Fantasy Game: Infinite City

Chapter 628 Returning to the Old Place (4)

When Han Zu landed on the wooden planks of the harbor sloping side, he deliberately held back most of his force. The rough planks only made a slight creaking sound and did not break. He turned around abruptly, his gaze sweeping across the surroundings—the fog swirled around his feet as if it were alive, reducing visibility to less than ten meters. The footsteps of the figure from just moments ago still echoed clearly in his ears, but now, both visually and perceptibly, all that remained was the empty dock and the outline of the city shrouded in fog.

"It can't be that fast."

Han Zu frowned, gathering a wisp of energy and carefully spreading it out. The energy only touched the damp air and the moss on the wooden planks; there was no trace of life, not even a footprint—the planks only bore the damp marks of years of seawater soaking. The figure that had just walked here seemed to have never been there. He looked down at the dock; the scattered wooden crates were long since rotten, the edges of the planks riddled with wormholes, and the symbols on the crates were blurred and illegible from the sea breeze. Apart from these worthless pieces of waste, there was nothing else to be found.

The sound of waves crashing against the slope came from behind, carrying a salty, damp scent. Han Zu glanced back at the cargo ship moored at the shore; its hull was mostly shrouded in mist, the once clear markings now only blurry outlines. He didn't return to the ship. Since that figure had disappeared from the city, the answer was most likely hidden within. He clenched his fist, gathering his energy within, and strode towards the street entrance, each step firm and steady, cautiously observing his surroundings.

The street was wider than he had seen from the boat, paved with neat bluestone slabs, though dark green weeds grew in the gaps. Some slabs were loose, making a dull thud when stepped on. Most of the stone houses on both sides were two-story structures. The ground floor had wooden doors in the style of shops, most of which were rotten and warped, with some doors half-fallen off, hanging askew on the doorframes. The upper floor had balconies with thick iron railings, the railings rusty and many iron bars broken. The walls were covered with withered ivy, like gray-black scars. Han Zu walked to a closed shop, reached out and pushed the door. The door creaked and groaned, but didn't budge, clearly jammed by rotten wood or debris inside.

He circled around to the side of the shop, trying to peek through the narrow window crack. The windowpane was shattered, leaving only rusted iron bars, the gaps filled with dust and fallen leaves. Han Zu channeled his energy into his eyes, his vision piercing the darkness to reveal the shop's interior: wooden shelves leaned precariously, most rotten and collapsed, broken pottery shards and decaying cloth scattered on the floor—no intact items, let alone any valuable clues.

At the street corner, a blacksmith's shop came into view. A rusty anvil sign hung by the door, its original color long since obscured. Several broken hammers, their heads blackened with rust, sat on a wooden frame. The anvils inside were still intact, but covered in a thick layer of rust. Scattered on the floor were remnants of embers, long since devoid of warmth. Han Zu entered the blacksmith's shop, the air thick with the pungent smell of rust and rotten wood. He carefully examined every corner. The furnace had long since cooled, its chambers filled with dust. The bellows lay askew, the leather parts completely rotted away, leaving only a bare wooden frame. There were no tools, no ironware, not even a single intact iron ingot—only endless desolation.

"With such a level of desolation, no one has been around this area for at least several hundred years."

Han Zu muttered to himself, his fingertips tracing the cold anvil, rust falling off in a rustling sound. He looked up at the blacksmith's roof; some tiles were missing, revealing dark beams. A few crows flew in and out of the opening, cawing and breaking the silence. These were the only living things he had seen since landing, yet they offered no help in solving the mystery. He left the blacksmith's shop and continued along the street. The fog seemed unchanged, maintaining a visibility of less than ten meters, obscuring distant scenery in a hazy mist.

A small square appeared ahead, with an old well in the center. The stone railing around the well was worn smooth, covered with moss and water stains. The well rope had long since rotted and broken, leaving only a bare windlass leaning askew over the well opening. Han Zu walked to the well and peered down. Mist billowed from the well opening, obscuring the view at the bottom. He could only hear the faint dripping sound, a steady "drip, drip" rhythm, like the pulse of time. He picked up a pebble and threw it into the well. After a long while, a faint echo came from below, indicating that the well was deep and contained water.

Surrounding the square were several houses, slightly better in condition than the shops, at least most of the doors were still intact. Han Zu walked to a relatively intact house; the pile of firewood at the door had long since rotted into a heap of dark brown powder. When he pushed the door, it unexpectedly loosened, creaking open slowly. The interior was dim, with only a few rays of light filtering through the broken windows, illuminating the dust swirling in the air. He stepped inside. The floor was paved with rough stone slabs, some of which were loose, and the corners were covered with cobwebs, though the spiders were nowhere to be seen.

