Chapter 11: Out of Control

Lein’s spirits lifted, and sleepiness was yanked away like someone pulling a cloth.

His consciousness instantly became clear.

But this clarity was completely different from the clarity he was used to.

He opened his eyes and saw the ceiling of his rented room.

A large patch of gray-white plaster had peeled off, revealing the dark yellow plaster underneath.

A small spider web had formed in the corner.

Morning light seeped through the gap in the window, drawing a thin line of light on the floor.

Dust particles floated slowly in the beam.

All of this was normal.

What was abnormal was that he couldn’t blink.

Lein tried.

His eyelids remained motionless.

He focused on the command “blink once,” sent the signal from his brain, but his eyes had no reaction.

He tried to move a finger, tried to make a fist, tried to raise an arm—nothing worked.

His body had become a stone statue, stiffly lying on the bed, completely unresponsive.

Then he sat up.

Not because he wanted to sit up.

His body was moving on its own.

He wanted to open his mouth to speak, even if just to make a meaningless sound, but his lips were tightly sealed.

His tongue was stiffly pressed against the roof of his mouth.

Even the vocal cords in his throat seemed to be held down by something, unable to produce any vibration.

Lein forced himself to calm down.

He had spent years on the streets of Ash Lane, seen many strange things, and experienced many life-threatening moments.

Panic couldn’t solve any problem; it would only make things worse.

He tried to analyze the situation in front of him.

First, his body was still functioning normally.

Breathing, heartbeat, body temperature—all physiological functions were fine.

He could even feel the hardness of the bed board, the roughness of the blanket, the warmth of the morning light.

All these sensations were still there.

Second, his consciousness was awake.

He could think, could remember, could make logical judgments.

It wasn’t a dream, nor was it some kind of mental breakdown.

Lein sorted these few points in his mind and came to a tentative conclusion: either he had caught some extremely rare disease, or he had encountered something beyond common sense.

He leaned toward the former, after all, rare diseases were not uncommon in Ash Lane.

His body stood up, bare feet stepping onto the cold floor.

It bent over and took a clean shirt from the wooden cabinet by the bed, put it on, and fastened the buttons.

Then it took a pair of dark trousers from the bottom of the cabinet, put them on, and fastened the belt.

The whole process was smooth and natural, exactly the same as Lein’s usual dressing routine, even the habit of buttoning was completely consistent.

After getting dressed, his body walked to the door, pulled it open, and went out.

The hallway was narrow, flanked by rough wooden walls.

The floor was compacted earth, soft underfoot.

Two panes of glass were broken in the window at the end of the hall, covered with cardboard.

Morning wind seeped through the cracks, carrying a salty, fishy sea smell.

Voices came from downstairs.

“Lein? You’re up so early?”

The speaker was a middle-aged woman who lived downstairs, Mrs. Miller, a laundress.

She had to leave before dawn every day to work at a laundry near the harbor.

She was standing at the bottom of the stairs, holding a wicker basket full of dirty clothes, with a tired and surprised expression.

Lein desperately wanted to respond.

He wanted to say,

“Mrs. Miller, please help me, something’s wrong with my body,”

or at least say “Good morning,” and let a sound come out of that disobedient throat.

But his lips were pressed tightly together, not even a crack.

His tongue lay like dead flesh at the bottom of his mouth, unable to produce any sound.

His body walked straight past Mrs. Miller without even looking at her.

Mrs. Miller was clearly embarrassed by this dismissive attitude.

She opened her mouth as if to say something more, but in the end, she just shook her head and continued downstairs with her basket.

Lein sighed inwardly.

He didn’t want this.

Mrs. Miller was a good person.

Although life was hard, she occasionally brought him a bowl of leftover food.

Walking past her without a word must have made him seem ungrateful.

But his body wouldn’t listen to him.

Stepping out of the building, the morning of Ash Lane hit him.

There were already many people on the street.

A vendor pushing a breakfast cart was hawking by the roadside.

In the steaming pot on the cart, a brown paste-like food was boiling, emitting a strange smell mixed with grains and cheap spices.

Several dockworkers in work clothes were squatting at the base of a wall, chewing on black bread, their faces as hard and dry as the bread.

In the distance, the low rumble of a steam engine starting up intermingled with the sharp blast of a factory whistle, forming the fixed background music of every morning in Ash Lane.

Lein’s body walked along the street in one direction without any hesitation, with strong purpose.

He tried to recall which familiar places were in this direction.

Two blocks ahead, there was a crossroad.

On the left was a blacksmith’s shop, on the right a grocery store.

Further ahead was a fork: the left led to the Harbor District, the right led deeper into an older residential area of Ash Lane.

Beyond the fork was a small square, surrounded by stalls selling second-hand goods and a few cheap taverns.

He had lived in this area for several years.

He knew every alley and every wall like the back of his hand.

But if there was a place in this direction worth going to with such strong purpose, he couldn’t think of one.

Not Coleman’s base, not any of the places he usually ran errands to, not any location of special significance near his rented room.

It was just an ordinary road leading to an ordinary neighborhood.

Lein’s body passed the blacksmith’s shop.

The shop wasn’t open yet; the shadow of an anvil seeped through the crack in the door, pitch black.

He passed the grocery store.

The owner was removing the door boards.

Seeing Lein walk by, he raised a hand in greeting.

Lein wanted to stop and chat, but his steps didn’t pause, not even his gaze shifted.

He walked straight past the owner.

He passed the crossroad, passed the fork, passed the small square.

Several stalls were already set up in the square—selling old clothes, iron pots, and second-hand tools lined up in a row.

A stall owner was spreading a yellowed tablecloth on the counter, displaying a few rusty wrenches and a notched axe.

Seeing Lein approach, the owner looked up and tried to call out, but Lein’s steps were too fast.

Before the man could speak, Lein had already left the square.

Lein began to seriously consider a question.

If his body continued walking like this, would it leave Ash Lane?

Leave the Harbor District?

Leave Vist?

Go to a place he had never been?

This question made him uneasy.

Ash Lane was chaotic, but at least it was familiar.

He knew which alleys led through, which were dead ends, which corners harbored which gangs, which roads were safest at what time.

But once he left this area, he knew nothing.

Just as he started pondering this question, his body stopped.

Without any warning, it just stopped.

Lein froze for a second.

Then his body turned around and walked in the opposite direction.

The movement was swift and decisive, without any hesitation, as if the previous direction was wrong, and now this direction was right.

‘…’

‘What is this?’