Deep Sea Embers

Chapter 755: Crossing the Border

This event was akin to witnessing a magnificent burst of light, almost as if one-fourth of what could be described as a magical circle of solar energy had suddenly fragmented in the heavens. This fragmentation then transformed into about a dozen radiant, larger formations. In the moments following this initial breakup, these formations seemed to continue their ascent and movement across the sky, mirroring the expected path of Vision 001. It appeared as though each of these luminous entities retained some form of residual energy and directionality. However, this semblance of control was fleeting.

Soon after, these radiant formations began to deteriorate, breaking into both large and small shards of light that scattered across the sky. This spectacle resembled a fleet being torn asunder by a tempest, leaving behind bright trails that slowly dissipated. Among the chaos, numerous smaller light particles detached from the larger masses. These smaller fragments, akin to fireflies in their inconspicuousness compared to the larger pieces, descended from the heavens in a dance of flickers and a cascade of minor explosions.

From the clouds, light poured forth, spanning from the eastern frontier to the western isles, casting the night into a surreal glow of potent, otherworldly golden light.

The descent of the larger fragments was marked by a gradual pace, continuously releasing glowing debris as they traversed the world. Their paths were predominantly directed towards the southwestern seas, although a handful of smaller pieces ventured towards the central and northern territories.

Eighteen hours into what was considered “nightfall,” the Boundless Sea was momentarily bathed in light, reminiscent of a significant solar disintegration. The relatively low altitude at which these objects descended meant that even a fraction of the magical solar circle was sufficient to illuminate the night sky. What might have been seen as a harbinger of doom—a “meteor shower”—instead bestowed upon the world a fleeting period of “daylight” lasting nearly an hour. During this transient day, an eerie silence enveloped the world.

Duncan found himself observing this vision from the second-floor window of an antique shop. He had opened a slender window at the corridor’s end, inviting the outside breeze and sounds into the building. The surrounding neighborhood lay in quietude as if the usual city noises of carriages and pedestrians had vanished into thin air. Yet, the reality was different.

Individuals of all ages—men, women, the elderly, and children—either stepped out of their homes or peered through their windows, captivated by the celestial spectacle. On the streets, groups formed, comprising quickly mobilized sheriffs and guardian squads.

It was as though an unseen force had seized everyone by the neck, holding them in a uniform stance, their gazes locked skyward, mesmerized by the cascading light.

Amidst this silence, the only audible sounds were the roar and whistle of the glowing entities as they streaked through the clouds, accompanied by the distant tolling of church bells.

After an indeterminate span of time, the brilliance in the sky began to wane—the final glowing entities made their way past the zenith amidst the clouds. For a moment, they lingered aloft as if striving to fulfill their destined role to cast light upon the world, yet ultimately, they too succumbed to a loss of energy. Like their predecessors, they descended towards the ocean, their once resplendent trails dimming into obscurity.

Darkness reclaimed its hold, enveloping Pland once more.

The entire world was plunged back into shadow.

A whistle pierced the quiet of the neighborhood, startling the gathered crowds out of their reverie. Stirred by the sound, people began to disperse in an organized manner, heading back to their homes.

Before Duncan closed the window, other sounds reached him—children’s voices filled with confusion and curiosity, questioning their parents about the night’s events, wondering why their routines were disrupted, why they could no longer meet with friends. Murmurs of frustration, sighs of resignation, and the soft sounds of weeping filled the air.

The last noises to drift in from outside were the foghorns from the dock’s direction and the ringing of church bells, signaling that warships had received orders and were making ready to depart.

Frem redirected his attention from the window back to his task, his hands moving with deliberate precision as he etched the final symbols into a ritual stone tablet.

Bathed in the light, the figure of this Pope of the Flame Bearers stood in stark relief, a silhouette poised between illumination and shadow. His face, reminiscent of carved stone, betrayed no hint of emotion, his entire focus seemingly absorbed by the “record stone tablet” he manipulated.

Inside the temple, the fire blazed intensely. A priest garbed in black stood nearby, delivering an update to the pope: “…The patrol fleet stationed in the southwestern seas has observed the trajectory of several primary luminous fragments and has dispatched high-speed vessels to investigate…

“Currently, there have been no reports of these objects making landfall near any city-states. It appears that the remnants of the sun have all plummeted into the ocean… Likewise, there are no accounts of sea vessels encountering these descending fragments.”

“The World’s Creation has once again become visible in the heavens… Over the last eighteen hours, three city-states have reported a marked rise in incidents of supernatural corrosion within their confines… For the moment, they do not seek additional support, though they request that the nearest fleet draw closer…”

“A shadow demon assault occurred in the Port of Mosalara. It remains uncertain whether this attack stems from the recent event or if it signifies an opportunistic strike by the remaining Annihilators amid the turmoil…”

As Frem attentively absorbed the series of updates from the priest, he gave a small nod of acknowledgment before handing over the newly finished, grey-white stone tablet: “I’ve documented everything—ensure this gets to our archives.”