The first floor housed the living room and kitchen, furnished with a rotten wooden table and several broken chairs. The tabletop was riddled with cracks, and most of the chairs had only three legs remaining, leaning precariously to the floor. The kitchen stove was long since cooled, and the pots and pans were either broken or badly rusted. The water tank was filled with dust and had long since dried up. Han Zu went up to the second floor. The wooden planks of the stairs were severely rotten, creaking with every step as if they might break at any moment. There were two bedrooms on the second floor. The bedding on the beds had long since decayed into piles of tattered lint, and the wardrobe doors were wide open, empty except for a few pieces of tattered cloth hanging on the walls. He searched every inch of the room, but found no letters, books, or marked items, only a thick layer of dust and the stench of decay.

Han Zu stepped out of the house and leaned against the doorframe, sorting out his thoughts. He had been searching for nearly two hours, walking past more than a dozen shops and residences, but found nothing but decaying buildings and broken debris. This city was like a tomb forgotten by time; everything of value had been swallowed up, leaving only empty architectural skeletons.

He continued walking along the street, and a wider main street appeared ahead. The shops on both sides were more orderly, and some shops still had faded silk banners hanging outside, the patterns on them long since blurred, leaving only tattered fabric swaying slightly in the wind. Han Zu walked to a shop with a tattered banner bearing the word "Cloth." The door panels had completely fallen off, and the shelves inside were collapsed, scattered with some decaying pieces of cloth, their color long since dulled and crumbling at the slightest touch. He squatted down, picked up a piece of cloth, and examined it closely. The cloth was rough in texture, clearly coarse linen worn by commoners, with nothing special about it.

At the end of the main street, the sight of a tavern made him stop. A copper jug ​​sign hung at the entrance, the jug itself rusted a bluish-green. A wooden bench by the door lay overturned, its tabletop riddled with a large hole. He stepped inside, a strong, musty smell assaulting his nostrils. Several rough wooden tables lay askew, covered in a thick layer of dust and scattered with fragments of broken ceramic cups. The wine barrels behind the counter were long since rotten, the wine evaporated, leaving only dried stains and moldy sawdust. He searched the drawers, but they were rotten and warped, empty except for the corpses of a few dead cockroaches.

Han Zu rubbed the moldy soles of his shoes on the tavern threshold, the lingering stench in his nostrils. He looked up into the depths of the main street, the fog seeming to be stirred by an invisible hand, sometimes so thick it obscured the path ahead, sometimes dissipating slightly to reveal half a crooked corner of a building. Since that figure had indeed vanished within the city, even if he had to search every alley, he had to find some clue—even if it was just a trace proving someone had once stayed here.

A faint smell of decaying vegetation wafted from a small alleyway on the right side of the main street. Han Zu followed the scent and turned in. The alley was narrower than he had imagined, with high stone walls on both sides, their surfaces riddled with gullies eroded by rainwater, filled with withered weeds and broken pottery shards. Every few steps, there was a recessed niche in the wall, most of them empty except for the deepest one, which contained a broken stone statue. The head was long gone, leaving only the torso wrapped in a long robe, the patterns on the hem blurred by weathering, making it impossible to tell whether it was a holy image or an ordinary statue of a commoner.

At the end of the alley led to an abandoned market. The flagstones on the ground were rougher than those on the main street, many broken, revealing the soil beneath. In the center of the market stood a rusty iron flagpole, the flag at its top long since rotted into wisps of grayish-brown cloth, fluttering weakly in the wind. Most of the surrounding stalls were reduced to decaying wooden frames, with remnants of the hemp ropes used to bind the goods, now so brittle they snapped at the slightest touch. Han Zu walked to a relatively intact wooden frame. The frame was carved with fine grooves, presumably for displaying pottery, but now only a few dark stains remained; not a single intact shard of pottery could be found.

On the north side of the market stood a row of low shacks, their roofs constructed of branches and thatch. The thatch was now blackened and rotten, collapsing in many places to reveal tangled, withered branches. Han Zu lifted a tattered burlap curtain hanging at the entrance of one shack. The curtain fell almost entirely at the slightest touch, revealing the scene inside: a thick layer of dry grass covered the ground, the blades long since dehydrated and dark brown, rustling underfoot. In a corner of the shack lay several woven baskets, their wicker reins brittle. One basket crumbled into a pile of thin strips at the slightest touch, its interior empty except for a few dried grass seeds embedded in the gaps between the reins.

He inspected the three shacks in succession, and the scene was identical—nothing but rotting grass and decaying woven fabrics. In the corner of the last shack leaned a sickle with a broken handle; the blade was blackened with rust, and the tip was curled up, clearly no longer capable of cutting. Han Zu picked up the sickle and weighed it in his hand. The wooden handle was rotten to the bone, riddled with wormholes, and sawdust fell off with a gentle squeeze. He casually tossed the sickle back into the corner with a dull thud, clearly audible in the empty market, but it elicited no response.

