As the fleet sailed further north, the surrounding temperature beca increasingly cold, as if "cold" had beco a certain "attribute" of the entire sea area ahead, and no amount of fire or warm clothing could truly bring warmth, only slightly delaying the invasion of the cold.
In such a frigid and endless night, the ships of the Deep Sea Church delivered the last batch of docunts to the Church Ark of the Fire Transmitter—they ca from the darkness, docked beside the Fire Transmitter’s Ark for several hours, then returned to the deep night.
Frem stood on the high tower of the Church Ark, looking at the gradually blurring silhouettes on the distant sea, the distant sound of steam whistles still echoing in the night sky, eventually dissolving into the wind.
"This might be our last ti seeing other people from the civilized world," said the towering Senkin Pope, turning his head to the priestess standing beside him, "After this, the temple will remain in the north—the Ark is the archive, the archive is the Ark."
"We are all prepared for this," the priestess calmly spoke, "We will stop in that eternal ice, watching over the last flicker of light after the night, until the end of this long night... It’s an honor to follow you here, Your Holiness."
Frem paused for a mont, then softly said, "Yes, I feel honored too."
In his field of vision, at a vast distance ahead of the Ark fleet, a fuzzy white silhouette was quietly erging on the sea.
That was the frozen sea area in the far north of the Chill Sea, the coldest place in the world, where everything freezes in the ice and reaches eternity—that is the destination of the Fire Transmitter.
anwhile, in Frost City-State, Tyrion was standing on the high balcony of the governnt hall, quietly watching the countless lights and the densely packed rooftops in the distant streets below.
The Sun Shard had left the City-State, with the tugboat taking the large luminous geotric body to places that needed it more many days ago. Now, the entire city was being lit by artificial lights; bright streetlights and the lights of thousands of hos converging into rivers in the night, outlining every part of the city, continuing the order and peace of the civilized world.
People seed to have gradually adapted to this prolonged night.
The new curfew system was being implented smoothly, factories and markets, after initial tensions and chaos, were now operating orderly again. Residents reduced the frequency of leaving their hos, but within the allowed ti fra, everyone still tried to maintain their daily lives as much as possible. There had been a few rat-led destructive activities against the city in the gutters, but they were quickly subdued by the combined forces of the guardians and law enforcent officers.
Now, the "Sunshine Fleet" dragging the Sun Shard was cruising in the vast ocean between the City-States, and the huge convoy of cargo ships sailing with the Sunshine Fleet was moving in the night, restoring six or seven-tenths of the major logistics between the City-States. The periodic arrival of "sunlight" also greatly reduced the pressure cities faced against the night, and although the incidents of twisted mutations in various places were increasing, at least the guardians now had a chance to breathe—
They were facing tougher challenges than before, but at least it was no longer an endless despairing darkness.
Sotis, Tyrion would even think that all of this could continue running for a long ti—a new balance had been established, and civilization had shown remarkable adaptability in this long night. People were now accustod to this long night, the union of City-States, the curfew system, the new night watch order, cruising sunlight... These things seed sufficient to sustain the whole world for a while, if not forever.
But whenever he thought this, he would suddenly wake up and realize that all of this was just an illusion of temporary peace brought by the night.
The world was sliding towards its end, faster than anyone could imagine.
Because he knew of the gods’ "decay", the slow and unstoppable disintegration happening within the foundations of the world, influenced by his father, he knew many things.
But... what would others think? The Governors of other City-States, the managers of the Church, the guardians and law enforcent officers, and the ordinary people living in the cities... had they also fallen into that illusory calm without realizing it?
"...Maybe it’s not a bad thing," Tyrion murmured to himself softly.
Aiden’s voice ca from beside him: "Ah? What’s not a bad thing?"
"Nothing, just talking to myself," Tyrion turned his gaze away from the distant street lights back to Aiden’s shiny bald head, "What were we discussing just now?"
"About the production adjustnts in several factories in the Lower City District," Aiden paused for a mont, quickly catching on before continuing, "The coordination committee believes there is a slight deficit in fuel production capacity currently, although it’s not a major issue now, it will get worse over ti..."
"I understand, I’ve already reviewed that report this noon. Tell the coordination committee that the city hall will respond before tomorrow morning," Tyrion waved his hand, "Anything else?"
"Um..." Aiden hesitated, speaking tentatively, "Also, the Great Furnace reported sothing a bit... strange."
