Chapter Fifteen: Ancestral Home and Ancient Books

Akita District is one of the suburban areas of Extreme North City, with seventy percent of its land shrouded in dense forests. To the north lies the famous "Aomori Sea of Trees," a place many islanders choose as the setting for the final day of their lives. Because of this, the district council has had to allocate special funds to station numerous patrol teams and psychologists along the forest's edge, trying to alleviate the district's persistently high suicide rate.

Taking the inter-district light rail, they arrived at Sendai Station in the southern part of Akita District at ten in the evening. After confirming the address via text, Chen Zi'ang and Tsukimi Suzuna transferred to the subway. Another twenty minutes passed before they finally stood before the contributor's doorstep—a detached house with its own courtyard. The nameplate beside the main gate bore the name "Kikuchi."

Ms. Kikuchi quickly emerged after hearing the doorbell, opening the gate for them.

"I'm sorry for the sudden visit," Tsukimi Suzuna greeted with a bow. "We're from Urban Legends Magazine."

"Not at all," Ms. Kikuchi waved her hand hurriedly. "It's nice to have visitors—the old house always makes me nervous."

Out of professional habit, Chen Zi'ang quickly sized up the young woman. Her face was lightly made up, and her practiced smile hinted at at least three years in the workforce. No ring adorned her hand, suggesting she was unmarried. Dark circles under her eyes betrayed frequent late nights, and there was a coffee stain on her collar.

As they followed Ms. Kikuchi into the house, Tsukimi Suzuna remarked, "It's a bit cold."

"Yes, I don't know if it's because the heating pipes are aging, but the house has been unusually cold lately," Ms. Kikuchi sighed. "I've already scheduled a boiler technician for tomorrow."

"By the way, I haven't told you about the nightmare yet, have I?"

She ushered them onto the living room sofa and began to recount her nightmare with lively gestures, as if sharing an amusing anecdote. Tsukimi Suzuna listened intently, taking notes in a small notebook, her attitude impeccably professional. She occasionally asked questions, encouraging Ms. Kikuchi to elaborate, and the two quickly grew familiar with each other.

Chen Zi'ang, meanwhile, observed the surroundings, thinking how fortunate he was to bring Tsukimi Suzuna along. Without her, he would have been the one trapped on the sofa, having to listen to Ms. Kikuchi describe her dreams—though the witness’s testimony was important, he preferred investigating things himself.

The ancestral house inherited from Ms. Kikuchi’s grandfather had a unique interior design. Apart from the television wall and windows, the rest of the living room was lined with towering bookshelves, each at least two and a half meters high, filled with a variety of books. The top shelves required a ladder to reach.

On close inspection, Chen Zi'ang noticed dust thickly settled on the shelves and book spines, evidence that Ms. Kikuchi was not much of a reader.

"I've flipped through a few of those books," Ms. Kikuchi, half-reclining on the sofa, remarked as she watched Chen Zi’ang examine the shelves. "They're all written in Ancient Meneusian—impossible to understand."

"Ancient Meneusian?" Chen Zi'ang asked in surprise.

"It's the old elven script," Ms. Kikuchi waved her hand. "You know elves, right?"

The Meneusian race was the first extraterrestrial species humanity encountered in the era of galactic colonization. Their appearance was very similar to humans, except for their pointed ears, so people simply called them "elves"—after all, "Meneusian" was a long and unwieldy name.

"My grandfather used to be a folklorist," Ms. Kikuchi continued. "He spent decades in the Meneusian Federation, so these books must have come from the elves."

"I see," Chen Zi'ang nodded. "May I take a look?"

"Go ahead," Ms. Kikuchi replied amiably.

Chen Zi'ang pulled out a book and opened it. As she said, the pages were filled with unfamiliar elven characters. Judging by the yellowed paper, the books were quite old, and a faint musty odor emanated from them.

Meanwhile, Ms. Kikuchi and Tsukimi Suzuna’s conversation had drifted from nightmares to celebrity gossip. Chen Zi'ang took the opportunity to continue inspecting the bookshelves, quietly activating his inspiration.

