Deep Sea Embers

Noticing the captain’s unusually solemn expression, Aiden jumped down from the stage: “Captain, what happened?”

“An invitation I cannot refuse,” Tyrian glanced around and sighed, “Tomorrow or the day after, I may have to leave here for a while.”

Aiden’s eyes widened, “A message was sent to the island? Just now? And… how could there be an invitation you can’t refuse in this Cold Sea?”

Tyrian sighed again, “…It’s my father.”

Aiden blinked, hesitated for a moment, “…How long will you be gone, approximately?”

“I should be back soon, in a day or two,” Tyrian didn’t mind the subtle change in Aiden’s tone. His mind was filled with complicated thoughts, and he didn’t have the energy to say anything else, “A messenger will come to the port to take me to the Vanished. Keep this matter quiet for now. In my ‘absence,’ you will be in charge of everything.”

Aiden immediately bowed his head in compliance, “Yes, Captain.”

Then, the first mate paused for two seconds, seemingly hesitant, before he couldn’t help but look around and approach Tyrian, whispering, “Is he… nearby?”

Tyrian thought for a moment, then patted Aiden on the shoulder, “The Vanished is hidden in the mist around us.”

Visibly, Aiden’s muscles tensed up.

“…Captain, after not breathing for so many years, I finally know what ‘cold’ means again today,” First Mate Aiden’s voice became noticeably cautious, “Are you sure the old captain… just wants to meet with you?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t want to know, but my instinct tells me that this journey should be safe,” Tyrian said softly, then looked back at the square where the sailors were still unwilling to disperse and planning to party until sunrise, before turning back to the first mate, “But the other sailors may not think so. You know what I mean.”

Hearing the captain’s solemn words, Aiden slowly nodded.

He knew what his captain was concerned about.

The Sea Mist Fleet was vast, and apart from a few ordinary people who were bought or hired by contract as peripheral members, most of the fleet’s members were “undead” like himself. Strictly speaking, these undead sailors could be divided into two groups.

A large portion of them were former Frost Navy members, who had once been loyal to the Frost Queen. They were ordinary people who, after the Frostbite Rebellion, gradually transformed into their current state as they remained devoted to the cause.

In the endless battles over half a century, in the constant skirmishes with the rebels, death and the curse of the Sea Mist itself turned them bit by bit into the “undead sailors” they are today, becoming part of the Sea Mist Fleet.

The other small group of sailors were the true “original backbone” of “Iron Admiral” Tyrian’s forces: they were former members of the Vanished Fleet.

Duncan Abnomar was their “old captain.” They had witnessed the transformation and fall of the Vanished, experienced the storms of the past century, and had once followed Tyrian in loyalty to Frost. These sailors loyal for a century were known as “the first phase,” while those loyal for half a century were called “the second phase.”

Aiden himself, as well as the half-witted old priest with a sunken head, were members of the “first phase.”

A century of experience allowed Aiden to see many things hidden beneath the surface.

The Vanished and “Captain Duncan” held different meanings for the two groups of sailors, and the same news would evoke complex and uncontrollable reactions from them.

And now, even Captain Tyrian couldn’t be sure of the true state of the Vanished and the “old captain,” let alone whether this state was genuinely stable for an extended period.

So until the situation was clear and controllable, news of the captain’s visit to the Vanished could not be released. Otherwise, the island would undoubtedly be plunged into chaos.

Just then, Tyrian’s voice came again, interrupting Aiden’s thoughts, “…Tomorrow morning, send the dancers back to Cold Harbor.”

“Send them back tomorrow?” Aiden didn’t know why the captain suddenly mentioned this, “Are you dissatisfied with them?”

“The Vanished is nearby, and it’s best not to let ordinary people near the island for now,” Tyrian shook his head, making up an excuse, after all, the “shock of seeing my father” was too embarrassing to mention. He paused, then added, “But you did remind me of something. Sending them back directly might cause that harsh ‘Curved Blade Martin’ to chastise the girls… I’ll write a letter later, and you’ll give it to the head of the dancers.”

