The channel fell silent once again.

It was a terrifying silence.

The surrounding motes of light began to surge, and one of the Moon Altars in the sky suddenly went out.

Time began to flow again.

The torrent of light continued to circle Mo Ling. He was like an unmoving stone in a great river of moonlight, letting the world change around him.

Stunned, Mo Ling reached out to grab the motes of light, but they deftly dodged him, slipping through his fingers and swirling into the air.

The blooming Shadow flower beneath him lost a petal.

But the moonlight didn’t dim. In fact, Mo Ling felt that the remaining Moon Altars were growing brighter, almost blindingly so.

As the motes of light spiraled into the air, their movement froze once more.

The air, once flowing, suddenly felt like thickening mud—slow and suffocating.

Before he could catch his breath, the familiar voices returned from within the armor. This time, they seemed to adapt quickly, beginning their exchange almost immediately.

"General, welcome back."

"Another two hundred years, but I don’t feel a thing," Jeff said, his tone flat.

"That’s what the death of a soul is like. Absolute nothingness. Of course you don’t feel anything. For these past two hundred years, we simply didn’t exist. It’s like we skipped over a hole in time..."

Jeff didn’t continue the discussion about souls. Instead, he asked with concern, "How are the bodies?"

The other voice fell silent for a moment before replying, sounding dejected, "Still no good. The immortality is still there; it hasn’t been replaced. They really haven’t learned anything. Their experience on the island is too limited, and their civilization is still in a primitive state."

Hearing this, Jeff, too, was silent for a long time.

"If external stimuli are insufficient, then we’ll just have to provide them with more legacies. During this period while we’re awake, we must create as many legacies as possible and spread them across the island."

"General, even with enough legacies, they don’t have time to learn them. Two hundred years is far too restrictive. Should we extend the time we are ’dead’?"

"Absolutely not. Two hundred years is the absolute limit of our control. If we go beyond that and something goes wrong, we don’t have enough parts to fix the mistake," Jeff answered grimly.

"But General, we use up parts every time we awaken. Who knows how many two-hundred-year cycles we have left? Is it really wise to entrust the fate of our entire race to chance?"

Jeff listened quietly to the other voice’s complaints. Only when it had finished did he slowly begin to speak:

"The Fishman Race has never feared chance."

"Even after discovering the Racial Lock, we never stopped exploring new things."

"Learn one thing, forget another. We’ve lost so much, but the Fishman Race has never given up on pursuing the unknown. As long as there’s a chance, there is hope."

"Under the shadow of the Racial Lock, everything we possess is merely a redundancy and a burden. Only what lies in the unknown holds the potential to be our salvation."

"Have you ever tried to look at it from another angle? That maybe the Racial Lock is a kind of talent for the Fishman Race—a way to gamble an obsolete skill for a future we’ve never touched."

"All this time, we have plundered so much knowledge and so many relics from other races without ever worrying about the cost. This time is no different. The Fishmen have never been afraid to struggle against fate."

"Nothing can lock the Fishmen down."

"Only we can trap ourselves!"

Jeff’s voice echoed through the channel, long and unceasing.

Mo Ling had never seen Jeff so emotional.

Before this, Jeff had always seemed calm and collected, as if nothing in the world concerned him. But faced with the other voice’s cowardice, he had erupted with an unprecedented emotional outburst.

"I’m sorry, General. I... I was just worried," the other voice said apologetically. "I’m worried we’ll fail."

"How many more awakenings can our current supply of parts support?"

"Based on the current fog conditions, maybe only a dozen or so. After that, all our parts will be useless."

"Then we’ll wait until the last time before we find another way."

"Understood, General. See you in two hundred years."

"Goodbye..."

Silence fell once more, and the motes of light around Mo Ling began to flow away again.

’Is it going to be another two hundred years?’

Mo Ling had figured out the pattern of the moonlight’s changes. Every time it flowed, two hundred years passed. Every time it stopped, the Fishman Race would awaken.

’Is this real?’

’Could the Fishman Race have really waited like this for two thousand two hundred years?’

’All just to replace that immortality?’

Another Moon Altar in the sky went out, and another petal of the Shadow flower at Mo Ling’s feet withered away.

After another cycle, the voices reappeared on the armor’s channel.

Just like before, Jeff immediately asked about the immortality issue.

"It still hasn’t been replaced, but the newborn souls this time seem to be learning much faster. Their level of civilization has risen quite a bit. The legacies are having a huge effect," the other voice answered excitedly.

"Have they tried to communicate with the outside world?" Jeff asked.

"No, General. They’ve stayed on the island, and no other races have visited. Do you mean we need to cut off their contact with the outside world? That might be very difficult to do."

"No. We need to encourage their communication with the outside world. They will learn the most through interaction with other races. A clash of cultures is the wellspring of knowledge. If they remain isolated, two hundred years is nowhere near enough time."

"I understand, General. I will guide them to yearn for the outside world in the upcoming legacies."

"Remember to make sure they remain friendly to outsiders. Don’t let them cause any conflicts that could affect our plan."

"Understood, General. I’ll go create the legacies now. See you in two hundred years."

"Goodbye..."

This exchange was very brief. It seemed the two were deliberately saving time, getting straight to work after saying only a few words.

However, despite the short conversation, Mo Ling managed to extract a good deal of useful information.

’The "newborn souls" they’re talking about must be the primitive Fishmen on the island. And their friendly nature was deliberately cultivated.’

Realizing all this sent a chill down Mo Ling’s spine.

’An entire race, all under the control of a hidden hand. Their entire civilizational development is following a guided path.’

The legacies must be the ancient Fishman texts on the island.

Mo Ling had always felt that the Fishman Race had an almost fanatical trust in their ancient texts. It seemed this, too, was the intended outcome for those pulling the strings.

That way, they could better control the "newborn souls."

’Nothing on Fishman Island has ever been an accident.’

As he thought of this, Mo Ling felt as if the invisible moonlight around him was becoming suffocating...