Deep Sea Embers

Deep beneath the earth’s surface, sealed away from prying eyes, lay a clandestine facility with a tunnel leading directly to the ocean. This massive undertaking, shrouded in mystery and known to none, contained a secret hidden amidst a tapestry of truths and falsehoods. It was a riddle wrapped in an enigma, spanning five decades of unrealized dreams, unspoken fears, and societal taboos.

Standing at the convergence of these complex threads was Agatha, and before her lay a colossal machine, its cold, metallic body suspended by an intricate lattice of steel beams. The atmosphere was heavy as if time had come to a standstill only to resume its relentless march forward. She was looking at a submersible vessel covertly constructed by the government of the city-state.

Agatha observed the monolithic structure through a thick, dark glass panel. The weight of its history and potential seemed to press against the boundaries of her awareness. Finally, she broke the heavy silence, her voice tinged with grit, “How did you discover it?”

Tyrian responded, “It involved a considerable amount of luck. I believe that even among Governor Winston’s inner circle, only a handful were aware of this project. Most of those individuals likely perished in the recent defensive efforts. When I took over the operations at City Hall, I observed some unusual movements—both financial and personnel—that all seemed to be directed towards an ‘undisclosed scientific research project’ located at this port.”

He paused, his gaze shifting to the immense vessel hanging in its steel cradle.

“The rest isn’t very complicated. After the South Port fell, we conducted an exhaustive search. We found a warehouse that raised questions, a shaft that was clearly not just a utility tunnel, this underground lair, and, of course, this remarkable submersible.”

Tyrian’s expression remained unflustered as he recounted the discovery, but Agatha was silently impressed by his capabilities. His rapid assimilation of information and control over the city-state, especially after being absent for 50 years, were nothing short of extraordinary. Uncovering a secret facility of this magnitude couldn’t have been easy.

It felt as though he had never left the city.

“Can this machine be used now?” Agatha finally asked, breaking another spell of silence.

Tyrian shook his head. “We need to thoroughly examine it. While it was constructed based on blueprints left by the Frost Queen, it also incorporates a range of modern and even cutting-edge technologies. Additionally, this facility houses several support systems—air pumps, steel cables, and communication devices—that are integral to the submersible’s operation. We must assess the state and functionality of these components.”

“The unfortunate news,” he continued, “is that the people who had intimate knowledge of this machine and its infrastructure are likely dead, victims of Frost’s last defensive battle. When we discovered this facility, it was sealed from the inside. It appears that those inside aimed to isolate those monstrous creatures, unaware of the scope of the catastrophe they were facing.”

Tyrian sighed softly as he concluded.

“But the good news is,” he lifted his hand, gesturing around the room, “the submersible and all the equipment in this hall are in impeccable condition.”

Agatha didn’t respond. Silently, she lifted her gaze, turned, and looked back towards the direction from which she had come, pondering the magnitude of the situation and the mysterious journey that lay ahead.

The door before Agatha was heavy and slightly warped, a silent testament to some unfathomable past struggle. Her gaze was transfixed by a series of bloodstains on its surface, tracing the chilling outline of a handprint. Although the life had long drained from the blood, leaving it brown and faded, the imprint still emitted a faint glow that caught her eye.

Just as she was lost in her contemplation, Tyrian’s voice broke through her reverie. “Next, I’ll try to find experts who were involved in this covert project. Maybe not all the technicians were in the facility when it was locked down. But if we can’t locate any survivors with the necessary knowledge, we may have to rely on some of the veterans from the Mist Fleet.”

“Mist Fleet?” Agatha’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

A slight smile graced Tyrian’s lips. “Those who participated in the Abyss Project years ago would be quite stunned to see this modern incarnation of a submersible.”

Agatha went silent, her mind a whirlpool of emotions. She wasn’t sure whether to be amazed at the circular nature of history or find some comfort in the idea that all things were falling back into their predestined places.

Tyrian, standing beside her, also lapsed into silence. The Iron Admiral’s face gradually lost its smile as he slowly surveyed the chamber, his gaze intense and reflective. Finally, his eyes settled on the door leading to the elevator. He offered a subtle nod as if paying respects to the intricate web of human ambition and folly that had led them to this moment.

Out at sea, the breeze was soft, and the waves were rhythmic. Below their feet, the steam core of the ship, the White Oak, powered through the waters, its robust mechanisms humming. Lawrence, adorned in a captain’s coat that had seen many years of service, stood on the elevated deck, eyes fixed on the distant horizon.

But the seasoned captain’s inner world was anything but tranquil.

A gentle, feminine voice emanated from a small mirror hanging from his chest. “Feeling nervous?”

“The feeling hasn’t left me since we set sail from Frost,” Lawrence replied, smacking his lips as if tasting the salt in the air. “We are deliberately seeking out a ship that others have fled from for a century. If the Explorer’s Association hears of this, they’ll think I’ve lost my mind.”

“Most captains on the Boundless Sea are hardly pillars of sanity. You’ll simply be the most legendary among a fleet of madmen,” Martha’s voice came through the mirror, tinged with a teasing laughter. “Doesn’t that thought give you a sense of encouragement?”