The priest clad in black robes accepted the stone tablet, its surface etched with meticulous carvings that chronicled the dates and observations of the sun fragments’ descent.

The act stirred a memory of a doctrine from their holy texts within him—even at the brink of the world’s end, it is imperative to meticulously document until the final moment. The last whisper of civilization should be captured by the historian’s pen.

With the record stone tablet in hand, the priest departed, leaving Frem standing alone for company, with only the sound of the fire crackling in the basin.

Time passed unmarked until Frem seemed to perceive something unseen and turned towards the fire basin: “Helena, how fares your recovery?”

“My mental state could perhaps be likened to that of the living, yet far from truly ‘recovered’,” came Helena’s voice from the flames, her tone wavering slightly, revealing her unrest to Frem, “Clearly, resting idly is not an option at this stage.”

Frem responded, informed by a prior conversation: “I’ve been briefed by Lune. The news is… profoundly unsettling.”

“Does your concern lie with the divine intervention I received, or is it the ‘captain’s’ strategy?”

“…Both,” Frem admitted after a pause, his voice carrying a weight of contemplation, “Naturally, the latter presents the greater shock.”

A brief silence ensued before the voice from the fire resumed.

“Frem.”

“I am listening.”

“…Do you continue to document our history?”

“Without cease, I fulfill the scriptural command to chronicle our times.”

“Should the world meet its demise and we with it, do you think the stone tablets you’ve inscribed will one day be deciphered by future beings?”

“If such a day were to dawn, it would signify the collapse of the captain’s strategy, the deities’ defeat, and the extinguishment of the era of fire,” Frem spoke softly, his gaze fixed on the dancing flames, “Our histories would become indecipherable, for on that day, the very notion of ‘history’ would cease to exist.”

“Yet, you persist in your recordings and in safeguarding the beacon of legacy.”

“The act of recording history holds intrinsic value. Even absent future inheritors, ‘history’ itself stands as testament that we existed as a civilization unto extinction—echoing the final verses of the deranged poet Puman:

‘Time bestowed upon me life, and in return, I endowed time with memories.'”

“I hadn’t pegged you for a connoisseur of poetry.”

“Poetry is intertwined with history.”

“Is that so?” The voice from the fire hesitated briefly, then pressed on, “In that case, assist me in documenting a new entry—when next you pray to the Eternal Flame, etch it upon a stone.”

Without hesitation, Frem reached for a parchment and readied his pen: “Proceed.”

“…On the 21st of the first month, 1902, according to the New City-State Calendar, the Sea Song embarked on a momentous journey across the critical boundary of the six miles notch at the Eternal Veil. They stand at the forefront of our civilization’s exploration.”

“The Sea Song, 21st of the first month, 1902… Got it, it’s been recorded.”

…

The fog had morphed into an almost sentient entity, far from the simple, drifting mist it once seemed. The steamship, ‘The Sea Song,’ labored through the fog that seemed to swallow the world whole, its progress hindered as if pushing through a dense, invisible barrier, ensnared and constrained by unseen forces.

Within this heavy shroud, the usual demarcations of the world blurred into obscurity—the waters beside the ship transformed into a nebulous mass of gray-white, the sky above shed its clouds for a uniform haze, and a diffuse daylight cast everything in a vague glow. Only sporadically could the lookout discern the undulating seawater through the fog’s fleeting breaches.

These glimpses of water, distant and ephemeral, were like visual illusions.

Adorned with the Storm Church’s flag, the white vessel, a pioneer of exploration, seemed suspended in the fog. Despite the steam core’s persistent thrum, the absence of fixed points and the ever-shifting fog rendered the crew unable to ascertain their advancement—or if they were ensnared in this anomalous “sea”.

“We’ve lost all signals from the flagship, and at present, we could barely catch the beacon from the temporary lighthouse,” reported a church sailor clad in a dark blue cloak to the ‘The Sea Song’s captain on the bridge, “The steam core is at maximum output, and we’re holding our course.”

“Mm,” the captain, a formidable woman with an aura of stern resolve, acknowledged the sailor’s update. She then directed her attention to an adjacent priest: “In this direction, can you discern anything more distinctly?”

She inquired of an aged priest garbed in a flowing robe, his face lined with deep wrinkles, eyes recessed, and posture stooped, marking him as an unlikely voyager for such an extended maritime expedition due to his frailty. Nevertheless, he was seated near the captain, cradling a finely crafted brass incense burner in one hand and a talisman made from sea-breath wood in the other.

The venerable priest concentrated as though receiving a transmission beyond the ordinary senses. A hush fell over those present, wary of interrupting his concentration.

After an extended pause, the elder priest finally lifted his gaze.

He had caught various speckles of sensations: the vestiges of a whisper, the faint sound of a final breath, and the odor of decay.

“Over here,” the priest indicated with a raised hand, pointing through the thick fog, “That way.”