Chapter 137: “The Bright Star”
This Translation is hosted on bcatranslation
Nestled beyond the city-states of Pland and Lansa in the northern territories lay a vast expanse of water known ominously as the “Cold Sea.” This frost-laden maritime domain was an essential part of the “Great Cross Route,” a labyrinthine network of trade passages that attracted merchants and adventurers from far and wide. Unlike the temperate, hospitable southern seas, the Cold Sea was a realm of relentless cold, its sky often churning with storm clouds, reluctant to allow even a glimmer of sunshine.
The sea itself was perilous, teeming with sharp, crystalline shards of ice that drifted with the currents. These icy fragments were more than mere scenery; they posed a constant navigational nightmare for even the most seasoned sailors. If these smaller icy threats weren’t enough, hulking icebergs could unpredictably surface from the ocean’s shadowy depths. These looming monoliths of frozen water not only endangered vessels that strayed too close but also acted as formidable natural barricades, complicating passage between the islands that dotted the sea.
Yet, for all the natural hazards the Cold Sea presented, the most feared entity in these frigid waters was neither an element nor a mythical sea beast from ancient lore but a man: Tyrian Abnomar, the dreaded pirate captain and progeny of the infamous Duncan Abnomar. With an iron fist, Tyrian commanded an undead armada that had been the scourge of these critical trade routes for half a century, showing no inclination to relinquish his reign of terror.
Perched on the periphery of an isolated island, hidden from prying eyes by uncanny ocean currents and impenetrable banks of fog, lay Tyrian’s flagship—a colossal steel warship cloaked in iron-gray paint. Its architecture was imposing, featuring harsh, angular lines and a towering, intimidating bow. The dockside was a hive of frenzied activity, as laborers, suppliers, and undead sailors rushed to refuel, repair, and restock the imposing vessel.
To those familiar with the history of Frost, there was an unsettling peculiarity about these sailors. They wore naval uniforms reminiscent of designs popularized fifty years ago, adorned with white emblems on their chests—a symbolic gesture generally reserved for mourning or commemoration.
Inside the captain’s quarters on the upper deck of this metallic leviathan, a tall, lean figure was engrossed in a parchment scroll. Tyrian Abnomar, clad in a pitch-black naval overcoat, had striking features: a prominent nose and deep-set eye sockets that lent him an almost haunting visage. Despite his grim appearance, Tyrian was well-groomed, except for the eyepatch that obscured his left eye, an emblematic testament to his piratical identity.
Perched nearby on a sturdy wooden frame was a vividly colorful parrot named Perley. The avian companion appeared entranced by an arcane contraption beside its master—a mechanical marvel composed of complex lenses, diminutive rocker arms, and an ornate crystal ball at its core.
“Perley, if you dare lay a feather on that device, I’ll banish you to the Bright Star next month, where you can mingle with restless spirits and forsaken marionettes,” Tyrian cautioned, not diverting his gaze from the scroll he was examining.
“Ah, cruelty!” the parrot shrieked, rattling its wooden perch as if mimicking a petulant child. “Ah, cruel! What a cruel captain Tyrian is!”
Somewhat irked, Tyrian furrowed his brow and muttered under his breath, “I should have inquired who in the nine hells taught you to vocalize such nonsense. Can’t you muster anything else to say?”
The vibrant parrot named Perley, a dazzling array of colors adorning its plumage, rustled its feathers energetically before extending its wings in a theatrical display of self-contentment. “Perley learned it himself! Perley learned it himself!” it squawked in a tone bursting with avian pride, almost as if boasting an academic achievement.
A growing sense of irritation sent a throb through Tyrian’s temple. Rubbing the spot to dispel the annoyance, he muttered, “For heaven’s sake, not that catchphrase again…”
Before he could continue his lament, a distinct, formal knock on the door severed the momentary banter between pirate captain and parrot.
“Enter,” Tyrian commanded, swiveling his sharp gaze toward the source of the knock.
The door creaked open in a foreboding manner, and into the room walked Aiden—a towering, bald figure whose appearance was profoundly unsettling. Aiden’s skin possessed an ashen pallor reminiscent of a long-drowned corpse, and his eyes looked shrouded in an everlasting, cloudy mist. The air around him carried a faint, brackish aroma, suggesting he had just emerged from the watery depths of an oceanic grave. In truth, Aiden was an animated corpse, an undead whose existence was confined to this mortal realm but absent the gift of life.
Casting an inquisitive eye upon his first mate, Tyrian questioned, “Aiden, what is the status of our fuel reserves?”
“Almost at full capacity, Captain,” Aiden replied, bowing subtly. His voice was imbued with the coarse, guttural timbre one might associate with the undead. “The boiler chambers are in the process of preheating.”
“A job well done,” Tyrian responded, nodding his approval. “How do things stand at Cold Port?”
“Silent as the depths of a forgotten crypt,” Aiden sneered, disdain lacing his otherwise flat voice. “Their spineless leaders wouldn’t dare venture into our waters. Even if only a fraction of our Mist Fleet patrolled the Cold Sea, they would think twice before interfering with our activities.”
Tyrian chuckled sardonically. “Their pragmatism hasn’t wavered since we started making their trade routes into our hunting grounds. Get everything ready; we sail at the appointed hour.”
“As you wish, Captain,” Aiden rasped, shuffling out with a gait that emphasized his zombified condition. The door shut with a final, echoing thud.
In the ensuing solitude, Tyrian pondered the chilling reality that his crew—save for himself—were the undead. Yet, on some existential level, he too was a man suspended between the realms of the living and the dead, his existence elongated unnaturally by arcane forces from subspace. The thought was deeply unsettling but mitigated by the comforting fact that he had shared this uncanny existence with a fiercely loyal crew for over five decades.