Aiden immediately bowed, “Yes, Captain.”

“Um,” Tyrian nodded and then seemed to remember something, “By the way, when I came earlier, I saw a dancer stop and say something to you. Based on your bewildered expression… What did she say to you?”

Aiden was somewhat embarrassed for a moment, “She said my head shape is very sexy…”

Tyrian blandly eyed the first mate’s shiny bald head.

“…Cold Harbor’s dancers are indeed passionate and unrestrained—passionate in personality and bold in aesthetics.”

…

Darkness, loneliness, coldness, silence.

An endless barren wasteland stretched out in the darkness, with no plants or animals in the wasteland, only jagged rocks and bizarre ruins that had been weathered and decayed for countless years. They stood in eternal silence in a desolate atmosphere, with strange phantom lights occasionally flashing across the sky, sometimes illuminating the wasteland and sometimes casting mottled, twisted shadows on the ground.

A hollow shadow was trekking through the wasteland.

He didn’t know how long he had been trekking, nor did he remember his name when he set out. He only remembered that he seemed to have embarked a very long time ago, and the faint impressions left behind told him that he should have reached his destination by now, and should have been resting in some peaceful place.

What caused the delay in his journey and compelled him to persist in traversing this desolate land?

The obscure, empty specter contemplated, but soon his sporadic thoughts were consumed by a larger void, leaving him to instinctively progress onward.

Unexpectedly, he faltered.

Had he tripped on something or bumped into an unseen obstacle?

The empty specter glanced down at himself and observed that colors began to emerge on his indistinct form.

He lifted his gaze and pressed forward.

As more colors materialized on him, his previously vaporous, wavering surface took on more solid details.

Clothing manifested on the human-like dark mist – a sailor’s attire.

Slowly, he acquired a face – that of a black-haired man in his middle years.

His strides grew firm and nimble, and the jagged stones beneath his feet appeared to have somehow leveled out.

An increasing number of memories surfaced from the depths of his being.

First came his name, followed by the moment of his death, his radiant youth, his hazy childhood recollections, and the scattered, warm glimpses from his infancy.

He journeyed toward the edge of the desolate land, and in the darkness, shadows of varying sizes materialized, silently fusing with him.

These appeared to be individual entities that had been ripped away and separated from him, now returning to their rightful places one by one.

Suddenly, the figure halted at the road’s end.

Cristo Babelli gazed up in astonishment, realizing he had unwittingly ventured onto a magnificent avenue bordered by ancient stone pillars on both sides. At the avenue’s conclusion, an enormous, regal door embellished with elaborate designs hovered in midair.

The door stood ajar, yet its interior remained obscured and undefined, concealing any details of what lay beyond.

A powerful urge arose from deep within his soul – to cross through that door and find solace on the other side.

The middle-aged man dressed in a captain’s uniform instinctively advanced. There was no one nearby, but it felt as though innumerable souls were treading the same path toward the imposing door – in the mortal realm, the deceased departed every second, yet before this solitary gate of life and death, the souls seemed incapable of seeing each other.

However, just as he was about to make contact with the door, Cristo came to a halt.

A towering figure materialized suddenly before the door, obstructing his way.

It was a guardian, draped in bandages, donning a somber, ornate robe, a hood, and wielding a lengthy staff.

The sentinel of this realm.

Cristo gazed at this nearly three-meter-tall “giant” with slight apprehension as memories from his mortal existence surged back, granting him the capacity to communicate with others, “Are you… the sovereign of death?”

“No,” the guardian replied, his raspy, deep voice emanating from beneath the bandages, “I am merely His emissary.”

Cristo’s voice carried a hint of sadness, “I am not deserving of passing through this gateway, am I?”

He remembered even more specifics, including the context of his own demise.

Nonetheless, the majestic guardian simply observed the soul at the entrance for a moment before stepping aside slightly, “Please enter, your debt has been settled.”

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