"Hide… control… survive…"
Grandfather's heavy words were branded into Alan's mind. The heart-stopping terror of that night – the snarls of vampires and werewolves, Lena White's icy warnings, and the vast, terrifying world behind the "Veil" revealed by Grandfather – it was all too much, a crushing weight on his chest.
"Bai Cao Tang" had transformed overnight into a fortified bunker. Heavy curtains were perpetually drawn, shutting out the daytime bustle and neon nights of London's East End, leaving only the thick, almost stagnant scent of herbs under the yellow lamplight. Grandfather grew more taciturn, his clouded eyes perpetually watchful. He forbade Alan from working night shifts at the docks alone. Even daytime errands to procure herbs were kept brief, with Alan required to report his whereabouts in detail.
Alan understood the fear. The cold metal card bearing the Warden emblem, wrapped meticulously in layers of oiled paper, was hidden in a secret crevice beneath his bedboard – a potential bomb. Every glimpse of it brought Lena's words echoing back: "Sources of incidents are usually neutralized," sending chills down his spine.
He tried to obey. During the day, he forced himself into the familiar routines of the shop: sorting herbs, grinding powders, wiping counters, sweeping floors. Every movement aimed for steadiness, focus, an attempt to suppress the chaotic thoughts and the unsettling sensation within. He avoided Grandfather's penetrating gaze, afraid of revealing his turmoil.
But the calm was only surface deep.
Nights were the true ordeal. His tiny garret was pitch black, save for a sliver of distant city light pollution seeping through the curtain gap, painting a weak stripe on the floor. Alan lay in bed, body exhausted, mind alarmingly awake, a tangled knot whipped by a hurricane. Images flashed, overlapped, twisted: the bloody battle in the shipyard, the fetid breath of the charging werewolf, the volcanic eruption of uncontrolled power inside him, Grandfather's family secrets and the threat of the "Hounds"…
Grandfather had taught him the most basic breath-calming technique – a slow, deep breathing rhythm coupled with simple visualization, imagining a gentle stream of energy flowing within, smoothing away agitation. It used to work, lulling him swiftly to sleep.
Now, it failed.
When he closed his eyes, striving for focus, trying to guide that "gentle stream," the chaotic "imprint" within him stirred like a beast disturbed in its slumber! Not sharp pain, but a pervasive, maddening "tingling," as if countless tiny currents skittered under his skin, through his veins, deep in his bones. The harder he tried to "soothe" it with Grandfather's method, the more restlessly it churned!
Alan's breathing grew ragged in the dark. He felt like a leaking balloon, something intangible yet undeniably real seeping uncontrollably from his very pores.
Suddenly!
Fzzzt—Pop!
The old incandescent bulb overhead flickered violently! The yellow light dimmed drastically, nearly extinguishing, then fought back, glowing erratically, filaments hissing, casting monstrous, dancing shadows from the distorted furniture.
Alan's eyes snapped open, heart pounding! He stared at the flickering bulb, a chill crawling up his spine. Faulty wiring? Or…?
Before he could ponder, his phone, charging on the nightstand, lit up! The screen flashed insanely, app icons jumping, overlapping, distorting like under an invisible virus attack! A harsh burst of static screeched from the speaker for three or four seconds, then the screen died completely, unresponsive to any button press. Only after half a minute did it weakly revive, displaying normally again.
"No…" Alan curled up, fists clenching the blanket, knuckles white. Cold sweat drenched his back instantly. The bulb… the phone… this wasn't coincidence!
Grandfather's warning exploded in his mind: "…that chaotic energy inside you… it's an unstable bomb… ready to blow you apart at any moment! And it acts like a beacon…"
Panic, cold and constricting, wrapped around his heart, tightening its grip. What could he do? Tell Grandfather? He was already burdened… and what could he do? He'd called it just an "imprint," untreatable for now.
In the days that followed, these signs of loss of control became hauntingly frequent, a persistent curse.
Once, he was helping Grandfather simmer a decoction requiring a gentle flame. He tried to focus, watching the medicinal liquid bubble in the clay pot, managing the heat. Perhaps the stove's warmth, perhaps the herbal vapors, stirred the internal "tingling" again. He shook his head irritably, trying to dispel the discomfort. In that moment of distraction, a soft sizzle came from the pot – the decoction was scorching! A bitter, burnt smell instantly filled the air.
"Damn!" Alan scrambled to move the pot off the heat.
At that instant, a faint but distinct impulse surged from within him! Not conscious guidance, but an instinctive, reflexive reaction. His finger shot out almost involuntarily, lightly tapping the scalding rim of the pot!
Thrum—
A barely perceptible ripple of energy pulsed from his fingertip!
