Chapter 88: The Evil God at Sea

Chapter 88: The Evil God on the Sea

In the darkness, an old voice confessed.

"I am a sinner."

"I've hurt the ones I love. So I've spent a long time making up for it."

"Have the ones I hurt forgiven me?"

*

The vast, endless Eastern Sea rolled with blue waves. A three-masted ship, riding the southwest wind, plowed through the waves heading north. White seagulls circled the masts, and some, to save energy, just perched on the ship.

A pod of dolphins leaped out of the sparkling waves nearby. The sailors cheered excitedly at the sight. At sea, seeing dolphins was a sign of good luck.

But for some passengers, their luck couldn't have been worse.

"Blaaah—"

A big group of prisoners and guards leaned over the railing, heaving their guts into the sea. In the bright sunlight, their vomit even made little rainbows.

The sailors walked by behind them, laughing: "Don't worry, you'll get used to it, land boys!"

Lyman was one of those "land boys." He slumped against the railing, his sweat-soaked silver hair stuck to his forehead. His face was pale as paper, so pale you could almost see the blue veins under his skin. His crimson eyes were watery with tears. If he walked through a graveyard looking like that, the dead would sit up and call him kin.

What made it worse was Lunast in his head, acting all surprised: "Hey, why are you puking so much? Haven't you been on a boat before? Just aim for the sea—think of it as chumming the water."

"Fine... I'll use your head as bait!" Lyman snarled.

Lyman had been on a ship to and from Prison Island, sure, but he'd been out cold the whole way there, and the way back was less than a day with calm seas. Even if he felt a little off, he could tough it out.

But this trip was a whole different story!

The Eastern Sea was way rougher than the strait around Prison Island. They'd been out on the rolling waves for two days, and the rocking boat and that damn inertia had set off seasickness in a bunch of the guards and prisoners. So Lyman and a bunch of other poor souls leaned over the railing, puking in sync, like a whole row of fountains—quite a sight.

"Uh, Lyman, you okay?" The scholar next to him looked up, his cracked glasses all fogged up with tears.

"Don't talk to me..." Lyman groaned like he was dying.

Just then, a bunch of pattering footsteps came from behind. Eric bounced over to them.

Since the ship was short on crew, some prisoners with lighter sentences and good behavior got assigned to work under the sailors. They scrubbed the decks and took care of the animals, getting an extra meal and a chance to come up top for some fresh air.

Eric was one of them. Being the youngest prisoner, he'd won over a lot of the sailors and now worked in the galley. Pretty sweet deal.

"Oh, you guys are really sick!" the freckled kid said, feeling sorry for them, hands behind his back.

He walked on the deck like it was solid ground, not bothered by the rocking at all.

Lyman looked at him, jealous: "You been on a ship before?"

"Not really, but I feel great!" Eric said, all excited.

The scholar said weakly, "He's small, so his center of gravity's lower, so he's steadier. That's gotta be it..."

"I got the boatswain to get you guys something special—it works miracles for seasickness!"

Eric winked, all mysterious, motioning for Lyman and the scholar to lean in, then brought his hand out from behind his back.

"Ta-da!" he said, all proud.

He held a little white statue, palm-sized, carved to look like a kind old woman in white robes. In one hand she held an anchor, in the other a piece of coral shaped like a branch.

"...What's that?" Lyman had been hoping Eric got some medieval seasickness cure, but this?

"This is the patron saint of the sea, fishermen, and sailors—Saint Catherine. Just pray to her, and your seasickness'll go away!"

The guards nearby and some of the more religious prisoners actually dropped to their knees right there, bowing their heads to pray.

Lyman: "..."

He had a feeling that with who he was, the saint wouldn't cure him—she'd probably turn him into a famous tourist attraction in Singapore on the spot.

*

While the prisoners were showing off their faith on deck, Inquisitor Aether Orolan sat alone in his fancy cabin.

On the small table sat an oil lamp and a silver mirror. In the mirror, it wasn't Aether's face looking back, but an old man in fancy white robes with gold tassels.

"Chief Inquisitor, sorry for contacting you so late. We've boarded the 'Star Guide.' If all goes well, we'll reach the Holy City in three weeks."

The old man in white stroked his snow-white beard and smiled warmly, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes crinkling up.

"Good work, Inquisitor Aurolan. I heard about the dangers you ran into on the way. It's no small thing you made it onto the ship safe. When you get back to the Holy City, I'll make sure you're rewarded—killing two dragons, you're a famous dragonslayer now! The knights are so jealous! Antonella's mouth nearly twisted off when she heard!"

The old man laughed hard, the mirror shaking with his laughter.

