Deep Sea Embers

Chapter 707: The Rough Cast

The fleet moved forward at a sluggish pace, enveloped by a thick, persistent fog. In this dense haze, the dim outlines of the ships faintly gazed upon one another, resembling a congregation of colossal spectral entities surging gently in an expansive sea of fog.

Inside the Eternal Veil, the potency of the fog intensified significantly compared to the area outside this mystical barrier. As the fleet ventured further into its depths, the enveloping mist grew increasingly stubborn, refusing to clear. Despite the fierce blaze of the fire beacon casting its glow over the entire fleet, slender tendrils of fog relentlessly crept in from the sea’s boundaries, wrapping around each vessel and slithering across their decks. This pervasive mist even began to infiltrate the cabins, meandering amongst the sailors.

Commander Sandra of the Tide, a figure of commanding presence, stood at the helm within the bridge. His skin was a rich shade of bronze, and he towered over others with his height. His striking platinum blonde hair contrasted sharply with the storm tattoo that marked his left cheek, a symbol of his ascetic past. Having completed his rigorous spiritual vows, he was elevated, blessed, and emerged as a revered commander on the frontier. Despite his distinguished status, his brow was knotted with concern as he observed the creeping mist with a grave demeanor.

“How far have we progressed?” Sandra inquired abruptly, turning to address a nearby technical priest.

The priest, an elderly man with silver hair and clad in a robe decorated with symbols of thunder and gears, responded promptly, “We are approaching the six-mile mark—just one more mile remains.” He continued, “Our progress is slow, but we are nearly at the ‘limit’.”

Sandra’s expression darkened further. Six miles… The fire beacon hadn’t yet ceased, continuing to guide the fleet deeper into the thickening fog. This suggested that the mythical “Holy Land” they sought was still further into the abyss. However, if they persisted, they would soon cross a certain “forbidden” threshold.

Beyond the six-mile point lies the “absolute limit” of the known and civilized world. Crossing it meant leaving behind the last traces of order in the Boundless Sea, a boundary respected even by saints and popes.

The Grand Storm Cathedral had mandated the Tide to fully cooperate with the Vanished’s endeavors in this region, but this mandate explicitly excluded crossing the “six-mile boundary.”

Yet, the expected heretics had not made their appearance, a fact that defied all reason.

In such a confined “safe sea” at the frontier, concealing such a vast fleet would be an arduous task, especially with the towering flame beacon piercing the fog. If the cultists were in proximity, they would undoubtedly have noticed the imposing presence of this allied fleet by now. Whether they chose a direct confrontation or a stealthy ambush, the seas shouldn’t be this eerily “silent.” It was almost as if… the heretics were non-existent in this realm.

A sudden, daring hypothesis flashed through Commander Sandra’s mind, prompting a moment of deep contemplation.

“These heretics should have been aware that their cover was blown long before now—especially after their vessel of dark rites, the ‘Sacrificial Vessel,’ fell into the hands of Captain Duncan. They’ve had ample time to flee this area. But the real question is…”

Would a congregation of fervent heretics truly forsake their so-called ‘Holy Land’ merely out of fear?

While it’s plausible that some might desert, Sandra’s extensive experience with cultists led him to believe that the more zealous followers would likely remain. These individuals, their minds steeped in blasphemous dogma, would typically resort to any manner of vile and horrifying tactics, wielding unspeakable powers to wage a bitter, death-defying battle against the churches. Those completely indoctrinated are often all too willing to lay down their lives for their distorted ‘beliefs.’

Suddenly, a series of faint, indistinct noises, akin to muffled ringing, reached Sandra’s ears. Concurrently, he noticed the periphery of his vision begin to quiver slightly.

With a slight frown, Sandra looked down at the railing before him, where he observed shimmering hues forming beneath it. Within these iridescent streaks, droplets resembling oily liquid started to condense, then drip slowly onto the deck below.

Such sights were typical hallucinations and deceptions encountered in these frontier seas—yet considering the current depth the fleet had reached, these mild distortions were surprisingly tame.

This relative mildness was likely attributable to the protective influence of the massive flame beacon.

“Have the shipboard chapels light the incense and ring the prayer bells, boost the steam pipelines,” Sandra commanded, his gaze drifting towards the greenish flame lighthouse piercing the fog ahead. “And ensure the other ships are vigilant in monitoring the mental state of their crew.”

…

Elsewhere, Commander Polekhine of the Resolved observed her right hand, enveloped in a long black glove. She clenched it into a fist, then slowly unfurled it. The several indistinct eyeballs that had eerily manifested in her palm had vanished without a trace.