The next moment left Alan gaping in disbelief!
The layer of clearly blackened, sticky residue at the bottom of the pot… visibly lightened! The burnt patch seemed erased by an invisible rubber, rapidly reverting to the deep brown color of the medicinal liquid! It was only a patch the size of a fingernail, and it lasted less than two seconds before the blackness surged back like a tide, but Alan saw it! It wasn't a hallucination!
The decoction had briefly "recovered"!
He jerked his finger back as if burned, heart hammering against his ribs! Staring at the re-blackened mess in the pot, a wave of profound absurdity and deeper terror washed over him. Harmonization? Guidance? Was this the family gift Grandfather spoke of? In a state of loss of control, it could briefly "restore" burnt things? What did that even mean? It was grotesque!
"Alan? The smell's wrong!" Grandfather's voice came from the front room, sharp with alertness.
Alan's blood ran cold. He frantically extinguished the burner, stammering, "Ah! Y-yes! Scorched! Flame… flame was too high! I'll… I'll redo it!" He couldn't meet Grandfather's eyes, terrified of being pierced by that sharp gaze.
Anxiety and the feeling of losing control snowballed inside Alan. He felt like faulty wiring, liable to short-circuit and explode, harming those nearby. He feared going out, feared touching electronics, even feared being near Grandfather, terrified another accidental "Anima Field Disturbance" would summon the "Hounds." Insomnia set in. Appetite vanished. Dark circles hollowed his eyes. He withered rapidly, a bowstring stretched to breaking point.
Just as the relentless pressure threatened to shatter him, a bright voice pierced the oppressive silence of "Bai Cao Tang."
"Alan! Alan, you in?" The shop door creaked open a crack. A girl with a chestnut ponytail and freckles peeked in, her face alight with excitement. It was Emily, his neighbor, a childhood friend.
Alan, wiping the counter with trembling hands, jumped. The cloth nearly slipped from his grasp. He forced a weak smile. "Emily? What's up?"
Emily pushed the door open fully, bringing in a gust of fresh air tinged with exhaust fumes and fried food from the street outside – a stark contrast to the shop's heavy herbal scent. She wore a brightly colored hoodie, her excitement palpable, oblivious to Alan's haggardness and the shop's tension.
"Hey! Guess what?" Emily bounced over to the counter, eyes sparkling. "There's this amazing new 'immersive art exhibition' downtown! Called 'Whispers in the Static'! I scored us two free preview passes!" She magically produced two avant-garde tickets from her pocket, printed with distorted lines and blurred figures, emanating an unsettling allure.
"Art exhibition?" Alan was distracted. Anything "unusual" now screamed danger.
"Yeah! Heard it's mind-blowing!" Emily, completely missing his unease, chattered on. "Not some boring paintings-on-walls thing! It's the whole space! Lights! Sound! Even smells! All blended together! They say you get totally 'immersed,' feel like your soul leaves your body, see the deepest parts of yourself! Crazy, right? It's at the St. Martin's Art Centre, not far! Opens tomorrow afternoon, free preview week! Come with me? It's no fun alone!"
She pressed one ticket into Alan's hand. The card felt cool, smelling of printer's ink. Alan looked down at the distorted image. An inexplicable, faint, yet persistent… chill seeped into his bones.
Immersive? Soul leaving body? Seeing the deepest self?
Against the backdrop of Grandfather's "Veil" world, these words sounded jarringly ominous… and dangerous. His instinct screamed to refuse. He needed distance from anything that might provoke the chaos within.
"I… I might need to help Grandfather tomorrow…" Alan tried to demur.
"Oh, come on! Just one afternoon!" Emily pouted, tugging his arm. "Grandad! Give Alan the afternoon off, yeah? He'll turn into a mushroom stuck in here all day!" she called towards the back.
Grandfather stood framed in the doorway to the inner rooms. He held a meticulously polished copper pestle. His calm gaze swept over Alan's pale face, then to the strange ticket in Emily's hand. His expression was inscrutable, weighing something unseen. Finally, he spoke, his tone neutral. "Go, Alan. Young people need to get out. Staying cooped up… isn't good."
Grandfather agreed? Alan was surprised. He looked from Grandfather's all-seeming eyes to Emily's eager face, then down at the ominous ticket in his hand… The refusal died on his lips. Maybe… getting out, seeing something "normal," could offer a temporary escape from the internal chaos and fear?
"…Alright," Alan rasped, the word sticking in his throat. He clenched the ticket tightly in his palm, its coldness seeming to seep into his fingertips.
He didn't know that this seemingly ordinary decision would plunge him into an abyss far more bizarre, far darker, than the abandoned shipyard.