As the sun neared the horizon, the sky suddenly erupted into thunderous rain.
The remains of the sun, half-submerged, lingered on the horizon.
Its intense heat flashing with lightning bolts that pierced the heavens and vanished within seconds.
Smoke-white rain veils descended, seizing the opportunity, and a dazzling torrential display of a "sun shower" unfolded.
This rain arrived unannounced but providentially, instantly dispelling the suffocating heat and stifling humidity that had lingered for days.
"Another instance of the Weather Mimic System... How many times this year?"
In the rain-shrouded city, elderly figures with graying hair gazed skyward, murmuring contemplatively.
New Pacific Alliance, an eastern island.
Among lush forests, a black umbrella moved swiftly through the rain.
The figure under the umbrella remained indistinct, a slender bundle protruding behind them, the black, anti-slip fabric dripping water relentlessly.
Despite the crude and rugged mountain path, their movements were as agile as a soaring falcon.
Halfway up the mountain, the umbrella shifted, revealing a fair and radiant face.
With lowered dark eyes, the young girl peered through the moist rain curtain, gazing down the mountain.
The presence of rain had prompted the local wildlife to seek solace in their nests, resulting in an unusual silence.
The only commotion emanated from the distant harbor.
This was a back mountain, seaside island, crisscrossed by an intricate web of transportation routes.
At regular intervals, massive cargo ships cruised the waters, while the Alliance's public air routes governed the skies.
State-of-the-art airships weaved through the skies, their iridescent neon signal lights creating a mesmerizing, dreamlike spectacle amidst the hazy rain.
But if one were to cast their gaze downward, clusters of cramped, affordable housing, the tang of salty sea air mingling with the polluted atmosphere, the weary and numb faces moving back and forth—like a sudden splash of cold water—all conspired to awaken a stark realization.
This was no utopia, hardly even a city.
The sky's grandeur sped up the decline on the ground.
The nascent bloom of a refined new civilization observed the struggles of its discarded predecessor with detached indifference.
District 199 perpetually earned a failing grade in the Alliance's comprehensive development assessment because of the gaping chasm between the two that birthed a dissonance.
F199 District, a forsaken realm undeserving even of its name.
District 199, which relied solely on seafood exports, gradually devolved into the Alliance's most desolate numeric enclave—a backward region that could be counted on one's fingers—because it missed out on the glory days of the "Radiant Thirty Years," a golden age of technological advancement in New Pacific Alliance's history, and lost out on the economic boom.
Paupers, alcoholics, chain smokers, gamblers...
Here, a sense of twilight gloom enveloped the indigenous, the dispossessed refugees driven out by the Alliance, and countless forgotten souls struggling to survive in the wasteland that was District 199.
They clung to a glimmer of hope, a faint dawn, by relying on the few transit lines bridging the old and new civilizations.
Once beyond the mountain's foothills, the rain suddenly ceased, as if crossing into a somber barrier.
The distinct briny aroma unique to District 199 washed over her.
The young girl folded her umbrella and meticulously shook off the rain before proceeding past a sentry checkpoint.
Near to there, a local, esteemed mariner furrowed his brows while smoking, his expression troubled.
Beside him, a young woman anxiously tugged at his sleeve. "Old Cheung, it's been nearly half a month since my son Ben set sail. You think he's alright?"
The mariner's brow furrowed as he exhaled a long plume of smoke.
"The Alliance specifically requested a local guide, and Ben's been sailing since he was eleven or twelve. He's the most experienced around here. Don't worry too much; he'll be fine."
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The woman remained unconvinced.
"But my eyelids have been twitching for the past couple of days. I can't shake this unease."
She clung to his sleeve, her voice tinged with resentment.
"This job was your recommendation. You said that the Alliance's nonsense Ocean Current Research Team pays well and has minimal risk. It was your idea that convinced Ben. You can't just wash your hands of his fate!"
The mariner's face turned ashen from her grip, his response muffled. "Just give it a bit more time. The seas have been turbulent lately. If we don't hear in a few days, I'll send someone out to search."
The young girl's approach diverted his attention, and he wore a kindly smile on his weathered face. "Look who's back. Cora."
The girl respectfully called out.
"Cap... Captain Cheung."
Old Cheung grinned as he appraised her.
"Why are you all sweaty? Was it a tiring day?"
Cora shook her head meekly, her lips curving into a smile.
When she smiled, a faint dimple appeared on her cheek, making her look especially endearing.
Mrs. Travers, the woman next to them, turned her head and shot Cora a venomous glare, her eyes brimming with lingering anger.
Cora was sensitive to the emotions emanating from others. With a single glare, her smile vanished, and so did her dimple. She nodded to Old Cheung and remained silent.
Mrs. Travers was one refugee who had come to the District 199 years ago. She always looked down on the indigenous people, including Cora.
Cora felt that both Mrs. Travers and her chubby son were harsh, probably because she was reticent and spoke little. When they met, they would exchange snide remarks, and Mrs. Travers always had something negative to say.
Mrs. Travers' husband, Ben, was a local, kind-hearted and honest. He had worked for Old Cheung's transport team for a long time, and he had even given Cora candy when she was little.
Lately, many research teams had come to the District 199—meteorology researchers, ocean current researchers, and even microbiology researchers.
Ben had the experience and would work hard, so he had taken on the role of a guide to earn some extra money for them. But who would have thought... that he would go missing?
Thinking about Ben's disappearance at sea, Cora walked forward in silence.
She passed by a fishing boat that had just returned, laden with a catch, and several strong young men in black shorts and rolled-up sleeves were busy unloading the cargo.
"Whoa! Ouch!" someone suddenly exclaimed, throwing a net overboard.
"What's going on, Sid? Quit overreacting," a concerned voice immediately asked.
"Bad luck, a fish just bit me."
"Are you kidding? You got bitten by a few perches? Trying to slack off, huh?"
"It's true! I swear it's a fish bite! Look, if you don't believe me!"
The person called "Sid" was met with laughter from his companions. His face flushed bright red as he ripped off his soaked glove and held out his hand to show them.
Cora had excellent eyesight. Following the sound, she looked into the distance and saw the fresh, bloodied wound on Sid's hand. In this line of work, injuries were commonplace, and the others didn't take it too seriously. They continued laughing and joking.
"Oh, it really is. This little guy packs a punch. Should fetch a good price."
"Sid, come over here and identify the culprit. I'll cook it up for you, give you some relief."
Not even the injured Sid seemed too concerned. After wiping away the bloodstains and re-donning his glove, he said, "This fish is quite a handful today, stronger than me. It's been tough pulling in the nets."
Cora shifted her gaze away, her steps leading her toward home. The vibrant surroundings behind her became less prominent, and her silhouette gradually vanished, leaving her with a sense of not fully fitting in.
After a few more steps, she belatedly cast her eyes toward the sky.
The fishing ban had just ended, and fall was on the horizon.
Yet, the blazing sun showed no mercy, dominating the horizon and emitting scorching heat as if desiring to reduce everything to ashes.