Deep Sea Embers

The scene was both terrifying and bizarre: ordinary cotton suddenly ignited. The intense and swift fire burned the mysterious spores floating around, reducing them to ashes. As quickly as it appeared, the fire extinguished, leaving behind a sense of awe and the smell of burnt cotton. In the grand hall, the cultists, who had been anxiously observing, finally allowed themselves a slight relief.

This unusual event, coupled with the presence of the potentially infectious spores, set off alarms among all present. It was clear that the spores were not only unusual but also highly dangerous.

However, while the lower-ranking cult members began to relax, a tense and oppressive air lingered, emanating from the elevated platform. The Saint, a commanding presence, tapped his skeletal “crown” in a rhythmic manner. His eyestalks roved restlessly, scanning the hall. He recognized that a greater threat—a dark cloud hanging over their ship—still loomed. The incident they had just witnessed was merely a minor indication of a more significant issue that had deeply infiltrated their ranks, and he was troubled by his slow response.

“Don’t become complacent,” the Saint warned, his voice resonating with everyone present. “The unwelcome intruder is already among us. From this moment, consider our ship besieged by heresy. Lentium, take your men, search every corner for the intruder. Execute anyone who resists or acts suspiciously immediately.

“Gomoro, lead your team to the engine room. Secure the steam core and the control valves. Our uninvited guest might try to take control of the ship’s central systems… and don’t forget the nitroglycerin.”

“Persha, you and your followers must go to the armory. Arm everyone, even the ordinary sailors. Everyone must be ready for battle.”

“Basmorton, you and your team are in charge of the deck guns. We must also be prepared for an attack from the sea.”

The Saint’s orders, issued in a sharp, decisive tone, instantly reinstated a sense of urgency among the Annihilators. They had just begun to relax, but now they were back into action, fully aware of the grave situation. The high priests, clearly understanding their duties, quickly mobilized their subordinates and left the hall to carry out their tasks.

With many having departed to execute their tasks, the hall was less crowded, but several high-ranking priests stayed behind, vigilant and guarding the platform where the Saint stood.

After a moment of silent contemplation, the Saint turned his gaze to Erik, a high-ranking priest nearby. “Erik, take your men and execute all the captives in the cages.”

Erik, usually unwavering in his duties, paused briefly. “Now?”

“Their blood is necessary to enhance my powers. The adversary we face is supernatural. This is no time to conserve resources,” the Saint replied indifferently as if ordering a routine task. “We can always capture more later. For now, execute those we have on board. Let their blood soak the ancient stones of their cells. I need to gather strength for the final battle.”

“Yes, Your Holiness,” Erik responded solemnly. He quickly assembled his followers and left the hall, moving briskly through the ship’s labyrinthine corridors. They passed numerous sealed doors and intersecting stairways, heading towards the more secluded, quieter cabins deep within the vessel.

A strange, cool mist inexplicably filled the ship’s interior, lending the corridors a dreamlike, slightly distorted appearance.

Breaking the silence, one of Erik’s followers voiced his concern, “High Priest, this mist… it’s unnatural…”

Erik, looking worried, agreed. “Indeed, it’s odd. Under normal circumstances, why would there be such a dense fog indoors?” He carefully surveyed his surroundings. Behind him, surreal apparitions floated eerily, and dark chains trailed from his spine. Attached to these chains was a formless, black entity, its numerous eyes alertly scanning the area for any signs of movement. “Everything’s too quiet here.”

The corridor was eerily silent, the usual noises from adjacent rooms missing, replaced only by the distant, otherworldly hum of the ship’s machinery.

Erik pondered the others who had been sent on various tasks. Shouldn’t the ship be buzzing with the activity of a thorough search?

As he considered, a wisp of smoke drifted from ahead, carrying a distinctive smell that caught Erik’s attention. He inhaled sharply, recognizing the unmistakable scent of gunpowder.

Suddenly, soft, muffled sounds echoed, followed by a series of crisp commands slicing through the smoky haze:

“Positions! Line up, load, aim—”

These orders sounded like those given by a military commander to his troops.

Surprised, Erik turned toward the noise. Using the enhanced perception granted by his symbiotic demon, he quickly located the source—a group of small, crudely fashioned wooden toy soldiers at the end of the corridor.

These toy soldiers, each only as tall as a hand’s breadth, were dressed in colorful uniforms reminiscent of historical musketeers and artillerymen. They bustled about, some raising miniature flags or blowing tiny horns from elevated positions. A toy soldier, standing on a wooden block at the front and wielding a baton, directed the others.

The miniature musketeers busily loaded their matchstick-like “rifles” with what seemed to be real ammunition.

Erik’s fellow Annihilation priests also noticed the toy soldiers, poised for an “assault” in an almost earnest manner. Initially, the sight was so absurd that shock and inadvertent amusement crossed their faces.

However, the amusement was fleeting, lasting barely a moment. The next instant, the group was on high alert. Anything unusual in this mysterious and dangerous sea was a potential threat, even a seemingly harmless group of toy soldiers.

