Deep Sea Embers
chapter-777

The confrontation on the open sea took a turn for the complex when a formidable fleet, shrouded in the chill of mist, made its unexpected appearance, bringing a new dynamic to what was initially a three-sided standoff. Yet, in an odd twist, this escalation seemed to simplify the predicament at hand.

The forces of Cold Port, alongside the Morpheus Navy, found themselves relieved from the immediate threats of crossfire and the daunting presence of the church’s fleet.

Sorenna, with a gaze fixed upon the metallic visage before him, displayed a remarkable calmness. His eyes betrayed neither fear nor uncertainty despite being fully aware of the prowess of the “Iron Admiral” commanding the emerging fleet. He understood that while these spectral adversaries could harness the element of surprise to overpower two of the flagships, they lacked the means to dominate the entire fleet. A chaotic battle, should it ensue, promised dire outcomes for all parties involved.

It became evident through Tyrian Abnomar’s actions, choosing this mode of encounter, that his intentions leaned towards negotiation.

After a prolonged silence, Sorenna finally spoke in a voice resonating with depth, “Cold Port requires sunlight.”

In response, the metallic figure, its speech accompanied by a metallic resonance, added, “Yes, Cold Port seeks sunlight. And now, Hob, your former ally and the commander of the Morpheus Navy, communicates the same need for Morpheus. But let me tell you, darkness is encroaching upon our world. Jotun City, Haper, Bandor Island, and even distant lands like Feyron and Mok are succumbing to shadows. Only a handful of city-states remain bathed in sunlight… Everyone is in desperate need of it.”

Despite the tension evident on Sorenna’s face, his reply was even more composed than before, “Captain Tyrian, is there merit in discussing this now? My immediate concern is Cold Port’s survival—unless you suggest you’ll reveal the ‘sun fragment’ that plummeted into Frost.”

Maintaining its composure, the steel face revealed, “…It’s already en route to Cold Port.”

This revelation took Sorenna aback, his prepared retorts dissipating into the air, leaving him momentarily speechless.

A hush fell over the entire bridge.

Tyrian’s voice then filled the silence, “If you head back now, you should be able to witness its arrival on the northern shores of Cold Port,” as the undead sailors, enveloped in the icy fog, subtly withdrew their hold over the crew, positioning themselves aside in a standby manner, “Allow the Morpheus Navy to escort the sun fragment here before this standoff spirals out of control.”

Sorenna paused briefly before inquiring, “And of Frost?”

“Frost is under more secure watch than any of you can imagine. We possess our own forms of ‘assurance.’ There’s no need for worry,” Tyrian assured calmly, “The paramount task for you and Hob now is to return to your respective city-states and, with the sunlight’s aid, swiftly reestablish order.”

Breaking the tense silence, Sorenna abruptly inquired, “…What do you want?” His tone carried a mix of suspicion and understanding, acknowledging the harsh reality that nothing comes without a cost. “There’s no free lunch, I grasp that concept well. Share your intentions, Governor Tyrian.”

The figure, with a face as impassive and cold as steel, locked eyes with Sorenna, revealing, “…I seek to forge an ‘alliance mechanism’ that thrives in the shadow of night,” he declared, his gaze piercing, “orchestrated by Frost, spanning the entirety of the Cold Sea. I demand unwavering support from both Cold Port and Morpheus Harbor.”

Sorenna took a moment to digest the request, quickly piecing together the “Iron Admiral’s” underlying strategy. A crease formed between his brows as he instinctively searched the horizon for the three warships of the Death Church, previously skirting the fringes of “sunlight.” To his surprise, they had already maneuvered closer to the fog-enshrouded fleet, aligning with the fog ship as though seamlessly integrated into their ranks.

“…I understand. Secure the sunlight and shoulder the responsibility. Those averse to bearing it… will fall to our jurisdiction,” Sorenna shifted his gaze from the window back to the metallic figure, giving a nod of acknowledgement, “Regarding Hob…”

“He consented three seconds prior to you,” Tyrian stated, his tone devoid of emotion.

“Very well, I have no further questions.”

With that, the undead receded into the background, and the chilling fog that filled the bridge began to dissipate, leaving behind melting ice crystals. The immense ice floes scattered across the sea’s surface also started to diminish, signaling the lifting of the fog fleet’s menacing presence over the standoff.

A buzzing broke the newfound silence, emanating from the communication station’s handset, accompanied by a blinking light. The communications officer, hesitantly glancing at his commander, received a stern command from Sorenna: “Answer it. Do I need to instruct you further?”

Upon lifting the handset, the officer briefly paused before looking up, “It’s the public channel from Morpheus…”

Stepping forward, Sorenna took the handset with an air of expectancy, listening intently to the message from the other side.

“Sorenna, listen, upon my return…”

“You’re free to recount today’s events to my nephew—or perhaps, I’ll take it upon myself to do so later.”

“…You truly stand apart from the rest.”

“Yes, thank you, the sentiment is mutual.”

“…Thank you, farewell.”

After hanging up, Sorenna’s gaze wandered beyond the expansive window, surveying the Boundless Sea now engulfed in the cloak of night. The fog fleet gradually receded into the enveloping darkness, becoming a part of it.