Aether stayed calm: "You're too kind. It was nothing special. By the way, how's Nashel's mission in the colonies going? When's he coming back to the Holy City?"

"Oh, I was just about to get to that." The old man's face suddenly turned serious. "Inquisitor Solaris looked into it and found who's behind the rebellion. Like you guessed, it's that 'mysterious organization'!"

"Just as I thought..."

"But their goal's a bit different from what we thought." The Chief Inquisitor lowered his voice, hissing, "They're at war with the Black Sun Cult!"

"The Black Sun Cult!" Aether's heart shook. He hadn't expected to hear that name again after leaving Cape Prison. That terrifying night resurfaced in his mind once more.

The Chief Inquisitor said, "The mysterious organization and the Black Sun Cult appear to be enemies. The two evil gods above them are locked in a fierce struggle on a higher plane."

Aether murmured, "Everything we see is just a projection of that struggle into the real world—or rather, a clash between pawns."

"Exactly! This works in our favor. Let the evil gods and their followers tear each other apart. We'll just sit back and reap the benefits."

The Chief Inquisitor changed the subject: "By the way, you passed by the border of the elven forest, didn't you?"

"Yes, we even ran into bandits there, but luckily the elven saintess came to our rescue."

Aether had already briefly reported the incident to the Chief Inquisitor at the time. He'd planned to give a more detailed report once he returned to the Holy City and met the Holy See, and to ask for an order to clear out the bandits along the border and keep order in the realm. He wondered why the Chief had suddenly brought it up.

"Actually, something serious happened in the elven forest not long ago." The Chief's expression darkened. "The Dawnlight Knights stationed at Whispering Bay reported that the forest has turned dark and creepy, animals are fleeing in panic, the statues along the Statue Road vanished overnight, and travelers say they've seen the statues walking through the forest, like they'd come to life."

Deep furrows formed between Aether's brows. Walking statues. Sounded like nothing but folk superstition. If these reports hadn't come from the knights, he would've laughed them off.

"How have the elves responded?"

"After the knights noticed something was off, they sent a group of envoys into the forest to check on the Verdant Court, but they ran into the Court's guards at the forest's edge.

"According to them, a coup went down in the Verdant Court. The saintess seized the Court by force and stripped all the Holy Descendant families of their titles, on the grounds that—the Holy Councilor had colluded with the evil god's followers, endangering the elven race and destroying the Sacred Tree."

Aether's body jolted: "The evil god's followers! Could it be..."

"Exactly." The Chief's blue eyes flashed with sharp light. "It's the Black Sun Cult!"

Aether suddenly felt a chill. Though the sun was high in the sky, the cabin inexplicably grew dim. He quickly pulled the oil lamp closer, hoping the feeble flame could drive away the cold creeping over him.

After the Cape Prison incident, the Black Sun Cult had now appeared in the Great Forest—what could this possibly mean?

The Chief continued: "The Knights also learned a concrete piece of information: during the coup at the Verdant Court, there was a faction supporting the Saintess. They were mysterious figures clad in black robes."

"The Mysterious Organization?!" Aether raised an eyebrow.

"This corroborates Solaris's findings—the Mysterious Organization and the Black Sun Cult are indeed at odds with each other. Wherever the Black Sun Cult appears, the Mysterious Organization is sure to follow, like hounds on the trail of their prey.

"Of course, it's still unclear whether the Holy Councilor truly colluded with the Black Sun Cult, or whether that was merely a pretext for the Saintess to make her move. But the Verdant Court coup is certainly linked to some covert organization. The Stellar Conjunction has arrived, and shadows across every corner of the world are beginning to stir. Our Tribunal will face severe trials in the days ahead."

Aether said solemnly: "Rooting out heresy is exactly our duty!"

"Next, investigating these two organizations will become the Tribunal's top priority. Keep an eye out for any information on them during your journey. If you recall anything relevant, report to me at once."

"Understood!"

The Chief gave a few more instructions about sailing precautions, and the communication ended.

Ripples spread across the silver mirror's surface. When they subsided, Aether's own reflection replaced the white-bearded elder's image.

He sighed, put the mirror away, extinguished the lamp, and pushed open the door to step onto the deck.

The crisp sea breeze helped him breathe easier. Having spent too long in the cramped cabin, he desperately needed open space to clear his head.

Once I return to the Holy City, I'll probably be partnered with Nashel again to investigate the Black Sun Cult or the Mysterious Organization, he thought.

Neither organization was a walk in the park. The coming fight would be a tough one.

Just then, Aether noticed a pile of people sprawled every which way by the railing. A few seagulls perched on the mast, cackling loudly as if mocking them.