This so-called "inspiration," also known as spiritual intuition, was a form of instinct used by high-sensitivity individuals to probe mysterious phenomena—especially handy when carrying a spiritual pressure meter was inconvenient.

With inspiration activated, Chen Zi'ang swept his gaze across the room again, confirming that the ancestral house indeed harbored something unusual. It wasn’t a supernatural entity, but rather some deeply hidden mystery that continuously radiated strange energy into its surroundings.

Based on past cases, it could be an undiscovered relic of a deity, a trace left by some anomaly, or perhaps a book containing forbidden knowledge. Given the sheer number of books, the last possibility seemed most likely.

With that in mind, Chen Zi'ang asked, "May I look around? I’d like to see if there are any readable books."

"Sure, just don’t go upstairs to the bedrooms," Ms. Kikuchi replied with a smile, then turned to Tsukimi Suzuna and whispered, "Your colleague really loves books, doesn’t he?"

"Of course. He’s an editor, after all," Tsukimi Suzuna answered flawlessly.

Chen Zi’ang paced the living room, checking nearly every bookshelf. His inspiration was sharper than most agents’, yet he still couldn’t pinpoint the source of the anomaly. It was definitely present—he could sense it clearly—but its exact location remained elusive, even though it felt so close...

Hmm?

A strange intuition surfaced in his mind, and suddenly he guessed where the target was hidden.

Chen Zi’ang glanced back. Tsukimi Suzuna and Ms. Kikuchi were still chatting enthusiastically.

"The editorial office is calling. I’ll take it outside," he said, raising his phone to signal Ms. Kikuchi.

He walked to the hallway, out of Ms. Kikuchi’s view, took a deep breath, and activated his ability to traverse dreamscapes.

He entered the preconscious layer.

Returning to the living room, Chen Zi’ang saw Tsukimi Suzuna still speaking, but Ms. Kikuchi, seated opposite her, now wore a radiant smiling mask.

The mask symbolized “hidden feelings.” After so long working in the Security Bureau, Chen Zi’ang immediately recognized Ms. Kikuchi’s style—clearly shaped by professional training, likely in a job requiring frequent interaction with people.

As for Tsukimi Suzuna, her image in his preconscious matched reality—meaning they’d grown familiar enough. When meeting strangers, people usually form a first impression through observation and brief conversation, which manifests in the preconscious layer, like Ms. Kikuchi’s mask.

Tsukimi Suzuna’s apparition showed no abnormalities, indicating she was no longer a stranger in his mind, so there was no need to rely on a first impression for memory.

Come to think of it, though she was from a bureaucratic family, her demeanor was nothing like a typical heiress; instead, she resembled an energetic childhood friend.

Chen Zi’ang pushed aside these thoughts and dove deeper into the subconscious.

The environment began to morph into a bizarre style. Candlelight flickered around the bookshelves, casting shadows in the gloom. Books spread their pages like birds, circling the living room, chasing each other, while torn pages drifted down like feathers.

Ms. Kikuchi had vanished from the sofa; Tsukimi Suzuna sat with her face in her hands, tears streaming through her fingers.

Crying again? Was it the intense impression from last time, when she wept while holding her sister?

The world of the subconscious is surreal and illogical, so Chen Zi’ang didn’t dwell on it, instead diving further into the collective unconscious.

Opening his eyes anew, the ceiling had disappeared, replaced by a starry violet sky, shimmering like silk.

Most of the bookshelves remained, though their wood had become stone, and the books lining them were largely decayed, their spines nearly illegible.

Chen Zi’ang’s gaze quickly locked onto one book. Its cover was a dark crimson, the edges curling, emitting a disturbing, obscure aura that made his inspiration tremble—this was the thing hiding in the collective unconscious, continuously radiating psychic contamination into the ancestral house.

The shadow cloak badge pinned beneath his shirt stirred violently.

[The Lord of the Deep Sea is very interested in this diary.]

[Sacrifice it, and you will receive fifty fire seeds.]