The priestess, her dark golden curls framing her face, lifted her gaze, murmuring softly, “The world before us is growing ever more surreal…”

“For the time being, our minds are clear; mild hallucinations and illusions can still be discerned and overcome by reason,” a junior priest standing beside Polekhine reassured. “The Tide has just reported experiencing similar illusions, but the ‘contamination’ there is still relatively minor.”

“Illusions that blatantly defy reality aren’t the most terrifying,” Polekhine mused, shaking her head. “What truly instills fear are those that blend seamlessly with our perceived normalcy, those that feel utterly commonplace.”

“We’ve ventured deep into the veil, nearing the furthest point any have reached before,” the junior priest commented cautiously. “Previously, the Storm Church could only penetrate six miles into the veil by establishing a network of mobile lighthouses and temporary chapels…”

Polekhine remained silent, her gaze fixed through the bridge’s porthole, out towards the distant, murky mist. There, a towering green flame cast its eerie luminescence across the sea, its image slightly enlarged in her view.

After a brief pause, she softly broke the silence, whispering, “We should slow our advance…”

…

Under Duncan’s leadership, the brightly illuminated “Guide Ship,” akin to a colossal beacon, began to decelerate and edged closer to the vessel known as the Vanished.

In response, the allied fleet following this guiding light promptly adjusted their course, reforming their ranks into a tighter squadron.

From her vantage point on the elevated platform at the ship’s stern, Vanna observed the regrouping ships on the ocean.

In truth, forming such a condensed formation in these treacherous and potentially enemy-infested waters would typically be considered a tactical blunder, likely to draw criticism from seasoned naval strategists. However, traditional strategies often fall by the wayside in the unpredictable and perilous expanse of this frontier sea.

While the threat of distant cannon fire loomed, the more immediate and substantial peril was becoming disoriented and lost in the thick fog. Even more ominous were the tales of ships that disappeared into the mist only to return in a twisted, unrecognizable form.

Yet, despite their tense and cautious progression, the allied fleet hadn’t encountered any form of aggressive welcome—no cannon fire, only an unending escort of dense fog.

“Where have those heretics disappeared to?” Vanna muttered with a furrowed brow.

Behind her, footsteps approached, and soon Duncan’s voice entered the conversation. “How likely do you think it is that they’ve all fled? If escape was their intent, they’ve had ample opportunity in recent days.”

“I doubt those zealots would relinquish their sacred site so readily—not even for you. There’s bound to be a faction among them, extremists, ready to defend or perish with their shrine,” Vanna responded, shaking her head. “Their beliefs and deeds may be heinous and deranged, but their ‘commitment’ cannot be underestimated.”

Duncan moved to the deck’s edge, his gaze sweeping over the serene sea of the frontier. “According to the ‘Guide Ship,’ we’re nearing their so-called holy land now. Its instinct to ‘return home’ suggests it’s somewhere in this vicinity,” he remarked thoughtfully. “What I’m wondering is how those Annihilators discovered and settled in this supposed ‘Holy Land.’ There’s nothing but calm waters here… Could their blind faith have led them to some form of ‘divine guidance’?”

As Duncan concluded, Vanna opened her mouth to reply, but before she could utter a word, a soft, rhythmic thudding from the ship’s hull interrupted their dialogue.

The sound, like something drifting and bumping against the Vanished’s side, prompted Duncan and Vanna to exchange a quick, knowing look. They hastened towards the noise’s origin, peering down over the side.

There, on the placid, oil-slick surface of the frontier sea, lay a pitch-black, humanoid shape. The waters were unnaturally still and waveless, yet this mysterious object seemed to be nudged by unseen currents, bobbing against the wooden hull with each ripple. As Duncan and Vanna watched, its silhouette became eerily defined—it was unmistakably human-shaped!

Upon spotting the object, Duncan’s gaze intensified, a hint of recognition flashing across his features. With a swift, decisive motion, he signaled upwards. A burst of greenish flame flickered briefly, and a skeletal giant bird, ablaze with an eerie fire, descended from its perch on a nearby mast. It swooped gracefully over the sea’s surface, and in a near-instantaneous movement, it returned to the deck, clutching the mysterious object in its talons.

In no time, the crew of the Vanished congregated around the spectacle.

Lying motionless before them was the “humanoid” retrieved by the bird. It was a pitch-black figure, approximately 1.8 meters in height, possessing only the most basic silhouette of a human form. There were no distinct facial features, no semblance of hair, nor the intricate details that would distinguish hands or feet. It appeared as a crude, unrefined sculpture, reminiscent of an unfinished clay model hastily shaped by an artist.

All eyes turned to Duncan, who gave a slow nod of recognition after a moment of close scrutiny of the blackened figure.

He spoke with a certain grim understanding, “Indeed, this is one of the copies from the depths of Frost’s waters. It’s a ‘mortal’ in an incomplete state, a creation in the process of being shaped by the Nether Lord.”

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