The skies over Phaeron suddenly rumbled with a muffled boom of thunder—minutes later, a heavy rain descended from the heavens, enveloping the small City-State in the southwestern sea area with a layer of hazy drapery.
The "Light Burst" that had briefly streaked across the sky had vanished over the distant horizon of the sea, and the city’s inhabitants were still nervously guessing where those huge luminous objects falling from the sky had landed. Now this sudden downpour seed to have beco an even more unsettling on—in the rain, the already dark night was filled with an even denser blackness, the pale Creation of the World within the clouds turned into a mouth that seed to wriggle and tremble constantly. The wind whined through the streets and alleys, the raindrops it swept up pattering against windows in layers, aggravating and restless.
Lawrence walked through the lobby of the inn, seeing many people stranded in the inn gathered by the windows. They spoke in low voices about the flashes that had crossed the sky earlier, about the heavy rain outside, about the patrol team of guardians that had just left. The warm fireplace crackled not far away, while bright electric lights fought against the boundless night outside the windows like vigilant soldiers—on this unsettling rainy night, fire and light supported the increasingly fragile barrier of safety in everyone’s hearts.
"It’s just ordinary rain..." a soft voice ca from the small mirror at his chest. Martha whispered to Lawrence, "I’ve confird it in the Spirit Realm, nothing will happen."
Lawrence nodded slightly, looking out the window where the curtain of rain blurred the view of the streets, water streaming down the glass and sketching out twisted patterns of light and shadow. Martha’s reflection appeared on the window, giving him a faint smile.
"I just took a jump through the mirror to the White Oak, everything is fine there; rest assured."
"Thank you," Lawrence murmured softly, speaking in a volu only he could hear, "Be careful when entering the Spirit Realm, this world has beco unsafe."
"I know," Martha nodded, then added, "Also, I noticed several ships suddenly leaving the military port, speeding away into the night toward the northeast. Two of them are engineering vessels with large winches and towing arms."
"They’re off to recover the ’fallen objects.’ It looks like one of the luminous bodies has fallen near Phaeron," Lawrence quickly realized, "...I hope all goes well."
Martha nodded slightly, then her figure gradually faded from the window—the hazy curtain of rain and the flowing water once again filled Lawrence’s field of vision.
The old captain stared out in a trance for a while, then turned and left the inn’s lobby.
He crossed the stairs and corridors, returning to his temporary accommodation upstairs, fumbling for his keys to open the wooden door, its paint already sowhat flaked.
But the mont he entered the room, his movent suddenly stopped.
In the darkness, a shriveled and skeletal figure sat askew in the chair inside the room, the dim glow from the street lamp outside spilling into the room, illuminating the uninvited guest—he heard the sound of the door opening, slowly turned his head, exposing a chilling, skeleton-like smile, "Ah... Captain, you are back."
The pungent sll of alcohol hit him.
Lawrence raised his hand to switch on the room’s electric light, the bright light dispelling the darkness and making the ghastly mummified figure not appear too eerie, he looked at the other with a furrowed brow and a serious expression, "Sailor? What are you doing here instead of staying in your own room?"
"Captain..." the sailor said, tilting his head, his entire head seeming as though it was about to tear off from his neck, dangling listlessly. He was holding a huge bottle of liquor, casually gulping big swallows down his throat. The liquid flowed freely through the hole in his chest and the slit in his neck, trickling down onto the floor, "In my own room, I found this—don’t get wrong, sir, I didn’t steal... didn’t steal your things. I know the rules, stealing from the captain would get hanged from the mast..."
Lawrence saw the other’s appearance and felt a surge of anger rising subconsciously, but then he sensed sothing was off. He furrowed his brows and approached the corpse, glancing at the bottle of liquor in its hand, "What have you let ’possess’ you again?"
While speaking, he slightly lifted his arm, and a wisp of translucent Spectral Fla leapt and rose at his fingertips.
However, the "sailor," who would normally jump at the sight of Spiritual Fire, showed no such reaction this ti. The dried-up corpse simply set the bottle on a table nearby and stared blankly at the small fla on the old captain’s fingertip. Several seconds passed before he slowly raised his head, "Captain, I’m fine. I just rembered sothing."
Lawrence’s brow furrowed tightly, fixing his gaze on this seemingly off-kilter abnormality as he slowly began, "...Rembered sothing?"
"I used to be a person, it seems," the corpse used its hand to prop itself up, apparently trying to adjust its sitting position. After several attempts, it still didn’t succeed, "We went to a place far, far away, and then... it took us a very long ti to return to this damned Endless Sea..."
...
Frem awoke suddenly from his routine ditation, the visions transmitted by the flas causing his mind to throb with pain.
This Senkin People Pope, resembling a small giant, opened his eyes abruptly, seeing that he was still kneeling in the prayer room, with flas blazing in the fire basin before him.
Shadows of those visions seed to linger in the dancing firelight, gradually collapsing as ti passed.