Lawrence sighed. “If you tell a man who is about to be hanged that his noose is the most exquisite of all ropes, even suggesting to tie it into a bow for him, do you think that would bring him any comfort?”

Just as Martha opened her mouth to speak, another voice, hoarse and unrefined, suddenly interrupted from the nearby flagpole. “Oh, sure thing! As long as the noose does its job, I don’t give a damn if you tie it into a bow, or even bedazzle it for all I care!”

The moment was broken, but the air was still thick with unspoken thoughts and emotions as the ship cut through the waters, each person aboard grappling with their own unique blend of anticipation and dread.

A faint twitch crossed Lawrence’s lips as he turned to identify the source of the crass interjection. Perched high atop the ship’s flagpole, Anomaly 077 dangled by a noose. As the ship swayed in the ocean’s rhythm, he swung to and fro, a grotesque spectacle against the backdrop of the open sea.

“Have you no plans to come down?” Lawrence’s voice dripped with exasperation as he gazed at the desiccated corpse clinging to the flagpole. “You’ve been up there an entire day.”

“What if the noose starts working all of a sudden? I was just starting to feel drowsy,” the corpse retorted, its voice tinged with a bizarre levity. “You said I could choose my own sleeping spot, remember?”

“I recall saying you could select a resting place that wouldn’t disturb others,” Lawrence shot back, fixing the corpse with a stern glare. “I didn’t think that meant you’d be hanging from the ship’s flagpole. Your sealing method has clearly failed you. Your only recourse now is to report to the Vanished.”

At this, the corpse emitted an exaggerated wail as if Lawrence had stripped it of its last sliver of dignity. Ignoring the dramatic lament, Lawrence leaned down to speak into the small mirror hanging from his chest. “Do you think things will go smoothly?”

“Why ask me?” Martha’s voice emanated from the mirror.

“Because your intuition has always been remarkably accurate. You’re the one who’s chosen our departure times in the past, aren’t you?”

“Do you even remember that?” Martha’s voice held a note of surprise, quickly replaced by a soft laugh. “Don’t worry excessively. You’ve already accepted your fate as a member of the Vanished Fleet. This isn’t your first run-in with that ominous ship.”

“True, but the nerves haven’t dissipated,” Lawrence sighed, adjusting his collar reflexively. “Besides, my last encounter with that ship is a haunting memory, a nightmare I’d rather forget.”

“Don’t fret too much. At least this time, the Vanished won’t be aiming directly for you.”

Before Martha could finish her sentence, an ear-piercing screech cut her off. In the next instant, an eerie green flame encircled the White Oak. Accompanied by a thunderous roar from the engines, the ship lurched violently, veering off course due to an abrupt rudder movement.

The once-calm sea transformed dramatically. Countless horrifying, ink-black tendrils emerged on the water’s cerulean surface, snaking like twisted strands of hair. The sky, too, changed as sunlight vanished, supplanted by a dense cascade of ominous clouds and fog. The azure ocean turned into a dark, sullied mess, as if defiled by the black tendrils.

Anomaly 077, still hanging from the flagpole, let out a high-pitched scream.

Amidst the corpse’s unsettling wails and the crew’s alarmed shouts, Lawrence knew: they were being pulled into the spirit realm. With a deafening roar and a surge of monstrous waves, a towering silhouette of a ship burst through the thick, shrouding fog ahead, completely engulfed in infernal flames.

The Vanished had arrived.

Like a molten cliff, its looming form surged closer, threatening to consume them all.

The shrill, panicked scream of Anomaly 077 reverberated over the turbulent sea. “It’s coming, it’s coming! Damn it, it’s still charging at us! I’ve had enough! I want to go home! Get me down from here! I want to go home, do you hear me? Ahh~”

Just as the words escaped his lips, the flaming bow of the Vanished ground to an astonishingly abrupt halt. It stopped a mere half-meter from the White Oak’s side as though restrained by some unseen force.

Lawrence, standing petrified on the bow of his ship, struggled to find his footing in reality. When he finally did, he looked up at the immense, burning apparition of a ship towering over him. For a fleeting moment, the line between past terror and present reality blurred, plunging him back into a vividly remembered nightmare.

The Vanished had returned.

Emerging into Lawrence’s line of sight was a tall, commanding figure: Duncan Abnomar, the eternal master of the Vanished. He stood high on the deck of his ghost ship, looking down upon the scene with what Lawrence could only imagine was a mixture of curiosity and authority.

This marked Lawrence’s second face-to-face encounter with the mythical being, an experience so few lived to recount.

Then Duncan Abnomar’s voice boomed, resonant and as authoritative as a crack of thunder ripping through the sky. “Lawrence, what on earth is happening with your ship?”

The words rang out, heavy with gravitas, filling the air with a tension that felt almost corporeal. For a moment, everyone and everything seemed to hold its breath as if waiting for Lawrence’s answer to determine the fate of both ships and all their inhabitants.