital is on the edge of the old town, a 50-minute bus ride away, and the registration fee is outrageously expensive; an average worker's monthly salary might not even cover a single medical visit.
If he could open a cheap clinic in the old town, even an unlicensed one, he would surely have plenty of customers.
Eric rolled over, buried his face in the pillow, and took a deep breath.
The pillow has a faint smell of machine oil that I can't get rid of no matter how I wash it.
Let's save money first.
he thinks.
Once I've saved enough money, I'll find an experienced doctor willing to take on apprentices, learn for two years, and then...
We'll talk about it later.
Outside the window, the sky over the foggy city is always gray and hazy; you can't see where the sun is, nor can you see where tomorrow is.
But at least he had a direction.
In the used bookstore, Jieming watched the young man's departing figure, and the corners of his mouth curved slightly.
He was an ordinary young man.
He was not physically strong, but he had no obvious illnesses either; his eyes were not particularly sharp, but they were not dull either.
He appears to be just an ordinary person struggling to survive at the bottom of this city.
However, in Jemin's view, the other person's soul was excessively dazzling compared to others.
"A naturally high level of perception... I don't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing in this world."
Jemin looked away, picked up the newspaper on the table, and lay back down in the rocking chair.
His identity has already been arranged.
Four days ago, based on the information in the minds of the four bandits, he located the hideouts of several underground brokers in the old city.
Those intermediaries specialize in dealing with fake identities, fake documents, and black market transactions.
He has connections everywhere; with enough money, he can get anything done.
To be honest, Jemin wasn't very good at soul-based witchcraft; he was better at directly modifying souls.
However, it wasn't too troublesome to actually deal with.
Jemin only had a "friendly exchange" with them. Faced with an absolute disparity in strength, smart people always choose to cooperate.
Jemin obtained a complete set of legal identity documents from an intermediary.
Name, age, address, birth certificate, tax records... all the information is meticulously woven together and can withstand any routine scrutiny.
He then received a substantial sum of cash from another intermediary.
The "voluntary donations" from those four people, plus the "voluntary sponsorships" from the intermediaries, were enough for him to settle down in this city for a long time.
Then he rented the house.
The location is excellent.
The edge of the old town is characterized by narrow streets, dense housing, and high population mobility.
Most of the neighbors were factory workers and dock laborers who left early and returned late, and rarely paid attention to other people's affairs.
Moreover, the house had been vacant for many years, and the landlord only wanted to rent it out, so he didn't even ask for more than the deposit.
This "used bookstore" opened on the first floor.
The second floor is where he lives.
And the basement...
Jemin stood up, pushed open the wooden door behind the bookshelf, and went down a narrow staircase.
The basement isn't big, but it's enough.
The outermost part is a small consultation room.
An examination bed, a medicine cabinet, and a simple set of surgical instruments.
The medicine cabinet contained some common medications found in this world: anti-inflammatory drugs, painkillers, anesthetics...
His medical knowledge far surpasses the level of the world's "doctors".
Anatomy, biology, and pharmacology in the wizarding world; alchemy, meridian theory, and the theory of essence, energy, and spirit in the cultivation world.
All of these factors combined make his medical skills far superior to those of any specialist in a regular hospital.
Being a black market doctor is more than enough.
Further inside the consultation room was a seemingly ordinary brick wall.
Jemin walked straight over, and the seemingly perfectly sealed brick wall rippled like water.
Inside was a separate, partitioned area, which served as his temporary research lab.
It's still very rudimentary.
A large stone workbench, and several pieces of basic research equipment taken from the inner cave: an elemental microscope, an energy detector, and a rune inscription tool.
In the corner were some materials bought from the local market: glassware, chemical reagents, and some strange "specimens".
Those "specimens" were collected on his way to Chongqing.
Several bizarre fragments of dangerous level are not enough to form a complete entity, but they are enough for him to conduct a preliminary analysis of the law structure.
Jemin walked to the workbench, picked up a strange fragment sealed in resin, and examined it carefully under the light.
The dark gray fragments gleamed slightly under the light, with fine, irregular patterns on their surface.
These patterns exhibit an extremely complex structure at the microscopic level, resembling neither the ordered arrangement of crystals nor the random distribution of organic matter, but rather something in between.
Jemin put down the shards and sat down in the chair.
These past few days of probing have given him a preliminary understanding of the bizarre ecology of this plane.
During the day, you can use your mental energy to explore, as long as the intensity isn't too high, it won't attract anything.
The world's strangeness was far less sensitive to mental energy than he had anticipated the patterns of bizarre nighttime activities.
But things change after dusk.
Jemin looked up and glanced at the small air vent in the basement.
The vent is at ground level, and through the blurry glass, you can see the sky outside is getting darker.
It's dusk.
In the distance, the last glimmer of gray-white light was being swallowed up by the deep gray surging from the sea.
The sunsets in Chongqing are not like the usual fiery clouds, but rather a seamless transition from day to night.
The gray sky slowly turned into a deeper gray, and then into black.
The streetlights began to turn on.
The orange-yellow light danced inside the glass dome, casting a blurry halo in the thick fog.
The number of pedestrians is decreasing rapidly.
The workers, vendors, and housewives who are ubiquitous on the streets during the day seem to be driven by some invisible force as they hurriedly return to their homes before dusk.
The doors and windows were closed, the curtains were drawn, and light shone through the gaps in every house.
The light from electric lamps, oil lamps, and candles—all sorts of light seeped out from every window and every crack in the door, weaving together a mottled pattern of light and shadow in the thick fog.
No one wants to be exposed to darkness at night.
Jemin withdrew his mental energy.
The low-intensity, gentle exploration methods used during the day are no longer suitable for nighttime operations.
The eerie darkness of the night covered this plane in all directions, and he was unsure whether the mental scan would be interpreted by the eerie darkness as some kind of "attack" or "provocation".
Until the boundaries of the eerie rules of the night are fully understood, the safest course of action is to do nothing.
He stood up, tidied up the things on the worktable, and then walked out of the basement and back to the secondhand bookstore on the first floor.
The oil lamps in the bookstore were still lit.
Jemin turned down the bulb slightly, making the light softer but enough to cover the entire room.
He walked to the door, closed the wooden door, and bolted it shut.
Then he returned to the rocking chair and picked up the newspaper again.
The front page of the newspaper featured a news story about the expansion of the port of the foggy city, accompanied by a blurry black-and-white photo showing mountains of steel and indistinct figures of workers.
Jemin glanced at the headlines, then shifted his gaze to a corner of the newspaper, where a small, inconspicuous section featured a few brief local news items.
"Another missing person case occurred last night on the third street of the old town. A middle-aged male resident went out at night and has not returned since..."
The Port Authority reminds all personnel working at night to strictly adhere to lighting safety regulations; no vessel may be moored without lights...
"The official psychic association has announced that it will hold a public lecture on 'Common Senses for Protecting Against the Supernatural' at the Chongqing Exhibition Center next month. All are welcome to attend free of charge..."
Jemin folded the newspaper and placed it on the table.
The flame of the oil lamp flickered gently in the breeze, casting his shadow on the mottled wall.
The fog outside the window grew thicker and thicker, and the light from the streetlights was scattered by the fog into a blurry orange-yellow halo, like someone had put a drop of paint on a huge gray canvas.
In the distance, the sound of ship horns echoed through the night sky, deep and drawn-out, like the howl of some unknown beast in the darkness.
Jemin closed his eyes and slowly rocked in the rocking chair.
The wooden planks creaked softly, mingling with the sounds of the wind outside the window, distant whistles, and the occasional footsteps on the stone path below, creating a unique rhythm for the foggy city night.