Another Moon Altar in the sky vanished.

The flower petals continued to wither and fall.

Mo Ling reached out, trying to grasp the scattering motes of light, but they slipped through his fingers like quicksand.

They swirled and froze once more. The faint sound of conversation drifted to his ears again.

"General, we still haven’t replaced the eternal one." This time, the other voice spoke without waiting for Jeff to ask.

"I know," Jeff said calmly. "What’s the status on component wear?"

"The wear is worse," the other voice replied. "Every time we approach awakening, the fog comes surging back. It seems to have figured out our pattern."

"Did the Chali Race have no effect?"

"Not much of one. The Chali must know we’re trying to use them to attract the fog. The moment they return to their normal state, they immediately separate again. It only buys us a little time."

"A little effect is better than none. Don’t force it. From now on, our awakenings don’t need to be long. When we wake, we’ll first determine if the eternal one has been replaced, then check the development of the new souls. We won’t need much time."

"Yes, General. I was thinking the same. This will greatly increase the number of times we can awaken."

"Let’s do that, then. Go on, hurry."

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

"Goodbye..."

Mo Ling felt dizzy as he listened to their conversation.

’They’re using the Chali Race to attract the fog?’

’But how?’

As he pondered this, Mo Ling suddenly recalled the Immortal Wood Balls used in preparing the Sea-Moon Ceremony. The new generation of the Fishman Race, following the ancient Fishman texts, used the Immortal Wood Balls to hunt the old-eaters before placing them on the Moon Altar.

’That can return the Chali Race to their normal state?’

Mo Ling had a sudden realization. If a soul and a body could be separated, then they could naturally be restored to each other.

Bai Zhou had told him before about his apprentice’s soul leaving and then returning to its body.

But Mo Ling never imagined that after so long, with their bodies processed into small balls, the Chali could still be restored to their original forms.

The ancient Fishman Race used the restored Chali to divert the fog’s attention, buying time for their plan.

’As long as enough people knew about the eternal one, the fog wouldn’t have time to attack them!’

However, just as the Fishman in the recording had said, the Chali were aware of their plan. As soon as they were restored, they would immediately separate again, not giving the ancient ones much time.

Thus, the ancient Fishman Race had no choice but to go back to sleep before the fog could strike again.

The two sides had reached a delicate balance.

With every awakening, both sides would repeat this process.

In truth, each knew what the other was thinking; they were simply racing against time.

And the new generation of the Fishman Race was kept completely in the dark, methodically preparing the Sea-Moon Ceremony according to the ancient texts, oblivious to the game being played by two races behind the scenes.

They didn’t know why they did it, only that they had to follow the texts to the letter when preparing the Sea-Moon Ceremony, daring not to make the slightest change.

The fog grew thicker as the ancient Fishmen neared awakening, but this was merely a preemptive measure to attack them once they were awake. The new Fishmen, however, mistook it as a sign of crisis.

This only made them believe the ancient texts even more fervently.

The two phenomena reinforced each other, trapping the new Fishmen in the grip of the ancient texts from which they could not escape.

Their civilization was not advanced. They couldn’t find any other way to fight the ever-thickening fog, so they could only place their hopes in the experience of their ancestors—even if that experience had never been proven.

Mo Ling guessed that the ancient texts must have been deliberately altered. The content was made to align with the phenomena on the island, a mix of truth and lies that left the new Fishmen no choice but to believe.

That was how they were drawn deeper and deeper into the trap.

Faced with the crisis, they had no choice.

...

Another light in the sky went out.

Mo Ling stared blankly, lowering his head to look at the withering petals. The Shadow at his feet was now tattered and incomplete.

The drifting motes of light flowed past Mo Ling and swirled into the air.

Standing in this "spotlight," Mo Ling felt the "stage" was desolate to the point of despair.

’For twenty-two hundred years, the new Fishmen have lived like this?’

Although he hadn’t been on the island for long, Mo Ling had carefully observed the living standards of the new Fishmen.

The fog pervaded the island. While it didn’t actively attack the new Fishmen, prolonged exposure caused objects to decay faster, making it difficult for any technology or culture to develop.

If not for their trade with humans, they wouldn’t even have clothes to wear, and food would be scarce.

Despite possessing all sorts of powerful abilities, they were trapped in a primitive society due to their environmental constraints.

With scarce resources and a withered culture, these new Fishmen were like the rotting sludge on the island, forever trapped in a swamp.

That was why those Fake Fishmen from before had been so envious of humans.

’They have food and drink, beautiful clothes to wear... even if we’re powerful...’

And that was why Jeff had been so curious back then, constantly asking Li Luo what human society was like.

The new Fishmen had never given up their yearning for a better life, but they could never achieve it...

This was a group of Fishmen living in dire straits, forced every two hundred years to expend their manpower and resources to build a Moon Altar whose principles they didn’t understand, all to face a crisis whose origins they didn’t know.

Mo Ling suddenly understood why Jeff had stared blankly at his people as they bustled about the Moon Altar.

’The Fishman Race... shouldn’t be like this...’

The moonlight grew a few shades more oppressive.

As Mo Ling stared, lost in thought, the spiraling motes of light froze once again.

The cold conversation between the two men came over the channel again.

"The eternal one still hasn’t been replaced, General."

"Mm, I know. Anything unusual?"

"No..."

"..."

Mo Ling had never seen a Moon Altar being built, nor did he know how long it took the new Fishmen to construct one.

But he understood that for a "marvel" that would take even humans a long time to create, the technologically backward Fishmen must have spent far more time and effort.

The magnificent sight of the Moon Altar when he first saw it was still fresh in Mo Ling’s mind.

But back then, Mo Ling never would have imagined that there were many such marvels.

In the distant sky, another Moon Altar went out, like a broken lamp that suddenly lost its light.

The ancient souls casually unscrewed the lightbulb and tossed it in the trash.

Then, they waited for the next lamp to arrive.

The bulb lit up, its glow illuminating the entire stage.

The flowing motes of light returned, dancing across the stage before silently landing on the flower, only to fall with its withering petals.

For some reason, rows of ants appeared on the ground. They marched in file, as if trying to escape the moonlight and hide in the shadows.

But no matter how long they struggled, they couldn’t crawl out...