Chapter 309: Chapter 313 Debts Cleared Chapter 309: Chapter 313 Debts Cleared Aiden jumped down from the high platform and approached his captain. Noticing the unusually solemn expression on the captain’s face, his own expression imdiately turned serious as well.
“Captain, what happened?”
“An invitation I cannot refuse,” Theryan glanced around before heaving a sigh, “I might have to leave for a while tomorrow or the day after.”
Aiden’s eyes widened in shock: “Is there a ssage that arrived on the island? Just now? And… On this Chill Sea, how could there be an invitation that even you cannot refuse?”
Theryan sighed again: “…It’s my father.”
Aiden blinked and struggled to speak: “…How long might you be gone?”
“I should be able to return quickly, in a day or two,” Theryan did not pay attention to the subtle changes in his first mate’s tone, as his mind was filled with a myriad of thoughts and he really had no extra energy to speak of other matters, “A ssenger will arrive at the port area to take to Holoss. Let’s keep this matter private for now. While I’m ‘gone,’ you take charge of everything.”
Aiden imdiately bowed his head in acknowledgnt: “Yes, Captain.”
Then, the first mate paused for two seconds, seemingly hesitant, before he couldn’t help but look around and lean in close to whisper to Theryan: “He… Could he be nearby?”
Theryan thought for a mont, then patted Aiden on the shoulder: “Holoss is hidden right here, within the fog that surrounds us.”
Visibly, he saw Aiden’s muscles tense up bit by bit.
“…Captain, after not breathing for so many years, I finally rember what ‘cold’ feels like today,” First Mate Aiden’s voice beca noticeably cautious, “Are you sure the old captain… just wants to see you?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t want to know, but my intuition tells this journey should be safe,” Theryan spoke softly and then turned back to glance in the direction of the square, looking at the sailors who still didn’t want to disperse and were planning to party until sunrise, before turning back to his first mate, “But the other sailors might not see it the sa way, if you catch my drift.”
Hearing the captain’s solemn words, Aiden slowly nodded.
He knew what his captain was worried about.
The Mist Fleet was massive, and besides the few who were bought off or hired through contracts as outsiders, most of the fleet’s mbers were “Undead” like himself, who could technically be divided into two groups—
One large part was forr mbers of the Frost Navy, these soldiers who had once been loyal to the Frost Queen had originally been ordinary humans. It’s after the Frost rebellion, those who steadfastly remained with the group, the loyalists, were gradually transford into their current state.
In the endless half-century of warfare, through unceasing clashes with the rebels, death combined with the Curse power of Sea Mist gradually transford them into the “Undead sailors” of today and beca part of the Mist Fleet.
The other small group of sailors were the real “core backbone” under the command of “Iron Lieutenant Commander” Theryan: they were once mbers of the Exiled Fleet.
Duncan Ebnomal was their “old captain,” they had witnessed the Transformation and fall of Holoss, experienced a century of ups and downs. They had followed Theryan in loyalty to Frost and witnessed the world-turning chaos during Frost’s turbulent changes—the sailors who had been loyal for a century were referred to as the “first cohort,” while those who had been loyal for half a century were called the “second cohort.”
Aiden himself, along with the half-baked old priest with a dent in his head, “Will,” were both mbers of the “first cohort.”
A century of experience allowed Aiden to perceive many things hidden beneath the surface.
The significance of Holoss and “Captain Duncan” in the eyes of the two groups of sailors was different, and the sa piece of news could elicit complicated and uncontrollable reactions from them.
And now even Captain Theryan himself wasn’t sure about the real condition of Holoss and the “old captain,” let alone assured of its long-term stability.
Therefore, until the situation was clear and the scene assured to be under control, the news of the captain’s visit to Holoss must not be released—otherwise, the island would definitely erupt into utter chaos.
Right at that mont, Theryan’s voice ca again, interrupting Aiden’s thoughts: “…First thing tomorrow morning, send the dancers back to Cold Harbor.”
“Send them back tomorrow?” Aiden didn’t know why the captain suddenly brought this up, “Are you not satisfied with them?”