A sudden flash of recognition struck Erik as he remembered a legend about such toy soldiers. His response was swift and urgent: “Get down!”

But his warning came just a bit too late. From within the smoky veil, the toy commander’s voice commanded: “Fire!”

Immediately, a series of sharp “Bang, bang, bang!” sounds erupted from the tiny battalion.

The once-quiet corridor became a scene of chaos as the toy soldiers opened fire, their miniature guns releasing a surprising barrage. Flashes of fire cut through the mist, and bullets flew with lethal precision. The Annihilators, caught off guard and unable to summon their symbiotic demons in time, were quickly overwhelmed by the unexpected attack. Bullets struck their ranks, and one by one, they fell to the cold ship’s floor.

Long ago, a bold city-state defied a powerful sea witch, determined to end the curse she had cast over the Boundless Sea. A confident commander, leading his battle-hardened marines, attacked the witch’s refuge under the cover of night.

As a thick fog rolled in with the darkness, the marines vanished into it, shrouded by its dense embrace. By dawn, the witch had exacted her revenge, transforming the entire battalion into 166 toy soldiers. These soldiers, now bound to the witch’s will, were condemned to exist in her shadow, released only to unleash their formidable power at her command, as if they were still a living, breathing army…

As Erik lay wounded, the reality of his dire situation sinking in, his thoughts returned to these legends. His body rapidly losing blood, the pain giving way to a chilling numbness. From his position on the ground, he noticed something he had inexplicably overlooked before.

The corridor walls were adorned with oil paintings depicting various forms of the Nether Lord, demons, and deep-sea scenes. However, these paintings had changed: they now showed the sorrowful, pained faces of people who appeared to have been blinking just moments ago.

There had been no communication from those sent to other parts of the ship. A dark cloud seemed to have settled over the vessel, growing thicker and showing no sign of clearing.

Back in the central platform of the assembly hall, the Saint was lost in thought. Beneath his calm exterior, a storm of anger and despair was brewing. He was beginning to realize that his decisions might have been misguided, perhaps even worsening the shadow’s spread instead of containing it. He felt his connection to various parts of the ship slipping away one by one.

A palpable tension and unease began to fill the hall as the remaining ordinary priests sensed something amiss. Those who had departed earlier to carry out tasks had not returned, and no news had reached them. Internal communication lines failed one after another. Even attempts to use the shadow demons to sense or contact their brethren elsewhere on the ship were futile. They lost contact with the cargo and water storages, then the sailors’ quarters, and now even the nearby corridors seemed out of reach…

The ship’s atmosphere had taken an ominous turn, with each compartment seemingly disappearing into an ever-expanding shroud of darkness. The assembly hall appeared to be the last area not yet consumed by this invisible, encroaching entity. An unseen, malevolent force seemed to be methodically engulfing the ship.

Amidst this growing tension, a profound sense of dread began to grip everyone in the hall, emanating from some unseen source, as if a wave of palpable fear had swept over them.

At that moment, a subtle disturbance was detected in the corridor outside. The cultist stationed nearest to the main door heard faint, unsettling crackling sounds echoing from the passageway. With a mix of hesitation and bravery, he decided to investigate, cautiously peering outside the door.

Another cultist, noticing his comrade’s daring move, rushed over in an attempt to prevent what seemed like a reckless decision. But his intervention came too late.

The cultist who had looked into the corridor suddenly became rigid, his body trembling briefly before he stepped back into the hall with an unnatural, mechanical motion, as if he were a puppet on strings. After a brief, eerie pause, he collapsed backward onto the floor.

To the horror of the onlookers, his limbs shattered as if made of brittle porcelain, his body having inexplicably transformed into lifeless, inorganic material. His head, now resembling a crudely crafted doll’s head, detached from the neck and rolled across the floor, stopping at the feet of the terrified cultists.

Panic ensued, with screams piercing the air. Swords were unsheathed, and firearms loaded in a frenzy of fear and confusion. The cultists hastily summoned their shadow demons, preparing for an imminent confrontation amidst this terrifying chaos. The sound of footsteps in the corridor grew louder, approaching the door of the hall.

The first to enter was a striking lady with silver hair dressed in an opulent deep purple court gown. She possessed a surreal, doll-like beauty, moving with ethereal grace. She entered the assembly hall boldly, unfazed by the Annihilators, shadow demons, and the weapons aimed at her. Her deep purple eyes, curious and bright, seemed to mirror unseen, delicate threads.

Following her was an exceptionally tall figure, whose presence felt like a nightmare intruding into reality. His mere presence seemed to erode the sanity and composure of more than half of the Annihilators in the room.

After his entry, Duncan couldn’t help but raise his head, his gaze drawn to the Saint on the high platform. The hall was now faintly illuminated by spreading, eerie green flames, casting a ghostly light on the unfolding scene.

“You and your ship are of use to me,” the tall figure declared, his voice resonating with a chilling certainty that reverberated through the hearts of everyone present.