Chapter 2: 亡父遗笔

Sea fog billowed with the salty tang of diesel, pressing against the port of Santa Maria like countless invisible hands battering the old wooden door. The creak of the hinges echoed through the empty room, adding to the oppressive silence. Mateo stood before the candlelit desk, his shadow on the tabletop twisting violently with the flame’s flicker, as if it too had been infected with a sense of unease. His fingertip traced the coarse fibers along the edge of the map, the texture gritty against his skin, a sensation that made his teeth ache. His heart hammered in his chest, each beat striking his ribs like a heavy mallet.

Catalina’s earlier words—“There’s no time left”—still lashed at his nerves, the sting lingering. The shadow of Francisco Mendoza was rapidly spreading from the archives across the entire port. The influence of the Chamber of Commerce was as vast as this endless sea fog, powerful enough to suffocate any truth and drown any voice in silence. Mateo took a deep breath. The cold, wet air, sharp with a briny smell, pierced his lungs, yet it forcibly pulled him back from chaos into clarity. He needed his father’s evidence, that piece of writing that could tear the smearing of his name to shreds. It was the only chip he had in his gamble with fate.

“Mother, where is the diary?” Mateo turned, his voice hoarse but firm, his gaze locked tightly on Mercedes. Under the dim light, his mother’s face looked gaunt and weary; the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes seemed to hide endless secrets and fear.

Mercedes was silent for a moment; the air was broken only by the occasional crackle of the candle wick. She slowly approached the dusty wooden cabinet, her footsteps heavy and sluggish on the wooden floor. The veins on the back of her hand stood out, betraying the tremor brought on by age and tension. Her fingertips hovered above the cabinet handle for a few seconds before finally descending. She did not answer; she merely pulled open the door, releasing a wave of old camphor scent, and retrieved a wooden box secured with a brass lock. It was the object his father had cherished most in life, one he had never allowed anyone near, as if it contained a sealed fragment of his soul. Mateo took the box. His fingertips felt the cold chill of the metal, a coldness that traveled straight through his veins to his core, making his wildly beating heart clench instantly.

The wooden box was heavy as iron in his hands, as if it carried a weight far greater than its volume. Mateo took out the key. As the metal key slid into the lock and a soft “click” echoed, it felt as though a time capsule, sealed for years, had just been opened; dust danced in the shaft of light. Yellowed pages of parchment spilled onto the desktop. The ink, deep brown in the candlelight, gave off a faint smell of rust. His father’s handwriting was usually precise and neat, but here it became scribbled and hurried, the strokes even tearing through the paper, revealing the writer’s extreme anxiety at the time. Mateo’s gaze settled on one page, where detailed annotations of the Takuña coastline were drawn, dated precisely to the night before the official nautical charts were released.

His father had redrawn the Takuña coastline in the dead of night, aiming to correct errors in the official navigation charts. The diary read: “The latitude and longitude deviations on the official charts at the cliff section are enormous. If ships navigate by these, they will surely strike the rocks and be destroyed. I redrawn this section not to show off my skill, but for the safety of the sailors about to set sail.” Mateo ran his finger over the paper, feeling its fine wrinkles. These were not signs of natural aging but violent marks left by repeated folding and crushing, as if someone had once gripped this truth in a fit of anger.

The missing corner was not a simple geographical gap. Mateo placed the map fragment alongside the diary page, his eyes sweeping over the jagged tear. His heart sank. The paper fibers here had been forcibly torn, the edges sharp, not the result of cutting or weathering. In another place in the diary, he found a line of small characters covered with ink. Peering through the light, he could faintly make out the word “Pray.” The Inca script prayer Catalina had mentioned earlier was hidden in this torn-off corner. It was not just text; it was his father’s final ethical stand for navigational safety, a talisman left for his descendants to guide them through the storms.

“This is what you are after,” Mateo lifted his head. His eyes were sharp as blades, fixed on the new face standing at the doorway.

Rodrigo Almagro had somehow infiltrated the study. The genius mapmaker wore a black coat; rain dripped from the brim of his hat, pooling into a dark patch on the floor. He glanced coldly at the fragments on the desk, the corners of his mouth curling into a look of disdain, as if he were examining a clumsy piece of work. He admitted to having borrowed his father’s research manuscripts back then, but insisted he had not stolen the core conceptual structure, his words tinged with the unique arrogance of a genius.

“I merely took reference materials, Mateo,” Rodrigo said leisurely, his fingers tapping lightly on the tabletop in a rhythm that was irritatingly upbeat. “Your father hid the most critical compass bearing logic inside the prayer himself. He set a trap deliberately. Do you think he was plagiarizing? No. He was testing whether the heir possessed the wisdom to uncover the truth.”