Among them was Layman Vichard. Even in prison clothes, his silver hair and crimson eyes made him stand out anywhere—not to mention he was already quite the looker.

Years of imprisonment hadn't dimmed his good looks; if anything, they'd given him a melancholic, delicate air—just like the "delicate young lord" type from those trashy novels Nashel loved.

At the moment, Layman Vichard was heaving his guts out. Eric was dancing around him like a shaman, waving the Patron Saint statue.

Aether couldn't help but chuckle, remembering how he'd once mistaken Layman Vichard for a cult leader. If only this frail silver-haired kid really were a cult leader—that'd make things a whole lot easier for the Tribunal. Too bad things rarely go the way you want.

Aether shook his head and strolled past them, hands clasped behind his back.

*

Whether the prayers actually worked or he'd finally gotten used to the sea's fury, by dusk the scholar actually felt a bit better. (Of course, it could also have been a last gasp before kicking the bucket.)

As for Lyman... sadly, he still looked half-dead. The scholar blamed his seasickness on "not enough faith" and insisted on dragging him into prayer.

Eric brought them some oatmeal. Lyman managed a few sips, just enough to stave off death by dehydration or starvation.

He leaned back against the railing, letting the wind mess up his silver hair. His crimson eyes narrowed, catching the lantern light from the mast like rubies that kept glowing after dark.

"I wanna go back," he said weakly. "I gotta look after the animals."

That was a lie. Ever since he'd hit "Friend of All Things," the animals had become so well-behaved they were practically self-sufficient. Of course, they only behaved when Lyman was around. With anyone else, they'd make it crystal clear what wild beasts could do.

This had also made Lyman indispensable on the ship. As the horse whisperer and translator, he'd scored a hammock in the cargo hold, avoiding the stinking, dark lower deck packed with the other prisoners.

He'd just gotten up when the lookout up on the mast suddenly blew a long, drawn-out horn.

"Storm Fleet spotted to the southeast!"

At the horn, sailors poured onto the deck, scrambling into position like the enemy was already on them. Captain Brochester climbed up to the sterncastle and squinted through his brass telescope.

"Damn! It really is the Storm Fleet!" He let loose a string of curses, then roared in a voice like thunder: "Hard to port! Full sails! Gunners stand by, but hold your fire—let's see if we can outrun those freaks!"

The sailors immediately trimmed the sails. The helmsman gritted his teeth and threw his whole weight on the wheel: "Hard a-port, Captain!"

Aether, who'd just walked by, turned around and stood next to Lyman, staring grimly at the horizon, his right hand clamped on his sword hilt.

Lyman didn't have a telescope, and his eyes weren't as sharp as the lookout's. All he could make out was a tiny black dot flickering in and out at the line where water met sky.

"That's a ship?" He shielded his eyes. "What's the Storm Fleet? Pirates?"

A sailor came up behind Lyman, clutching his curved blade nervously, and said in some small western country's language: "Nothing that cute! The Storm Fleet's monsters roaming the seas—whalebone ships, undead sailors, and sea beasts. Pirates just want your money; the Storm Fleet wants your life!"

Aether couldn't understand a word and signaled Lyman to translate. Lyman translated it all, and the Inquisitor gave a wry smile.

"It's not that mystical. The Storm Fleet is an independent force at sea that doesn't communicate with any nation on land. Sometimes they wipe out pirates, other times they hijack merchant ships—they act with no discernible pattern. No one knows their true nature. Supposedly, anyone who's seen them is already at the bottom of the sea keeping company with mermaids.

"At sea, encountering the Storm Fleet is an ill omen. Well, just treat them like a natural phenomenon—similar to lightning, torrential rain, or St. Elmo's fire. Of course, the sea monster stories do seem to be true. That's why the sailors are so terrified."

The topgallant and mainsails had been lowered, catching the full force of the wind. The Star Guide fled across the sea at her maximum speed.

Meanwhile, the sailors armed themselves to the teeth, ready for a boarding action at any moment. The Saint Catherine statue in Eric's hands suddenly became the hottest commodity on board, with sailors kneeling before it one after another, praying for good fortune.

About half an hour later, as the sun was about to sink below the horizon and the eastern sky was claimed by the stars, the lookout blew his horn once more.

The sailors' taut nerves instantly relaxed. The captain ordered some sails lowered and the alert stood down.

"What does that mean?" Lyman asked. The ship's various commands were still foreign to him.

Captain Brochester walked over: "We've shaken off the Storm Fleet. They don't seem to be on the same course as us. Thank the God of Dawn! Thank Saint Catherine!"

