Chapter 3 “Frontier Trek”

This translation is hosted on bcatranslation.com

A meticulously carved goat head, crafted from richly grained timber, sat majestically with a stoic, black face that stared at Duncan. He sat authoritatively behind the ship’s extensive and polished navigational table. The goat head’s eyes, carved from pure obsidian, shimmered and emitted a perplexing, almost supernatural glow. Although it was merely an inanimate artifact, devoid of emotions or perceptions, Duncan felt a peculiar sense of anticipation emanating from its wooden face.

Interestingly, this was not the first time the wooden goat head had seemingly urged him to set sail. Every time Duncan visited the ship’s command center, he felt a distinct, palpable encouragement from the sculpture, as if the seemingly sentient ship was constantly nudging him to cease his purposeless drifting on the vast ocean and quickly find a definite, predetermined path.

However, Duncan remained silent, trapped in a cocoon of thought. His normally composed face was now clouded with growing uncertainty. Amid his reflective silence, he was acutely aware of two significant dilemmas:

First, he was the only living being on this massive vessel—a sail-driven behemoth named the “Vanished,” which stretched an intimidating 150 to 200 meters, based on Duncan’s rough estimates. Ideally, maneuvering such a massive ship would require hundreds of experienced sailors. The thought of trying to navigate it alone seemed overwhelmingly impossible.

Second, beyond the practical navigation challenges, Duncan lacked basic sailing knowledge.

A wave of anxiety began to swell within him. He futilely tried to imagine what might happen if he sought navigational guidance from the bizarre, talkative wooden goat head. This thought only intensified his mounting anxiety.

Meanwhile, oblivious to its captain’s internal turmoil, Goathead asked, “Captain, do you harbor any apprehensions? If you’re worried about the Vanished, I assure you, she is ever ready to accompany you to the world’s end. Or perhaps, you’re anxious about the prospect of setting sail today due to superstitions? I’m somewhat proficient in divination. What kind do you subscribe to? Astrology, incense, crystals… Speaking of crystals, do you remember…”

Duncan tensed his facial muscles, struggling to suppress the urge to lash out at Goathead’s incessant chatter. Nevertheless, he maintained his composure and interjected, “I plan to assess the situation on the deck—stay here, quietly.”

“Understood—but I feel compelled to remind you, the Vanished has been drifting aimlessly for too long. It’s incumbent upon you to take control and steer this voyage back to its rightful course…”

Goathead responded in its typical wooden tone before, with a muted sound of wood grating, it returned to its original position. A wave of tranquil silence immediately enveloped the world around Duncan.

He drew in a deep, steady breath, allowing the rhythmic motion of his lungs to calm the agitated resonance in his mind. With a determined grip, he reached for the flintlock pistol that lay haphazardly on the table and exited the confines of the captain’s cabin.

This relatively ancient flintlock was an artifact Duncan had discovered during one of his initial explorations of the ship. He had also unearthed a single-handed sword, now faithfully suspended from his waist. These two relics had become comforting companions, providing a sense of security that buffered him during his meandering sojourns aboard the gargantuan vessel.

Throughout his explorations in the preceding days, Duncan had dedicated ample time to acquiring a rudimentary understanding of how to handle these weapons. It was reassuring to know how to use them, even though he had yet to encounter any other living creatures on the vessel aside from himself.

Chattering inanimate objects, of course, were an exception.

The tangy, salty embrace of the sea breeze collided with his face, effectively calming Duncan’s mildly irate demeanor. He ventured onto the ship’s deck outside the captain’s cabin, instinctively raising his gaze to the sky above.

The sky was shrouded in an ominous canopy of dark, foreboding clouds, effectively hiding the celestial bodies from view. The horizon was draped in a pallid, lackluster luminescence that danced over the seemingly infinite ocean surface.

This bleak, melancholic setting had prevailed since Duncan first stepped onto the ship. It had become so commonplace that he wondered if this world had any semblance of regular weather patterns, or if this gloomy, spectral marine horizon was its perpetual reality.

Reorienting his gaze, Duncan studied the door to the cabin, which stood in mute stoicism. An unknown script, meticulously inscribed into the beam, drew his attention. However, as his eyes traced the intricate carvings, an uncanny comprehension dawned upon him—the inscription read, “Door of the Lost.”

“Door of the Lost… the Vanished?” Duncan murmured to himself, a subtle undertone of sarcasm resonating in his voice. “Well, the ship certainly does justice to its moniker.”

Navigating past the cabin, he ascended a set of stairs nestled at the edge of the deck, propelling him towards the upper deck situated at the stern of the ship. Perched atop this elevated vantage point was a wooden platform, offering the most panoramic, unobstructed view on the ship, second only to the crow’s nest.

A heavy, obsidian-black helm rested on the upper deck, awaiting its helmsman. As Duncan’s eyes met the helm, he felt an inexplicable wave of urgency wash over him, quickly followed by a surge of anxiety. This sense of trepidation seemed to erupt the moment his gaze fell upon the helm, a feeling that had eluded him during his previous visits.