"So strange occurrences?" Tyrion frowned slightly with displeasure, "Don’t beat around the bush, is this how you report?"
Aiden quickly cleared his throat, adjusted his posture and expression, and began, "A departnt reported that they haven’t had any tasks for a while, and the head of that departnt feels... sothing’s odd."
Tyrion’s brow furrowed deeper, he suddenly felt a bit uneasy, sensing that so information was slipping from his mind: "...A departnt? What do you an ’a departnt’? Exactly which departnt is it?"
"I don’t know, the content of the report is a bit chaotic, it was delivered to my office, but I can’t find out who sent it. Many words on it are illegible..."
As Aiden explained, his expression grew more puzzled, his voice slowed down bit by bit, and towards the end, it was as if a jamd automaton was squeezing out words one by one: "...I only rember... they... were responsible... for burning..."
Aiden stopped, standing there motionlessly, looking at Tyrion with a sowhat blank expression.
After another two or three seconds, he suddenly seed to wake up with a visible shudder, and then resud speaking smoothly and naturally: "... The production capacity of the Boiling Gold Mines has recovered to the levels before ’Nightfall’, and the surplus ore is being loaded onto ships, to be delivered on order during the next passage of the Sunshine Fleet..."
Yet Tyrion seed to have completely ignored these reports about the Boiling Gold Mines, the instant Aiden resud speaking, he stared intently at him, his gaze even sowhat terrifying, causing Aiden to hesitate and stop midway, his expression uneasy under the heavy and inexplicable pressure: "Uh... Is there sothing wrong with what I said?"
"Aiden," Tyrion still stared intensely at this subordinate who had followed him for a century, his tone especially solemn, "Do you rember what you were reporting just now?"
Aiden paused, cautiously looking at Tyrion: "Uh... The production capacity of the Boiling Gold Mines, adjustnts in production at several factories in the Lower City District, the Coordination Committee’s warnings about insufficient fuel? Earlier we were discussing the Fire Transmitter fleet heading north..."
He hesitated and stopped, seeing that Tyrion’s expression had grown even more troubled.
"The Great Furnace," Tyrion’s face was grave, "Do you rember the report you received from a departnt of the Great Furnace?"
Aiden looked bewildered: "...What report?"
Tyrion didn’t speak; he just lifted his head, looking towards the edge of the Upper City District, towards... a certain graveyard.
A swirling wind passed through the night, sweeping through the alleys, and entered deep into the graveyard, carrying gray-white dust in the wind, which then materialized into the form of Agatha.
Today, she had shed her bishop’s black dress and was back in her light armor and combat coat from her days as a gatekeeper, and a faint greenish fire danced in the cracked wounds on her cheeks and arms like those on a broken puppet. She hurried from the grand death cathedral of the Upper City District to this place, but upon entering the graveyard, the anxious Death Priest saw a scene she had not anticipated.
The tall, bandage-wrapped Tomb Guardian "Duncan" was standing next to the morgue table on a small path, helping a shaky figure to climb out from a nearby coffin, a figure who was clearly a corpse until very recently — his neck bent at an eerie angle, his head lolling onto one shoulder, he climbed down the platform with stiff, slow movents, his joints occasionally making unsettling cracking sounds.
The towering, somber-looking Tomb Guardian "Duncan," while helping the corpse down from the platform, spoke very calmly, advising: "...Yes, so headache is normal, it might get better once you’re ho... You’ll need to brace your neck, either a wooden brace or fire tongs will do. Stay positive, think of it as if you had too much to drink and got lost overnight, your family won’t hold it against you—they’ll welco you back, and there’s certainly more like you."
While he was speaking, another sound of a coffin lid opening ca from another morgue table, an elderly man with white hair sat up, looking around sowhat bewilderingly: "Why am I sleeping here? I feel a tightness in my chest..."
"Just wait, I’ll help you down," Duncan imdiately went over, "Don’t co down by yourself, you might not heal if you break a leg... Take a breath, tightness is normal, you’ve been holding it for quite a while... Yes, keep breathing, take a deep breath—"
Duncan suddenly stopped, turned his head, and looked at the gatekeeper lady who was sowhat stunned standing on the path.
"Oh, you’ve co," he greeted calmly.
"...Mr. Duncan," Agatha watched the scene in disbelief, "What are you doing?"
"It seems your awareness hasn’t been fully corrected," Duncan spoke indifferently, then turned his head back to his ’work,’ "As you see, I’m sending my temporary ’guests’ back."
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