Chapter 320: Contingency 22

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The final corridor leading to the engine room was oppressive and dimly lit. The relentless mechanical vibrations and roaring noises felt as though they were drilling into one’s skull, while the lights on the walls flickered as if disturbed by unseen air currents.

Yet, these discomforts paled in comparison to the growing sense of unease and tension, and the dizziness from the gradual fragmentation of thoughts.

Belazov controlled his steps and maintained a composed expression.

The closer he got to the heart of the Seagull, the more he kept his pace steady and his demeanor calm.

Crew members lingered in the corridor, chatting while donning peculiar leather “coats,” their faces wrinkled, their voices resembling buzzing noises.

Belazov approached, his mind reminding him that these sailors were his soldiers, yet their names eluded him.

“General?” One of the soldiers stepped forward, looking at Belazov with curiosity. “Do you have any orders?”

“I’m just here to check on the engine room,” Belazov replied calmly to the unfamiliar soldier. “Stay at your posts.”

The soldier saluted and stepped back. “Yes, General.”

Belazov walked through the group, maintaining his steady pace. He could feel their gazes linger momentarily before they turned away.

“Were they really his soldiers? Were they the crew of the Seagull? Were they hidden entities? Or some kind of minions? Had they noticed? Were they on guard? Would these nameless soldiers pounce on him in the next second?”

Belazov suppressed his thoughts as he reached the engine room entrance and opened the unlocked gate.

A more intense mechanical noise assaulted him.

The steam core was running at full power, brewing an immense surge of energy within its spherical container. A complex piping system hissed on the ceiling while massive connecting rods and gears whirled rapidly in the steel frame at the chamber’s end.

The machinery seemed almost jubilant, even… fanatical.

It was as if a restless spirit was driving the heavy steel gears, pushing the ship toward civilization at maximum speed.

The hissing from the steam pipes seemed mixed with indistinct whispers.

Belazov swayed slightly but quickly steadied himself and moved toward the steam core.

A priest was swinging a censer in front of a valve. He turned to look at the general entering the engine room, the church amulet on his chest smeared with grease, blurring the sacred symbol.

“General?” The priest looked at him with curiosity. “Why are you here? This place is…”

“I came to check on the steam core,” Belazov said, his eyes on the censer in the priest’s hand—a small, fleshy orb swaying gently, its pale eye wide open at his presence.

He looked up again, observing the steam engines and the hissing pipes.

The escaping gas had a bloody hue, and the rapidly spinning gears appeared blurred and distorted, as if something was parasitizing the massive machine, replacing the once sacred steam with its malevolent essence.

The machine was desecrated—this thought flashed in Belazov’s mind but quickly vanished.

Nevertheless, he approached the steam core’s control panel. Though the colossal “steel heart” seemed normal, he slowly reached for the control panel.

“General,” a greasy mechanic suddenly appeared, blocking the control lever. “Don’t touch these; machines can be quite delicate.”

Belazov looked up at the mechanic.

The mechanic calmly met his gaze.

Suddenly, the mechanic’s lips moved slightly.

Belazov frowned, reading the mechanic’s lip movements—

“The machine is possessed, cannot be shut down or destroyed.”

Belazov was momentarily stunned and then saw the mechanic turn aside, fiddling with levers, lips moving slightly. “The priest is not to be trusted… Situation out of control… Contingency 22.”

“Contingency 22?”

Belazov’s heart tightened, but he quickly understood what he had to do.

The mechanic knew the ship’s “heart” better than anyone.

He turned and left the engine room, maintaining a calm demeanor as he returned to his captain’s quarters, bypassing other cabins.

Soldiers occasionally greeted him, some vaguely familiar, others nameless.

There must be sane and normal humans among these soldiers, but Belazov had no way to distinguish them or time to identify the other thirty humans on board besides himself and the mechanic.

He locked his quarters, went to the safe by his desk, and began turning the combination lock. As the latch clicked open, his fingers grew increasingly pale from the effort.

The safe door opened with a soft click.

Belazov’s gaze bypassed the document compartments, focusing on the red button at the bottom.

Beside the button, a line of text read: Contingency 22, for use only in extreme situations.

Belazov reached for the button and, almost simultaneously, heard a knock: “General, are you there? We’ve received instructions from Frost requiring your attention.”

It was his executive officer’s voice.

A moment of hesitation surged in Belazov’s heart, doubting his judgment.

What if there was no issue on the ship, and the problem was with him? What if he had mild contamination, causing cognitive and memory biases and hallucinations… If so, he was about to doom the ship over paranoia!

“General, are you there? We have orders from Frost…” The knocking grew urgent.

Belazov snapped out of his thoughts, realizing those ideas were out of character… He wasn’t one to hesitate at the final step.

Someone was injecting “impurities” into his thoughts!

“Damn heretics!” Belazov pressed the red button without hesitation.

An instant later, a terrifying explosion engulfed the ship—the mechanical Seagull was enveloped in light and flames, torn apart by the blast.

The burning wreckage floated briefly before ocean currents pushed it north toward Frost. Eventually, the fiery remains sank faster, as if dragged by an invisible force, disappearing beneath the waves.

…

Meanwhile, near Cemetery No. 3 in Frost, an elderly, slightly hunched caretaker in a black coat slowly returned from the city.

He had just bought necessities from a nearby street and was hurrying back to his “post” before his shift change.

The path to the cemetery was quiet, with few passersby. Those who did pass unconsciously kept a distance from the somber old man.

It wasn’t dislike but a touch of fear. Not solely from the cemetery’s eerie atmosphere but also from the old man’s cold, reclusive nature. Compared to other caretakers, this old man from Cemetery No. 3 was the most intimidating.

He had been at his post so long he seemed to have absorbed some “aura” of the dead.

This led to terrifying rumors—people often claimed to see pale lights above the cemetery fence at night, suggesting the caretaker’s soul had left his body. Others said the frightening old man lay in a coffin at midnight, joining the dead, awakening at sunrise.

These eerie rumors surrounded the cemetery and its caretaker, but the reclusive old man seemed indifferent. He rarely interacted with nearby residents, spending most of his time in the cemetery’s cottage, venturing out only for necessities.

Naturally, he saw nothing wrong with this.

Keeping the living away from the world of the dead, ensuring they didn’t harbor excessive curiosity, and allowing the dead to rest was his duty.

He guarded the cemetery and the city beyond.

The old man looked up at the cemetery gate and suddenly stopped.

Today seemed unusual.

There was a small visitor.

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