According to historical accounts, Puman, known centuries ago as the “Mad Poet,” was a unique individual who dared to delve into truths deed forbidden and miraculously managed to survive. The legends tell of this poet’s peculiar habit of sinking into dreamlike states, during which he professed to journey through various era and worlds, each more bizarre than the last.
Puman’s legacy is a vast collection of writings that have left subsequent generations in awe. From the onset of his career, his work displayed a remarkable blend of elegance and depth, captivating even the most discerning critics from various city-states with his sophisticated yet profound poetry. However, as Puman approached the twilight of his life, a discernible shift occurred in his creations. His later poems began to explore thes that were at once bizarre and chilling, replete with disconcerting taphors and ramblings reminiscent of a prophet’s frenzied declarations. He beca obsessed with conveying to humanity the existence of entities and realms beyond the scope of known reality, his writings bordering on the sacrilegious. Consequently, Puman transford into a figure shrouded in despair and fear.
The admiration and praise that once flowed freely towards him eventually turned into aversion and apprehension. Admirers who had once held him in high esteem now regarded him as a nace. Even the church’s authorities attempted to curb his influence, though they failed to identify any tangible corrupt or blasphemous essence in his writings.
Puman’s final days remain shrouded in mystery, adding another layer to his enigmatic legacy. So narratives suggest he was confined by the church, ultimately eting a quiet end in an asylum on a desolate island. Yet, there are accounts that insist he continued to live, with claims of sightings as late as the winter of 1842, where witnesses described seeing the poet, unmistakable as depicted in portraits, standing on a frost-laden cliff, pen and paper in hand, composing his verses.
A “caretaker,” purporting to have been by Puman’s side during his last years, offers a glimpse into the poet’s final chapter through his autobiography. He describes how Puman beca increasingly absorbed in his fantastical dreams, drawing inspiration from these visions to craft his extraordinary and peculiar poetry. Ultimately, Puman succumbed to a dream so captivating that he lost all desire to return to reality. One sunny morning, he vanished from his bed, leaving behind a poem on the bedside table—a farewell of sorts.
Vanna, stepping forward to the very spot Puman was last seen, stooped to secure the crumpled scroll and pencil just as the wind threatened to carry them off.
With a puzzled frown, she unrolled the scroll and read the cryptic lines penned on it: “…I saw it, the sun has retreated, in the night, everything falls into tranquility… The ship sails from the sky, with stars like a curtain, granting the mortal world eternal slumber… In silence, in stillness, in sleep, the dead embrace the departed world…”
As the wind picked up, causing the paper to flutter, Vanna heard a voice whispering close to her ear—a voice that belonged to the vanished mad poet, though his form was nowhere to be seen. “Look, look, do you see? The scene I saw… truly beautiful, the curtain rising from the end of the sea, reflecting over the entire world…”
Vanna turned her gaze in the direction from where the voice emanated, her eyes eting nothing but the swirling dust that danced in the chaotic wind. Her eyebrows knitted together in a frown, her voice tinged with slight hoarseness as she asked, “Are you also trapped here?”
The voice, seemingly lost in its own world, continued to mutter to itself, its words initially muffled and disjointed. After a mont, however, the voice regained clarity.
“I’ve always been pursued by them, relentlessly, like hounds with a scent for blood… In every dream, I’ve stumbled across myriad places, each with its own crevice for to seek refuge. Exhaustion eventually took hold, and the thought of being caught seed less daunting… And so, I was engulfed by the hound known as truth, which led to glimpse distant scenes before bringing here…”
As Vanna absorbed the rambling discourse, she recognized the challenge in establishing a clear line of communication but felt compelled to inquire further, “Do you know how to leave this place?”
“No, no, no, one can’t simply leave, my friend…” The voice responded promptly, then trailed off into more unintelligible mutterings, “…Down in the basent, the robed ones proclaid it a sanctuary, believing iron cages could imprison my spirit, preventing it from fleeing my corporeal form in dreams, and that braziers could repel the shadows lured by my essence, sparing from total consumption in my slumber…”
The voice’s words beca muddled with the wind and a cacophony of faint, indistinct sounds, only to erge clearly once more: “…Do you understand, after many years… by then I had long been deceased, and years later, a young girl found herself ensnared in a similar cage. By that era, technology had significantly advanced, and she erged from the basent with her life intact…”
“Ah, the poor girl, I witnessed her ascension to power, and then her downfall, executed by those who once lauded her… I pondered whether to immortalize this in my poetry… no, no, better not. The robed ones forbade from weaving the visions of my dreams into my verses, warning that it would strengthen my ties to realms beyond our own, which is undesirable… My opportunities to write grow scarce; I must reserve my remaining words for matters of greater importance…”
“Listen! The sound of soone knocking against the railing, the clinking of keys… ding ding, ding ding, ding ding. The guards are on their rounds, ensuring I remain confined…”
At that mont, the wind intensified, carrying with it the distinct sound of “ding ding ding,” reminiscent of keys.