The Pope of the Fla Transmitter furrowed his brow, eyeing the fire basin for a while before suddenly realizing sothing, he stood up abruptly and walked towards the door.
The sudden appearance of the Pope startled the clergyn waiting outside the prayer room, one of the guards, wearing a black and red robe, imdiately stepped forward to ask, "What’s wrong?"
"I’m going to the archive," Frem stated without looking back, "No need for others to follow, make sure the annual pillar’s bonfire is well guarded."
The guard priests glanced at each other.
At this mont, Frem strode rapidly through the hallway outside the prayer room—after leaving the inner sanctuary, his figure suddenly transford into a flowing light of fire, transferring between the countless candelabra, fire basins, and bonfires within the sanctuary, almost instantly passing through the entire upper level of the ark, arriving at the most central building of the entire Fla Transmitter ark.
Located below the "Great Bonfire," protected by a heavy stone do, the "archive" housed and recorded countless historical scrolls and precious stone tablets.
The archive was well lit, and rows upon rows of sturdy, heavy shelves stood like great walls within the vast hall. These shelves, more robust than any standard bookshelves, were placed on long tracks. Hidden traction chanisms within the tracks, powered by steam engines, allowed for the shelves to be moved between the interior book repository and the exterior reading area at will.
However, Frem’s target was not those towering walls of bookshelves but rather the "secret chamber" deeper inside the archive.
He made his way past all the shelves and tracks to the stone wall at the end of the hall—where two knights, clad in thick armor and wielding fla-shaped greatswords, barred his path.
"The secret chamber is sealed," said the knight, his voice low and muffled under his heavy helt. Even though he was addressing the Pope, he maintained ticulous fulfillnt of his duty. "May I inquire as to the purpose of your visit?"
"I need to consult the slabs left by the forr Popes," Frem said in a deep voice. "I suspect that a historical tiline penetration event has occurred."
There was a faint sound of joint friction and clashing emanating from beneath the knights’ armor.
"...The tifra?" another knight asked.
"Between the City-State calendar years of 1600 and 1755," Frem replied.
The two knights exchanged glances, each stepped aside, and with their fla-shaped greatswords raised, they placed them above two slots on the ground in front of the stone wall. One of them then cautiously looked at Frem: "Please confirm the current ti."
"City-State calendar, January 22nd, 1902."
The fla-shaped greatswords were inserted into the slots on the ground, and as the chanisms whirred and roared into action, the stone wall slowly receded backward.
"Confird, City-State calendar, January 22nd, 1902," the Firekeeper knight stated solemnly. "Please return before the end of the day. I wish you safety."
...
"We have lost contact with the Sea Song," the middle-aged man dressed in the Deep Sea Church’s vestnts bowed his head before Helena, his tone filled with unease and discouragent. "They maintained intermittent communication with the temporary lighthouse for one hour after crossing the 6-mile threshold, then all went silent."
The cleric paused for a mont before adding, "After the failure of spiritual energy communication, we took a risk with radio transmissions, but still received no signal from the Sea Song."
After a brief silence, Helena slowly nodded her head.
"You may leave."
"Yes, Pope."
The middle-aged cleric bowed and exited the room, which once again fell silent.
After a long while, Helena rose from her chair. She slowly made her way to the statue of the Storm Goddess Gomona, tossing a Sea Breath Wood talisman into the brazier at the foot of the statue, then looked up to gaze at the veiled visage of the goddess.
The face of the goddess was obscured behind the veil, elusive like the unpredictable waves and fate.
"...the Pioneers we sent to find you have gone missing. Have they safely reached your realm? Or... have they beco lost in the vast nothingness beyond the world?"
The goddess remained silent, not even the soft sound of waves reached her.
Ti passed indeterminably until Helena finally sighed quietly. She withdrew her gaze from the statue and looked down at the brazier that was burning brightly.
"Rune, the Deep Sea Church’s expeditionary fleet sent beyond the border has lost contact," she whispered to the brazier, "Will you continue with the plan on your end?"
"Continue," Rune’s voice emanated from the flas, "’Mathematical Pattern’ has completed preparations and will leave the port for the southern border in twenty-four hours—we’ve detected a stronger signal in that direction, which might be more successful than the Sea Song."
Helena listened and nodded slightly, then after a mont’s contemplation, she said, "As for Banster’s side..."
She was cut off mid-sentence by a sudden bursting crackle from the brazier.
Her eyes widened in surprise—Frem’s voice unexpectedly resounded from the fire: "Apologies for interrupting, but I bring urgent news pertaining to the Sea Song."
"Frem?" Helena exclaid, surprised, then imdiately grasped the situation, "You’re talking about the Sea Song? Do you have news of the Sea Song?!"
"Yes," the fire crackled, Frem’s voice sounding sowhat distorted, "The Sea Song has returned."
"The Sea Song has returned?" Helena’s shock was unmistakable, "When? How did I not know..."
"December 1675," Frem stated calmly.
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