Shaking his head to dislodge these ruminations, Tyrian refocused just as the enigmatic brass contraption beside him sprung into action. The gears clicked, the rocker’s arms rotated, and lenses shifted, culminating in a mesmerizing mechanical ballet. Gradually, the crystal ball at the heart of the device began to luminesce, unveiling an indistinct image within its glowing core.
Emerging from the misty obscurity of the glowing sphere was the image of a young woman with long, cascading locks of obsidian hair. She wore a form-fitting black dress of silk, and an ethereal aura enveloped her, hinting at her magical origins—perhaps a witch or sorceress.
“Lucretia,” Tyrian intoned, surprise and suspicion in his voice as he peered intently at the apparition. “What an unexpected pleasure. I hadn’t anticipated you’d send well-wishes, especially on the eve of my expedition.”
For a split second, Lucretia’s expression faltered, showing genuine astonishment. “You’re setting sail today?”
A furrow etched itself between Tyrian’s eyebrows, deepening his confusion. “Wasn’t the purpose of your call to bid me a safe journey?”
“Actually, no,” Lucretia said, swiftly regaining her composure. “I’ve had a mishap. My ocean detection device exploded.”
A muscle in Tyrian’s jaw twitched, betraying his consternation. Before he could respond, Lucretia continued, “The damage is mostly reparable, but I’ve encountered difficulties sourcing a replacement for the core crystal lens.”
Managing to keep a lid on his frustration, Tyrian wore a mask of impassivity. “Lucretia, only two city-states possess the technology to craft spirit lenses to your specifications. Distribution is tightly regulated by the Truth Academy. You’re aware of the scarcity. And it hasn’t been more than two months since your last… incident.”
“But this mineral sample might interest you,” Lucretia insisted, grasping at straws. “It likely originated from a subterranean oceanic layer.”
Tyrian was unyielding. “Fascinating as they may be, ocean floor minerals, even those valuable to the Truth Academy, don’t justify the risk and rarity of the lens you seek.”
Undeterred, Lucretia added another bargaining chip. “I also have residual phantoms from a recent border collapse.”
Tyrian winced, running his hands over his scalp in exasperation. “Lucretia, the blunt reality is I cannot procure a replacement lens at this stage.”
Pausing to consider her options, a new idea dawned on Lucretia. “What about a heist?”
“The Mist Fleet is shifting towards legitimate avenues,” Tyrian said, resignation in his voice. “We’re increasingly deriving revenue from protection fees, not plunder.”
Lucretia shrugged, her demeanor turning flippant. “Fine, forget it then.” Her next remark nearly sent Tyrian into disbelief. “I’ll just inquire again tomorrow.”
Defeated and emotionally drained, Tyrian sighed deeply, feeling it was the last in a series of sighs characterizing this conversation. “Very well, my indomitable sister. Your relentless pursuit of knowledge is both your curse and charm. How have you been, the revered explorer of the unknown? Discovered any new omens of our world’s downfall?”
“I detect sarcasm, dear Brother,” Lucretia observed, her face a mask of neutrality. “Your skepticism towards my quest for the mysteries at our world’s peripheries is no secret. While you may not share my zeal for uncovering mystical anomalies, I appreciate your grudging support. But remember the prophetic warning our father left us.”
Tyrian reclined, fingers tapping an uneven rhythm as if signaling a symphony of thoughts. “Our world is but a dying ember in the eternal night, slowly fading into darkness,” he muttered, as if reciting a verse from forgotten scripture. “I’ve often wondered what horrors drove our father to such a bleak prophecy. By then, his mind was fraying, deteriorating with the realities he unearthed. Your endeavors now echo his ill-fated quest, and we both know the toll it took on his mind.”
His eyes met the ethereal image of his sister, the amber light casting eerie shadows across his face. His expression was a kaleidoscope of concern, resignation, and a glint of dread. “Lucretia, we’ve lost one family member to the unknowable’s chasm, consumed by obsessions. The thought of you becoming the next Abnomar ensnared by such dark fascinations is too harrowing to entertain.”
So the world is one large illusion, a gestalt mind?
The world is composed of the flotsam of ruined worlds tied together into a makeshift island of order.
The sea is representative of a sort of primordial chaos outside the boundaries of any world and largely undefined. It erodes everything, but powerfully established beings can maintain their existence long enough to possibly “wash up” somewhere, just likely gone mad in the process. Flame, on the other hand, is representative of both order and civilization. The core of this world is a handful of destroyed civilizations that collided together probably by coincidence. They’re “embers,” sparks that escaped other flames. Without igniting a true flame of its own, the embers can only slowly die out and sink into the depths.
Duncan, called the usurper of the flame, came back from the depths of subspace. When he did, he brought along the consciousness of a being from a world thoroughly ruled by order: Earth. In a world of embers, he brought a tiny but vigorously burning match to light it again.
Most of this has a pretty heavy speculative element, but it’s what I think the story is trying to express, here.
Wow, thank you for the well-crafted explanation! I wasn’t really thinking about the rest of the symbolism in the story, which you’ve done well to describe.
Your explanation somehow really inspired me till I get a goosebumps like I was literally proud to be a human. After all our civiliziation is indeed built by a spark and it then turned into what we have now.
Ik right! There’s a collection of stories written by a large online community called Humans, Fuck Yeah! Or HFY for short. In them, humans are the boogeymen of the universe, essentially like the Hulk comparatively in levels of strength/toughness. Earth is classified as a hellworld, one that would wipe out any other spacefaring species that landed on it. I have a hard time getting into it because it’s not one whole story but a semi-disjointed collection of small ones, but it’s fun for a while.
Oh maybeee they might be happy to see Captain Duncan 😀