And still, the mad voice continued its monologue: “But am I truly there? They might see , seemingly at peace upon my bed, but I am absent, not within that husk; I reside here, in this realm of ashes… What brings you here?
“You ought to depart; this place is not for you, your journey lies beyond. Take my poetry, but my pencil… these items belong to , not to be held by others… They will ensnare you, draw you into the depths…”
As Vanna stood there, the paper and pencil slipped from her grasp, transforming into sand with a whirl and vanishing into the air before she could react.
“Which direction should I take?” she inquired the voice, her question floating into the void, “I’ve lost track of where I ca from, and I’m clueless about where I should head… How do I exit this city?”
“Any direction, any direction,” replied the voice, now sounding as if it were receding rapidly, its clarity diminishing into a faint echo, “This place is boundless… It’s ensnared in a perpetual dream of its own making. I’ve just seen it—beyond the city lies a desert, and beyond that desert, the city reclaims you. Escape is an illusion; the further you venture, the deeper you’re drawn in… But I must leave, I must awaken once more…”
And with those words, the voice faded entirely, lost to the wild dance of wind and sand.
Left alone, Vanna stood amidst the endless night, surrounded by lights that shone upon a city forgotten by ti, her silhouette rging with the luminescence around her. Within the glow, she glimpsed epheral shadows of carriages traversing the fractured streets, vibrant storefronts amidst the ruins, and distant lodies that overtook the howling winds, their cadence soothing the sharp discomfort of myriad tiny cuts on her arms.
She briefly closed her eyes, almost ready to succumb to the seductive warmth and prosperity of this illusion.
But in an instant, her eyes flung open.
Sothing intangible had shattered within her, igniting a will that fought against the gentle, yet inexorable, pull towards oblivion. The phantoms dancing in the lights dimd and vanished. The biting chill of the desert night cut across her face, the wind’s sting reviving the acute pain of countless minor injuries.
Yet, amidst this reality, she found a reason to smile—pain was a reminder, a confirmation of existence.
She understood that she did not belong to this surreal place. Despite not recalling her na or origin, one truth was clear: she was an outsider here.
Clinging to this realization was crucial—it was her defense against being assimilated by this land.
In this mont of awakening, Vanna grasped another vital insight: the necessity of finding her “anchor.”
It was imperative that she swiftly uncover her identity, recall her origins.
Gradually, mories and understandings began to trickle back, illuminating the essence of this vast desert. She recognized she had stumbled into a realm governed by “forgetfulness,” where resistance to “forgetting” was her only path forward.
Abandoning her aimless wanderings “outside” the city, she acknowledged the city’s “infinity.” Understanding that re physical departure was insufficient for escape, she concluded there must exist another ans of exit.
Bathed in the ambiguous glow of light, Vanna allowed the wind and the sand to pass over her, wearing away at her form. In this process, she found a semblance of peace, her mind gradually settling as she employed her thoughts and senses to navigate a path out of this maze.
She pieced together bits of information carried by the wind and embedded in the grains of sand—snippets of text, fragnts of conversations, and remnants that seed to echo different “tis” and “events.” These snippets appeared to serve as various “anchors” within this vast desert of amnesia.
She reasoned that she, too, must have her own anchor—a testant to her existence sowhere, perhaps in the mories of certain individuals, within the… world itself.
With her eyelids drooping, a subtle stir began to take root in the depths of her heart after a duration that remained unasured.
In the midst of this infinite desert, she stumbled upon a trace that connected directly to her –
Vanna’s eyes snapped open as a piece of torn paper fluttered by her. Swiftly catching it, she focused on the text it bore:
“…The border exploration fleet has once again embarked on the ‘cross-border’ operation. The Vanished and the Bright Star have breached the six-mile threshold… venturing towards the world’s edge in search…”
Simultaneously, a familiar voice reached her, its tone fragnted as if snatched from a distant mory –
“…Any news of note?”
“…A dispatch from the Storm Church…”
“They’ll be fine, try not to fret, Heidi…”
“Is it because of the renowned captain?”
“It’s because of your dad…”
“Dad and Vanna, they are part of sothing truly grand…”
A surge of recognition flashed in Vanna’s eyes, her heart finding its rhythm once more, pulsating with renewed life as if awakening from a long slumber. She rembered her na, and –
“The Vanished… Captain?”
Holding the paper, she whispered to herself, a mixture of realization and wonder in her voice.
Then, at the edge of her field of vision, a flicker of eerie green fla erged, and almost instantly, a familiar yet imposing voice arose from behind her: “I am here.”
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