Don't Count the Days

I am a water temperature person. I stayed in the floating city on the sea for five years and wrote four annual reports that no one read. The most intense sentence was "it is recommended to maintain observation." Something woke up under the sea that night. A city was lost along with the eleven people on the cabin floor, and the first thing the company locked was the door leading to the survivors. In their file, the column under my name contains four words: Observation Object. I was chased all the way to the snow-capped mountains and fell into the heart of the mountain. At the bottom of a well where I was drowned to death, I saw a jade cong that no one was allowed to touch, and a singing crystal. It has been singing for thousands of years, calling the remaining eleven. I started to get stronger. Run faster than a well-trained person, hear the water in the rocks, and raise your body temperature. Here's the price: every time an ability becomes effortless, that part of it is no longer up to me. I carved eleven names on the cliff, and also carved the first date. Someone carved three thousand six hundred and eighty-five lines before me, and then stopped. He only had four words for the next person.