Deep Sea Embers

The constant, thunderous eruption of gunfire had brutally ripped apart the peaceful serenity that once blanketed Cemetery No.3. The fire that spewed forth from the barrel of each gun served as an impromptu, flickering illumination amidst the murkiness of the persistent fog. Each burst of flame exposed the grotesque figures that seemed to materialize continuously from within the mist, only to tumble lifelessly one by one in the wake of the sacred fire and the relentless hammering of the bullets. Their fallen bodies leaked an ominous, dark substance that smeared the path below.

Evidently, these entities were no longer the mere “restless corpses” they had once been. They had morphed into something far more wicked, unknown, and horrifying, and they needed to be eradicated on the spot.

The aim of the aged man was unerring. The grotesque figures appearing from the fog were akin to slow-moving reptiles in his eyes. Despite the thick fog obstructing his view, his shot found its mark every time, taking them down with a single bullet.

In truth, his proficiency with a short sword was even greater. But the old man understood that he must avoid, as much as possible, an early close-quarters battle with these monstrosities.

He was well advanced in years, and even the experience accrued over a lifetime as a soldier could not compensate for the physical toll of aging. The monsters seemed to come without end. Once trapped in hand-to-hand combat, he knew he couldn’t fend off the creatures on the other side of the path.

He had to be shrewd, conserving as much energy as possible while dispatching as many creatures as he could to buy precious time. He held on to the hope that the cathedral and the city-state authorities would soon act and reinforcements would arrive. Regardless of where the help came from, he was adamant that this city would not fall into the grip of this unnerving fog.

From a distance, the faint crackling of other gunshots could be discerned as well, signaling his peers from the other graveyards were also experiencing great difficulty from their end.

“Guardian Grandpa!” cried Annie, handing the reloaded rifle back to the old man. Her eyes, wide with nervous anticipation, darted towards the source of the distant gunshots. “Can you hear that? There are gunshots coming from elsewhere… Could it be that help is on the way?”

“No, those are the guardians from Cemetery No.4 and No.2,” the old man replied, raising the barrel of his gun. He took aim and fired, his shot splintering another grotesque skull that had just materialized from the fog. He continued speaking without turning to look at her, “But don’t worry, help is surely coming from the church.”

“I’m not afraid,” Annie tried to assert, her voice shaking slightly. The old cemetery guard took notice but chose not to dampen the bravery that the young girl was mustering with all her might. In his eyes, she had already proven herself courageous.

“Indeed, you are very brave,” he responded, putting on an air of calm despite the trembling of his weary arms. “Tell me, how did you learn to do this? Who taught you how to load bullets into the rifle and the shotgun?”

“My mother owns several guns. She keeps them mounted on the walls of our bedroom and living room,” Annie disclosed as she hurriedly loaded bullets into the double-barreled shotgun’s tubular magazine. “When my father failed to return home one year, my mother decided to arm herself. She said we needed to protect our home… Ow!”

Suddenly, the catch on the magazine sprung open, and the sharp edge of the metal sliced through the little girl’s finger, leaving behind a nasty cut and eliciting a surprised yelp from her.

But, the very next moment, she used another finger to push the spring back into place, presenting the loaded shotgun to the elderly man: “Here you go.”

The old guardian took note of the blood smeared on the gun and heard Annie’s cry of pain. However, he merely fell quiet for a brief moment before tossing another firearm towards her: “Load this…”

And so, the thunderous roar of gunfire filled the air once more.

The stooped figure of the elderly man, dressed in black, was akin to a gnarled tree standing tall amidst the dense fog. Conversations between him and Annie became increasingly sparse, replaced by the sound of ceaseless gunfire and the growing seriousness of their situation. Silently, he began to keep track of the number of monsters he had slain and the number of times Annie handed him a loaded firearm.

“The last box of bullets,” he murmured under his breath.

“Grandpa, it’s the last box of bullets!” Annie cried out almost simultaneously, echoing his sentiment.

“I know,” replied the old man without turning around. He swiftly took care of a grotesque creature that had nearly reached the front of the cabin, then gestured behind him. “Load the shotgun, place it along with the remaining bullets at my feet. Go under my bed. You will find a deep brown box. It contains spare ammunition.”

“Okay! Deep brown box, spare ammo!” Annie repeated his instructions rapidly. She then pushed the gun and the bullets outside the door before turning to rush into the house.

Quietly, the old man looked down at the shotgun and the bullets at his feet. He slowly rotated his body, reached out to gently close the door, and pulled a short sword from within his cloak. He thrust the sword forcefully through the door latch from the outside.

Almost instantly, he could hear frantic footsteps within the cabin, followed by a series of urgent knocks on the door and the girl’s desperate cries.

“This will be the last time I deceive you…” the old man whispered to himself.

The elderly man swiftly dispatched the closest mutated creatures with a single gunshot, then deftly spun around. With the support of the door frame, he launched his hunched body into the air. Mid-leap, his free left hand reached into a hidden compartment above the door frame and retrieved a black cane. Before he could fully touch the ground again, he swung the cane at another emerging monster, shattering its skull, and landed smoothly on the ground.