“Holoss is nearby, it’s best not to let ordinary people near this island for now,” Theryan shook his head, casually coming up with an excuse, since “Dad’s shocking appearance” was a shaful and unlikely reason to voice, he paused for a mont, then added, “But your last statent did remind , sending them straight back that way, that gruff ‘Curved Blade Martin’ might treat those girls harshly… I’ll write a letter, you hand it to the lead dancer.”
Aiden imdiately bowed his head: “Yes, Captain.”
“Hm,” Theryan nodded, as if he had rembered sothing else, “By the way, I saw a dancer stop to talk to you just now, you looked pretty bewildered… What did she say to you?”
Aiden felt sowhat embarrassed in response: “She said my head shape was very sexy…”
Theryan silently looked at his first mate’s shiny bald head.
“…The dancers from Cold Harbor are indeed passionate and unrestrained—passionate in spirit, and unrestrained in taste.”
“`
…
Darkness, solitude, cold, silence.
An endless barren wilderness stretched out in the darkness—lifeless, without flora or fauna—save for the jagged rocks and the strange ruins decayed beyond asure, eternally silent in the desolate atmosphere, sotis illuminated by the eerie lights that flickered across the sky, casting speckled, distorted shadows on the ground.
A hollow shadow was trekking across the wilderness.
He didn’t know how long he had been traveling, nor the na with which he had begun his journey. He only rembered that it felt as if he had set out an eternity ago, and that a lingering, superficial impression told him he should have already reached the end, should have long found rest in so peaceful place.
What had delayed his journey, condemning him to wander endlessly through this desolation?
The vague and hollow shadow pondered, but soon these intermittent thoughts were swallowed by a greater emptiness, compelling him to continue forward on instinct.
Then suddenly, he stumbled.
Had he tripped over sothing? Or had he collided with so unseen force?
The hollow shade looked down at himself and saw that blurry colors seed to surface on the mist that was his body.
He lifted his head and continued forward.
More colors appeared on him, more solid details erged on the surface of his once mist-like, fluctuating form.
Clothing materialized on the figure, the attire of a sailor.
Gradually, he acquired a face: that of a middle-aged man with dark hair.
His steps beca stable and light, and the jagged stones underfoot smoothed over without notice.
More and more mories began to surface from the depths of his soul.
First a na, then his final monts, followed by the sunny days of his youth, blurred recollections of childhood, and the fragnted, warm glimpses from his infancy.
He trekked towards the end of the wilderness, and in the darkness, shadows large and small erged and silently rged with him.
These were pieces of himself that had once been torn away, now returning to their rightful places.
Suddenly, the figure stopped at the end of the path.
Cristo Babeli lifted his head in bewildernt and saw he had unknowingly stepped onto a road lined with silent, ancient columns, and at its end stood an imnsely tall, majestic gate adorned with ornate, ancient patterns.
The gate stood ajar, its interior remaining indistinct and blurred, the details beyond the portal impenetrable.
A strong impulse surged from deep within his soul—to pass through that gate, to find rest on the other side.
The middle-aged man in the captain’s uniform unconsciously advanced, alone in all directions, yet he felt, in the sa mont, countless other souls walking this path, all heading towards the gate—in every second of this mortal world, the dead embark on their journey, but at this loneso threshold of life and death, the souls seem invisible to one another.
Yet just as he was about to touch the gate, Cristo stopped.
A towering figure suddenly appeared before it, blocking his way.
A guardian, shrouded in bandages, clad in a dark, intricate robe, hooded, holding a long staff.
The gatekeeper of this place.
Cristo watched the nearly three-ter-tall “giant” with a mixture of awe and fear, the mories of his living days flooding back, enabling him to regain the ability to speak, “Are you… the master of death?”
“No,” the gatekeeper spoke, a hoarse and deep voice emanating from beneath the bandages, “I am but His ssenger.”
Cristo’s voice carried a tinge of sadness, “I don’t have the right to cross this door, do I?”
He rembered even more.
Including the details of his own death.
But the imposing gatekeeper rely looked down silently at the soul at the door for a mont before stepping aside slightly, “Please, enter. Your debt is cleared.”
“`
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