Mirroring his internal tumult, an abrupt gust of wind swept across the deck, ruffling the previously calm sea surface. Waves began to roil and froth, raising red flags in Duncan’s mind, even though the massive “Vanished” was far too large to be affected by such weather conditions. Led by instinct, he pivoted to face the direction of the ship’s bow.

Directly in the path of the Vanished, where the chaotic sky and the raging sea met, an unfathomably large wall of fog materialized as if from nowhere, leaving Duncan absolutely astounded. The fog sprawled out as though it had engulfed the entire world, imposing itself like an insurmountable barrier that plummeted downwards from the high heavens. But what shocked Duncan more than the fog’s intimidating size was the eerie familiarity it evoked—it bore a disconcerting resemblance to the boundless fog that often clung outside his apartment window.

The Vanished was sailing headlong towards this imposing curtain of fog!

Duncan had no understanding of the essence of this dense fog nor of the potential dangers lurking within its opaque folds, but his gut instincts were screaming a premonitory alert of a looming threat. His primal survival instinct told him that surrendering to the engulfing fog was a disastrous idea.

A sense of dread swept over him as he sprinted towards the helm platform, his heart throbbing with a visceral sense of powerlessness. Even if he managed to reach the helm, how was he, a solitary soul, expected to navigate this mammoth ship away from the impending fog-bound confrontation?

Despite his apprehensions, he found himself instinctively gravitating towards the helm. As he did so, the raspy, ominous voice of the “goat head” resonated from a brass pipe connected to the captain’s cabin. The normally bizarre creature sounded genuinely alarmed, “Captain, a border collapse has manifested ahead. We are approaching the reality limit! Alter the course immediately!”

Hearing the frenzied plea of Goathead, Duncan nearly erupted in a fit of expletives—“Alter the course” was far easier said than done. Where was he expected to conjure up a squadron of a hundred sailors to helm this gargantuan vessel?

His gaze darted upward towards the ship’s masts, only to find a handful of barren poles standing desolate on the deck, which further intensified the sinking feeling in his heart. The ship was bereft of sails to hoist, and the masts stood stark and bare!

In the throes of his emotional upheaval, Duncan didn’t even question the peculiar terminology spouted by Goathead. Almost robotically, he reached out and clasped the helm, which, for some inexplicable reason, seemed to be quivering subtly beneath his grip.

For the first time since he had found himself aboard the Vanished, he voluntarily made contact with the helm. Despite the ship’s unnerving occurrences and Goathead’s relentless prodding, Duncan had been wary about assuming control. Now, he was devoid of the luxury of hesitation.

With his mind emptied of thoughts, Duncan tightened his grip on the helm, filled with uncertainty about how he was supposed to commandeer this abandoned ghost ship by himself.

Then, in the midst of this intense uncertainty, the unthinkable happened.

An overwhelming cacophony erupted within Duncan’s mind, reverberating like the thunderous roar of a colossal crowd. It was as if tens of thousands of boisterous men had gathered on the shore, raising a celebratory din to bid him farewell on his maiden voyage. Duncan experienced an unusual sensation, one where he was no longer the sole occupant of the ship but surrounded by bustling sailors echoing his commands in a symphony of cooperation. Adding to the peculiarity, he heard the unmistakable notes of a traditional pirate ditty resonating in his ear:

Yo ho, yo ho, a pirate’s life for me

We pillage, we plunder, we rifle, and loot

Drink up, me ‘earties, yo ho

We kidnap and ravage and don’t give a hoot

Drink up me ‘earties, yo ho…..

While his mind was still grappling with this inexplicable soundscape, another oddity jolted his attention—an ethereal green flame flickering at the periphery of his vision. Upon inspection, the flame was emanating from his hand, the one tightly gripping the helm of the Vanished. Almost as quickly as he noticed it, the spectral fire spread, encompassing his entire form in an eerily glowing shroud.

As the flames danced, his physical being appeared to transmute into a ghost-like apparition. His captain’s uniform aged dramatically, looking frayed and weather-beaten as if having endured decades submerged in the sea. Beneath his now translucent flesh, Duncan could make out his own skeletal structure—a crystal-clear framework ensnared in the ghostly flame, an insatiable fire coursing through his veins like lifeblood.

Yet, no pain accompanied this transformation, no searing burn. Amidst the roar of the spectral flames, all he felt was an amplification of his consciousness in all directions.

The fire spread, cascading from the helm down to the deck, the hull, and the masts. Flames intertwined to form a web, surging from the deck like a sentient organism. They slithered up the barren masts, weaving between them to create colossal sails of luminescent fire suspended between the sea below and the encroaching fog above.

The Vanished had unfurled its newly-formed sails, teetering on the brink of the rapidly disintegrating reality barrier.

 

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