He noticed the Patron Saint statue in Eric's hands and wore an expression of "so someone up there really was watching over me," squeezing the boy's shoulder excitedly.

Aether also released his sword hilt. He smoothed his wind-tousled golden hair and lifted the corner of his mouth: "Looks like we can get a good night's sleep tonight."

He glanced at Lyman and the others: "Prisoners, back to your quarters."

Lyman slowly got to his feet. He cast one last look at the horizon, then grabbed the scholar by the collar with effort.

"Open your damn eyes and take a good look, Nikola!" he said with a straight face. "The earth really is round!"

*

Back in the cargo hold, Lyman wearily walked past the animals ("Welcome to your inspection, sir!") and made his way to a corner where he'd set up a small hammock.

This swaying little bed was an accomplice to his seasickness. But sleeping here was still better than cramming into the stinking lower deck with dozens of men. Of course, a two-meter bed with a spring mattress would have been far preferable.

Lyman lay in the hammock like a beached dead fish, listening to the creaking of the planks as the ship rocked and the rhythmic sound of waves striking the hull.

"Lunast, do you know what the Storm Fleet is?" he asked telepathically.

"Nothing like that existed in my era," Lunast replied lazily. "Sigh, I really do feel old. These newborn monsters are so formidable! How are we outdated old-timer evil gods supposed to face this ever-changing new world?"

"If you can't beat them, join them," Lyman said casually.

He opened the Divine Casket and took out a scroll—the one he'd obtained from the airplane in the Golden City. He hadn't had a chance to study it these past days. Though seasickness was still ravaging him, he felt it was time to explore this mystery.

The shock and terror of witnessing that airplane still echoed in Lyman's soul.

That was one hundred percent an Earth-made creation. It looked like a product of the 1930s or 1940s—around World War II. Lyman wasn't an aircraft enthusiast and couldn't name the specific model, but he could roughly estimate the plane's production and service era from memory.

There was actually an airplane in the Golden City! Could it, like Lyman, have crossed over from Earth? But it must have crossed over at least a thousand years ago in this world's time. Could time on Earth flow differently than it does in this world? On Earth, less than a hundred years might have passed, but in this world, a thousand years had already gone by.

If Lyman went back to Earth, wouldn't he end up many years in the future? By then, his friends and family would have aged...

Sigh, this isn't the time to think about that. First, let's figure out what's up with the airplane and how the Golden City was destroyed.

He carefully unrolled the scroll.

The text before his eyes didn't belong to any language of this world—no wonder Tove couldn't read it. Even if he called in a learned scholar, they probably couldn't decipher the writing on it.

But Lyman could read it at a glance.

The scroll was written in English.

"That's weird, I can't read it at all," Lunast interjected. "If this really is a document from a thousand years ago, I have no reason not to understand it. I can speak most of the languages from that era."

"Of course you don't get it. This is the writing of my world," Lyman said.

Although it wasn't his native tongue, he had studied it for over ten years. Reading Earth's script in another world stirred up a feeling of running into an old friend in a foreign land.

"Oh, then translate it for me, will you? I really wanna know what it says," Lunast said, smoothly using Lyman as his personal tool.

Lyman suppressed the urge to punch him in the head and the flood of thoughts surging inside him. Fighting off his dizziness, he tried to translate the English into the language of this world.

"To whoever is reading this scroll:

I don't know who you are, or what era or country you're from. I can't even be sure anyone will ever read these words. Either way, I still want to write these words down, to record my story and the rise and fall of the Golden City.

I chose to write this in my native language for two reasons: first, I still haven't fully mastered this world's language—it's too different from mine, and the locals clearly aren't great language teachers. Second, because I want to leave a memento of my life. Even in death, I don't wish to forget my homeland.

So first, let me introduce myself. My name is Amelia Earhart, born in a world called Earth. My hometown is Atchison, Kansas, in the United States. I am a pilot."

"Ah...!" Lyman gasped, stopping short.

"What's wrong?" Lunast asked hurriedly. "It doesn't sound like anything extraordinary. Well, I'm not entirely sure what a pilot is, but..."

"I know who she is," Lyman said in a low voice.

He had once read about her in the "World's Unexplained Mysteries" column of a tabloid magazine:

Amelia Earhart, the first female pilot to fly across the Atlantic, mysteriously disappeared over the Pacific Ocean while attempting to circumnavigate the globe. Her fate remains unknown to this day, becoming one of the world's unsolved mysteries.

Now, he knew why she had disappeared. He couldn't help but tremble at the shocking truth.

She had encountered a Stellar Conjunction and come to this world.