"Yo, got those bandages off your eyes?"
A familiar female voice called out from the end of the corridor. Marcia turned her head and saw a tall young woman.
It was the first time Marcia had seen Cynthia Mason since removing the bandages from her eyes.
Cynthia was wearing khaki men's suspenders over a simple gray-and-white cotton shirt, with a thin black turtleneck underneath. A pair of rimless glasses with pale amber pentagon-shaped lenses rested on her nose, behind which her sharp gray eyes gleamed with a commanding presence.
Her black hair was tied up into a short high ponytail. A mouse-gray coat hung over her arm, and she wore tall black boots that clicked lightly against the floor.
This was Cynthia Mason at twenty years old.
Marcia stood up. "Miss Cynthia?"
"Nice to finally 'meet' you in person," Cynthia said, extending a hand toward her. Marcia shook it gently and immediately noticed how unusual Cynthia's hand felt—its texture was somehow different, almost metallic.
"Come on," Cynthia said, jingling a set of car keys in her hand. "I'll take you back to the monastery for a look. I just picked up a new car today."
…
Cynthia's new car was a deep wine-red vintage coupe. The control panel had been completely modified—she seemed to have a fondness for brass toggle switches. The car windows, air conditioning, and radio were all operated by levers instead of buttons.
A faint smell of tobacco lingered in the cabin. Between the window and the dashboard, Marcia noticed a half-empty pack of women's cigarettes.
"You smoke?" she asked.
"Does it bother you?" Cynthia replied as she started the engine. "I can wait until you're not around."
"It doesn't matter."
The rest of the drive passed in silence.
When they approached the outskirts of Severn Mountain, a group of people in white protective suits stopped their car.
They wore badges of the District Three Security Division, and a roadblock had been set up across the main route. Cynthia showed them her identification, and only then were they allowed to pass.
"They've already closed the road?" Marcia asked.
"Yes," Cynthia replied, "it's been nearly ten years since the last recorded case of Chelation Disease within the livable zones of District Three. The higher-ups are taking this very seriously. From now on, the entire Severn Mountain area will likely be designated as a new quarantine zone—entry and exit will be strictly prohibited unless absolutely necessary."
Marcia gazed out the car window. The scenery, once unfamiliar, slowly became recognizable again. Her eyes burned faintly with emotion. This car was carrying her back to the place where she had lived for over three years—a place now fated to fall into ruin.
"We're here."
The car stopped near the top of the mountain, and both Cynthia and Marcia got out.
From afar, Marcia could already see the charred black roof of the church.
As they walked side by side, Cynthia spoke first. "The twenty or so children from the monastery have been transferred to a public orphanage. They'll be cared for there."
Marcia heard her but said nothing.
She followed the stone corridor, passing through the collapsed remains of the church, heading toward the confinement room—the two-story old house was pitch black from the fire but still stood with its basic structure intact.
When she returned to the confinement room, its wooden door had already turned to ash. Though only a month had passed, green grass was already sprouting between the cracks in the stone walls.
Marcia stepped over the threshold. Before her stood three or four twisted iron cages, their bars half-melted by the fire.
Silently, she approached the cage where Bertram had once been held. Kneeling down, she reached beneath the cage.
In the ashes, her fingers brushed against a piece of asbestos cloth wrapped around Bertram's old scrapbook. Its surface was damp with recent rain.
For a moment, Marcia froze.
If Bertram had escaped on his own, there was no reason he would have left the book behind.
"What's th—" Cynthia began to ask, but stopped when she saw tears falling one after another onto the asbestos cloth. Marcia still faced away from her, not turning around.
The girl unwrapped the cloth. The scrapbook's shape was still intact, but the entire thing had been carbonized. The newspaper clippings Bertram had so carefully saved—and his handwriting within—had all turned to black dust, impossible to recognize.
Cynthia said nothing more. "...I'll go outside for a smoke."
"Wait, Miss Cynthia," Marcia said, turning toward her with reddened eyes. "Do you know the cause? Of... the infection?"
"The official report hasn't been released yet—it should come out next week," Cynthia replied, frowning slightly. "But I have a theory. Want to hear it?"
"Yes."
"We detected trace amounts of chelation fungus spores in the forests around Severn Mountain. The concentration was low—breathing it in wouldn't cause illness—but it proves that the chelates were active in this region even before Mother Elma was infected. Tell me—did your abbess often have contact with wild animals?"
Marcia hesitated for a long moment before lowering her head. "Sometimes... there were injured animals—like fledgling birds. If she found them, she'd take care of them."
"Not birds," Cynthia said. "Chelation Disease only affects mammals. My guess would be squirrels, maybe rats—there are plenty of those around here."
Marcia looked up at her. "If Mother Elma was infected with Chelation Disease, she should have felt something... right?"
"Yes, that's correct," Cynthia nodded.
"I don't understand..." Marcia murmured. "Then why didn't she... say anything?"
"Hah," Cynthia scratched her head. "That's not something I can explain in a few sentences."
Her words fell heavily in Marcia's ears, resonating with a sense of fateful déjà vu.
After a moment of silence, Marcia asked softly, "Then, Miss Cynthia—would you be willing to explain it to me... in detail?"
"Of course," Cynthia said, pointing toward the door. "But let's talk in the car. Looks like it's about to rain again."
"All right."
That was when Marcia first learned the full story behind Chelation Disease.
This dreadful contagion originated from a fungus found deep in the ocean—Polydentate Coordinomyces, whose terrestrial variant is known as Chelate Fungus.
In the sea, Polydentate Coordinomyces resembles a jellyfish, usually lying dormant in waters below 200 meters and rising to shallower depths only during its breeding season.
Its mycelium rarely exceeds 5 millimeters in length, composed of 99.3% water—an unremarkable species among countless deep-sea fungi. Yet in the darkness and crushing pressure of the ocean floor, it formed a long symbiotic relationship with certain flagellate protozoa, eventually evolving into a parasitic organism known as the cystid protozoan.
These cystid protozoa cannot survive without Polydentate Coordinomyces—their existence and reproduction are entirely dependent on it.
Through this symbiosis, the once-harmless fungus became lethally aggressive. Over time, Polydentate Coordinomyces gained the ability to control mammals hundreds or even thousands of times its size.
When a marine mammal becomes infected, its body becomes a breeding ground for the fungus. During this period, the host will actively seek out others of its kind, releasing infectious spores. Once the host's internal organs are consumed, its body swells grotesquely and finally bursts, spreading the fungus even farther through the water.
For a long time, this phenomenon was merely an ecological mystery troubling scientists and wildlife organizations—until the year 4412, when the first human infection occurred near the Cook Islands in the Longtail Ocean.
At first, the infected fisherman experienced persistent depression, apathy, and insomnia—classic symptoms of a mood disorder. He was soon diagnosed with depression and prescribed medication, but nothing helped.
After about a month, his mood suddenly improved—he became cheerful and energetic. Yet soon after, the horror began.
The first victims were his wife and child. The man split their skulls open with an axe and hid their bodies in a wardrobe.
It was as though he had been possessed by a demon. He turned on his neighbors next, attempting to abduct a child before being caught.
When enraged townspeople captured him and removed his gloves, they discovered that his arms below the elbows had swollen to the size of thighs, turning a terrifying shade of bright red. His fingers—index through pinky—had fused together into a single mass, capable only of crude pinching movements with his thumb.
It looked exactly like the claw of a lobster.
That was how Chelation Disease got its name.
( End of Chapter )