Mateo did not refute it, for he knew Rodrigo was telling the truth. Yet that arrogance still disgusted him, like a fishbone stuck in his throat. At that moment, urgent knocking came from downstairs, accompanied by the heavy, steady footsteps characteristic of Mendoza’s faction. Each step thudded on Mateo’s taut nerves. Mercedes grabbed Mateo’s sleeve in terror, whispering, “It’s the Chamber of Commerce. They’ve come to search for evidence.”

Mateo swiftly stuffed the diary and the torn map fragment into his coat, quick and resolute. The paper rustled faintly against the cloth. He looked at Mercedes, his eyes full of trust and resolve—the gaze of a man who had already decided to die.

“Mother, give the rest to Catalina. Get her to the safe house.” Mateo’s order was barely a whisper. “I’ll hold them off here until the port’s route-blockade order is issued.”

“How can one man hold off the Guild?” Mercedes asked, tears glistening in her eyes, her hands clutching the hem of her dress—yet she obeyed, turning and vanishing quickly into the shadows.

The door was shoved open. Francisco Mendoza stood on the threshold in a crisp suit, holding a document stamped with the Guild’s red seal. His smile was sinister and composed, like a deep-sea current: calm on the surface, but underneath, a whirlpool that devours everything.

“Mr. Mateo, this is a seizure warrant for illegal possession of protected navigational charts.” Mendoza’s tone was mild yet carried an unyielding pressure; every word landed like a nail. “Hand them over, and we guarantee your father’s reputation suffers no further damage.”

Mateo straightened his back and drew the yellowed pages of the diary from inside his coat, raising them high. In the candlelight, the careful lines and bold annotations were clearly visible, as if defying the intruder.

“A seizure warrant can seize objects, but it cannot seize the truth.” Mateo’s voice rang out, echoing through the small study with the finality of a man burning his bridges. “These records prove that my father’s corrected longitude and latitude errors directly prevented the sinking of three cargo ships last month. What the Guild is covering up isn’t plagiarism—it’s a potential disaster caused by navigational failure!”

Mendoza’s face darkened at once. He took a sudden step forward, his leather shoes scraping sharply against the floor, a cruel glint flashing in his eyes.

“You’re accusing the Guild? That’s serious defamation.” Mendoza’s words came through gritted teeth. The air around them seemed to freeze, leaving only the sound of waves battering the rocks outside the window.

“I am stating facts.” Mateo did not yield an inch; the diary pages trembled slightly in his hand, as though alive. “Catalina’s translation of the Inca manuscript has already proven that whoever tore out the prayer did so to erase the dangerous zones my father marked. And the borrowing records show the tearing happened in the same hour as the Guild’s representative visited the archives.”

Those words struck like thunder. Mendoza’s smile froze at the corners of his mouth, and beneath his eyes formed a thin layer of icy chill. He realized the evidence in Mateo’s hands was far more lethal than he had expected—and it formed a closed loop, rendering any defense pale and futile.

“I will deal with this.” Mendoza tossed the words coldly, turned, and left, his footsteps heavy and hurried, as though fleeing a storm.

The study fell quiet again, only the howl of the sea still raging outside. Mateo collapsed into his chair, fine sweat beading on his forehead, trickling down his cheeks and soaking into his collar. He checked the diary once more, his gaze falling on the final page. There were no charts there—only a single bold, vigorous line pointing to an object that had never appeared among the family’s belongings.

“Tacna’s broken compass.” Mateo murmured, his fingertip resting on those words as a vast confusion rose within him. The house held no such thing. Where had his father hidden it?

Mateo closed his eyes. In his mind surfaced the image of his father struggling on his deathbed, and the repeated delirious murmurs. He opened his eyes abruptly and stared out at the dense, impenetrable fog over the sea. The broken compass was not merely a missing physical object—it was the final piece needed to solve the whole conspiracy. Since it wasn’t in the house, it had to be somewhere out there, clutched in the hands of someone who knew.

Rodrigo’s figure flickered past at the end of the corridor. The brilliant cartographer’s eyes were unreadable—holding both a hunger for the truth and envy at Mateo’s grip on the core secret. Mercedes appeared holding a wooden box, her eyes filled with deep affection and the worry that followed, and then she vanished.

Mateo stood, grabbed the map fragment and the diary, pushed open the door, and stepped into the cold sea wind. He knew the real chase had just begun, and the enemy had long since cast a net across the port. Before the Guild fully sealed the shipping routes, he had to find that broken compass and piece together the scattered fragments of truth. The night was as dark as ink, city lights flickering in the distance like countless prying eyes. He clenched his fist, feeling the lines in his palm, where his father’s final warmth and conviction seemed to remain.