After leaving the market, Han Zu walked back along another alley, which led to the northeast of the city and gradually rose in elevation. The stone walls in the alley were even more dilapidated, some sections collapsed, forming irregular gaps that revealed deeper ruins, piled with broken bricks and rotten wooden beams. He passed a house where half of the wall had collapsed, and the scene inside was clearly visible: a wooden table in the living room had a broken leg and leaned against the wall, with a chipped ceramic bowl on it, filled with rainwater and a few fallen leaves floating on the surface. The floorboards on the second floor were rotten and perforated, exposing the beams underneath, and the legs of a broken bed dangled in mid-air. The bedding on the bed had long since blended into the dust, its original color indistinguishable.

Reaching the highest point, Han Zu stopped. From here, he could barely overlook half the city; as far as the eye could see, there were only dilapidated stone houses and tangled withered vines, not a trace of human habitation. Mist rose from the lower streets, like a white tide washing over the rooftops, swallowing the crooked chimneys and tattered flags. He looked down at the stone path beneath his feet; a shallow rut was carved into it, filled with mud and water, its edges worn smooth by time, clearly the mark of vehicles passing by over the years, yet now not even a broken carriage could be found.

After resting for a while, Han Zu walked downhill towards the northwest of the city. The houses here were more orderly than those in other areas, clearly indicating that it had once been a commoner's settlement. Most of the houses were two-story structures, with the windows on the ground floor fitted with thick iron bars, which were rusty and many of the iron bars were broken, pointing crookedly to the sky. He came to a house where most of the roof tiles were still intact. The steps at the door were covered with moss, and next to the steps was a rotten wooden basin with a large hole in the bottom, obviously used to catch rainwater.

Han Zu pushed the door, but the hinges were rusted shut, emitting only a dull creak before remaining motionless. He walked around to the side of the house and peered through a broken window. The room was dimly lit; he could only vaguely make out a few empty wooden crates piled in a corner on the first floor. The planks of the crates were warped and the lids were scattered to the side. On the second floor, only half of the handrail remained; most of the stair treads had rotted away, revealing dark gaps between the floors. He channeled his energy into his eyes, trying to see further, but apart from thick dust and cobwebs, there was nothing of value—no books, no tools, not even a complete piece of clothing. It was as if the people who left had taken everything with them, leaving only an empty shell.

He continued along the streets of the working-class district, passing a shop with a wooden sign bearing the image of the Staff of the Cobra. The staff was now mostly broken, only the outline of the left serpent remained. The shop had two hinged wooden doors, each carved with simple herbal patterns, now blurred beyond recognition. Han Zu pushed open a crack in the door, and a stench of mustiness and herbal residue wafted out. Inside, the shelves were overturned, most of the ceramic jars broken, leaving only a few intact, their rims covered in thick dust, empty without a trace of herbal residue.

When Han Zu emerged from the pharmacy, the fog had thickened considerably. He glanced at the sky; the brightness had diminished further. He walked through the main street, the market, and the working-class quarters, examining shops, houses, and shacks, but found no valuable clues—no fresh footprints, no undried water stains, no ashes from a fire, not even a fallen leaf. The city seemed frozen in time; everything remained at the moment of abandonment, without any trace of subsequent activity.

He continued walking towards the edge of the city, the faint sound of wind whistling through the cracks in the buildings carrying him. Han Zu quickened his pace, passing through a collapsed wall, when the sight before him made him stop. In the mist stood a tall Gothic building, more magnificent than any other building in the city, yet equally dilapidated.

Half of the building's spire has collapsed, revealing the crisscrossing wooden beams inside, covered with withered vines that resemble black chains. Most of the pointed arch windows on either side are now devoid of glass, leaving only broken frames. The carved patterns on the frames, depicting intertwined vines and flowers, still retain a semblance of their former elegance, though weathered and blurred. Most peculiar is the decoration on the building's facade—gone are the crucifixes and iconographic reliefs commonly found in churches. Instead, a row of upward-reaching, spike-like carvings, most of their tips broken off, appear particularly menacing in the mist.

Han Zu approached the building and discovered that the main entrance consisted of two massive iron gates. The gates were covered with intricate patterns of intertwined snakes, their scales meticulously carved, though mostly obscured by rust. The gates were tightly shut, and the door knockers were shaped like ferocious beast heads, their eyes long gone, leaving only two dark, empty sockets. The building's walls were constructed of massive, bluish-gray stone blocks, the mortar between them long since crumbled, revealing deep cracks filled with dark green moss that gleamed damply in the sunlight.

He walked around the building and noticed several small pointed arched windows on its side. The frame of one of the windows had collapsed, revealing darkness inside. Han Zu stood on tiptoe and peered inside, but could only see thick dust and scattered stones; there was no trace of the altars, benches, or stained glass windows commonly found in religious buildings. Behind the building was a small courtyard overgrown with waist-high weeds. Scattered among the weeds were several broken stone tablets, the inscriptions long since blurred, with only a few irregular engravings discernible.

Han Zu stood in the center of the courtyard, looking up at the spire of the building. Just as he subconsciously looked down from the spire, he happened to see a stone statue that was mostly destroyed in a corner of the wall above. It was this mostly destroyed stone statue that suddenly reminded Han Zu why he felt so familiar with this place.

"So that's how it is. I actually... ended up here."