His eyes scanned the surrounding dense fog as he swung his cane in a wide arc, shaking off the monster’s blood that had tainted his weapon. With a forceful stab into the ground, a metallic click sounded from the cane as it activated the hidden blades on both ends.

As the blades emerged, the old guardian was flooded with memories of brave battle cries and courageous roars from his past. These heroic echoes drowned out the ghastly noises emanating from the cemetery.

With determined eyes, he stole a final glance at the house behind him and the compartment intended to be his weapon’s final resting place. Like many retired soldiers, he had chosen to position his lifelong weapon above the last door he was destined to guard in his retirement. He never anticipated he would once again fight alongside this venerable companion in such dire circumstances.

“We stand guard at a door… We are the guardians of Bartok…” His back still stooped, the old man stood amidst the chilly, dim fog. He slowly turned around, his eyes fixated on the grotesque figures emerging from the fog, and he recited the ancient oath passed down from the generations of guardians before him, “We vow to guard the border of life and death, so the dead may rest and the living may know peace…”

His words seemed to agitate the monstrosities in the fog. Countless figures began to cross the path, hurtling towards the still-standing hut.

Their advance was met with the old man’s relentless gunfire and the symphony of his twin-bladed cane slicing through the air.

“If you refuse to rest, then I will usher you to it!”

Sounds of slashing and roaring intertwined with the echoing gunfire from rifles and shotguns, each reverberation shaking the cemetery as the guardian waged his final battle.

Inside the guardian’s cabin, a small figure – Annie – huddled against the door, her hands cupping her head as she listened to the chaos outside. Her quiet sobs gradually escalated into heart-wrenching wails, punctuating the cadence of the resounding gunfire.

At twelve years old, she was again deceived by the man she trusted – her Grandpa Caretaker.

…

Meanwhile, in the frosty waters of Frost, the heavy fog was not limited to the airspace of the city-state alone. By noon, it had seeped across the near-sea border and enveloped the patrol range of the Mist Fleet.

The fog was so dense and sinister that even the Mist Fleet, with its supernatural aura, was compelled to maintain a high level of vigilance.

Aboard the Sea Mist, Captain Tyrian stood before a vast porthole, his eyebrows knitted together as he gazed at the wall of fog that seemed to cage them in on the open sea. His first mate, Aiden, approached him from behind, providing a somber situation report, “As of the current moment, our communication with Cold Harbor, Ice Bay, and Pirate Island has been heavily disrupted. There’s been no response on any frequency. We’re barely maintaining sporadic contact with Frost’s navy and port area. The fog has extended to at least a hundred nautical miles beyond Frost…

“Furthermore,” Aiden continued, “according to the report from our scout ship sent to the fog’s edge, the fog has ceased spreading, and its density hasn’t increased any further. However, all attempts to navigate out of the fog have proven futile – every ship that has tried to exit the fog-ridden area has merely ended up circling in place, unwittingly returning to the fog’s murky depths.”

“What about the observatory?”

“We still can’t determine the correct star positions,” First Mate Aiden replied with grave concern. “It’s as if a foggy lens has suddenly been placed between the spirit world and the deep sea, causing all observed stars to appear as double images. Moreover, the mental strain induced by stargazing has intensified dramatically. It’s now impossible to observe for extended periods.”

“Seems like the blockade is complete. Frost and its surrounding waters have been cut off from the ‘normal world’ outside,” Tyrian stated impassively, his single eye mirroring an unwavering calm. “We shouldn’t waste energy trying to break free.”

“Blockade… Who could’ve imposed this blockade?”

“Think, Aiden, do you really need to ask?” Tyrian turned to look at his first mate, “Aren’t the cultists, those fanatics worshipping the Lord of the Deep Sea, responsible for the recent chaos?”

“I know,” Aiden replied, his eyes wide and a look of disbelief etched on his face. “But can a mere group of cultists really stir up such an enormous upheaval?”

“A mob of fanatics might not possess such power, but the ‘Lord’ they serve is a different story,” Tyrian responded, his hand gripping the railing in front of him as he spoke in a low voice, “The Lord of the Spiritual Deep Sea… manipulating space-time, disrupting the stars… could this be the influence of an ancient god…”

At these words, Aiden swallowed nervously.

“So… are we truly facing off against the might of an ancient god this time?” Aiden queried.

“Does it frighten you?”

“A little,” Aiden confessed, managing to crack an awkward smile despite his apprehension. “But there isn’t much of a choice. That’s just the way the world works. Actually, when I reflect on it, it doesn’t seem all that daunting. We all had to toughen up and confront the old captain in the past, and at least now he’s on our side.”

“Alright, enough,” Tyrian breathed a light sigh, making a dismissive gesture towards his first mate, “After our lengthy absence from Frost, it seems we may be stirring up significant commotion in these waters once again.”

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