As the last traces of pale golden “sunlight” vanished from the sea’s surface nearby, Tyrian inhaled deeply at the ship’s bow, his silence enduring. After a lengthy pause, he slightly turned, posing a question to an unseen companion, “Do you deem this outcome satisfactory?”

The quiet that had enveloped the scene was shattered by a resonant, gravelly voice. Emerging from the gloom, a towering figure adorned in a long black coat, his body swathed in dense bandages, made his presence known. “There is no superior alternative; this is the paramount path,” he declared, his voice echoing a mixture of resolve and somber realization, “The luxury of sunlight is finite, and the erstwhile approach of every city-state scrabbling for survival in isolation has become untenable. A unified alliance is imperative to maximize the chances of survival for the populace. Rationing sunlight, assembling combined defense fleets, managing resources on a macro scale, and orchestrating a collective defense against the myriad dangers that lurk in the darkness necessitate the formation of a cohesive union. Ideally, this monumental task would have fallen to the church, but their influence, too, has waned.”

Tyrian’s gaze drifted to the three church warships, their outlines blurred against the night’s embrace. After a pause filled with contemplation, he continued, “To transport a fragment of the sun from Frost to Cold Port requires the mightiest of high-speed tugboats for six days—a duration that mirrors the average transit time for sun fragments among the city-states sprinkled across the Cold Sea…”

“In the event of a city-state being suddenly besieged by a catastrophe without ‘sunlight,’ the delay for aid can exacerbate the crisis to an uncontrollable extent. Hence, the need for several formidable fleets, perpetually patrolling the night, ready to rush to the aid of any city-state at a moment’s notice—these fleets, in tandem with the church’s own, should safeguard the entirety of the Cold Sea… but solely the Cold Sea.”

“Dedicating our efforts to the Cold Sea suffices. Other regions must devise their own strategies,” Duncan interjected, his head shaking in dismissal of broader concerns. He then probed, “Yet, amid these preparations, do you harbor no reservations about my directive to dispatch the sun fragment from Frost to Cold Port?”

Tyrian’s response was immediate, his head shaking in denial.

Facing Duncan squarely, he elaborated, “Holding the greatest share of sunlight prevents me from establishing a ‘Cold Sea Union’ that is perceived as equitable and trustworthy. My possession of the sun fragment in Frost undermines any claim to impartiality in its distribution,” he articulated calmly, his lips then curving into a smile, “Moreover… the true safeguard for Frost now lies within your flame, doesn’t it?”

Duncan’s response was a silent yet affirming nod.

Tyrian’s curiosity, however, got the better of him, prompting him to inquire further, “How fares it ‘over there’?”

“We navigate a fissure in time, its duration uncertain,” Duncan replied nonchalantly, his gaze lowering to his own form. To his astonishment, despite bracing for a severance from his “incarnations” upon crossing the boundaries of the six miles mark, it appeared… these avatars of his being remained intact and operational.

Duncan found himself in a unique position, simultaneously engaging in conversation with Tyrian and perceiving the events unfolding in Pland, all while his primary consciousness embarked on an otherworldly journey aboard the Vanished, voyaging to the world’s extremities. This dual experience was nothing short of supernatural.

Noticing Tyrian’s attention shift towards him, Duncan casually mentioned, “This journey, I chose not to bring you along but instead opted for your sister’s company,” his eyelids slightly lifting as he cast a brief glance towards Tyrian, “Do you harbor any resentment towards that decision?”

Tyrian was momentarily caught off guard by the question but quickly regained his composure, his gaze, marked by the presence of a singular eye, returning to its habitual state of calm and severity: “No, I understand my duties. Your decision was made with good reason.”

Duncan detected the slight strain in Tyrian’s tone but chose not to comment, merely allowing a subtle smile to flicker at the corners of his eyes, hidden beneath the bandages.

Together, they turned their gazes towards the horizon.

Time seemed to stand still until Tyrian was startled by Duncan’s voice breaking the silence, “Strive to ensure the survival of as many as possible, for as long as possible.”

Tyrian looked towards Duncan in astonishment.

Without facing his son, Duncan continued, his voice reflecting on a reflective quality, as though he was imparting a lesson or perhaps reminding himself, “You, Lucy, and everyone aboard the Vanished, every individual within the city-states, each has their own role to play. The overarching mission uniting these efforts is survival—to safeguard everything in this world to the utmost of our abilities: life, memories, and civilization. Strive to preserve, to endure.”

His gaze remained fixed on the distance, on what lay beyond the night, as he spoke further, “Even if the dawn ceases to break, even if the night engulfs all, even if the very fabric of reality starts to crumble, and hope seems a distant memory, remember this… persist, if only for one more moment. That is your task. Leave the rest to me. I’ll find a way,” Duncan concluded, his tone resolute yet tinged with a deep seated determination.

Tyrian, visibly moved and somewhat overwhelmed by his father’s words, found himself at a loss for words, sinking into a profound silence.

Duncan offered no more words, simply staring into the abyss of the night, contemplating the journey ahead.

In his alternate perception, the monotonous grey backdrop began subtly shifting, revealing faint light and shadow glimmers. It appeared their traversal through the temporal rift was nearing its conclusion.