Chapter 37: “The Cycle of Life and Death”
This chapter is available at bcatranslation.com.
A cult member whispered anxiously, “One of our brethren is barely clinging to life,” as he glanced toward another member sprawled weakly on the cold ground. He noted the man’s eyes flickering between consciousness and unconsciousness, devoid of any sign of awareness or intent.
“He may still be alive,” murmured another cult member softly, “but the day’s end bell has already rung. It is not right for him to pass away here in this sacred chamber. May the Almighty Lord grant him a peaceful transition into the shadow realm.”
The man lying on the worn fabric twitched his fingers slightly, a feeble sign of his awareness of his critical condition. Clearly, he did not wish to die in this manner, yet death seemed to grip him persistently. Presently, his fellow sun-worshippers viewed him as a potential threat who needed to be removed from their hallowed space.
A tense, heavy silence enveloped the chamber, filled with the gravity of the life-or-death decision that loomed over them. Breaking the silence, a man clad in black robes, previously critical of the Storm Church, suggested, “Let’s allow him a little more time. Transformation doesn’t occur immediately upon death.”
“Then let patience be our guide,” agreed another disciple in a gentle voice, dressed in black robes, as he looked compassionately at the dying sun-worshipper. “But why has his health deteriorated so abruptly? Are we certain this is natural?”
“I’m familiar with him… He operates a small antique shop in the city’s poorer district. Unfortunately, he deals in counterfeit items, which hasn’t helped his business,” a quiet believer chimed in. “His health was already fragile when he joined us. The long hours in these damp, gloomy sewers, combined with the shock from today’s events, likely worsened his condition.”
The gentle-voiced disciple in black robes appeared relieved by this explanation. While he was not a “priest” like the emissary, his extensive years of dedicated service had given him profound knowledge of various occult practices. He understood the risks associated with improperly conducted rituals, like the one attempted today. His main concern now was the identity of the unfortunate soul who had become a “vessel” for such dangers.
If not for the deeply held belief that “all sun-worshippers are kin” and the support of a few devoted followers, he might have already expelled the ill man into the harsh darkness outside their sanctuary.
After another prolonged silence, the gentle-voiced disciple reached into his pocket and retrieved a pale golden amulet, which he gently placed on the chest of the dying “comrade.”
“What are you doing?” asked a curious believer.
“This amulet, obtained from the emissary at great cost, possesses significant power,” he explained earnestly. “I pray that the Lord’s radiant mercy will protect our brother from the approaching darkness.”
The other believers, intently listening, burst into spontaneous applause, filled with deep reverence. Driven by their shared faith, they chanted in perfect harmony, rhythmically pounding their chests: “All who revere the sun are kin, united in our devotion…”
As the last rays of the sun disappeared below the horizon, Duncan stood on the deck of the Vanished, looking out at a sky devoid of stars and the moon. The ethereal glow from a fractured scar across the heavens cast an icy luminescence over the Boundless Sea, creating a ghostly path through the waters.
Resting against the stern railing, Duncan sighed deeply. Despite his many attempts to observe the stars, they remained obscured by the pale light. However, his mood was somewhat uplifted compared to earlier experiences of starless nights. He was beginning to adjust to life in this peculiar new world, even growing fond of the exotic fish he had caught.
Remaining ever optimistic, Duncan cherished each slight improvement in his situation, particularly when nature seemed more generous than anticipated. For now, establishing a stable connection with the mainland remained elusive, but he was focused on enhancing life aboard the ship.
Lost in thought, Duncan turned to the dove perched on his shoulder and half-jokingly suggested, “What do you reckon… wouldn’t my life be simpler if I acted more like a pirate captain? Maybe find a busy shipping route and dabble in a bit of piracy…?”
The dove tilted its head, its eyes darting about aimlessly as it repeated, “Doesn’t sound like it, doesn’t sound like it, doesn’t sound like it…”
“You’re probably right. That’s not really my style,” Duncan admitted with a grin. “And it’s easier said than done. First, I’d need to find a shipping route.”
The location of the Vanished relative to the mainland was still unknown to him. Although they had once encountered another ship, the White Oak, which had been transporting Alice, Duncan considered that a rare event, unlikely to occur often.
As he pondered this, a voice interrupted his thoughts: “Captain, are we going to engage in piracy?”
Turning, Duncan saw Alice sitting on a high plank, her eyes wide with curiosity as she looked at him. Under the fragmented, pale sky, her gothic attire and serene pose lent her an air of noble elegance, reminiscent of ancient portraits.
Duncan was momentarily struck by her striking presence, a brief reprieve from recent turmoil. He had almost forgotten how gracefully the gothic doll appeared in moments of stillness, her beauty and aura captivating him.
Unaware of the captain’s brief enchantment, Alice repeated her question, “Captain, are we setting a course towards piracy?”
Her innocent inquiry slightly marred her otherwise regal demeanor.
“Do you fancy the idea of piracy?” Duncan asked, his lips curving into a playful smirk.
“No,” Alice responded firmly, shaking her head, “that sounds incredibly boring.”
“But remember, technically, I ‘pirated’ you onto this ship,” he pointed out with a hint of amusement.
“…True,” Alice admitted after a moment of reflection. She revisited her previous question, “So, are we to set sail under the pirate flag now?”
“No,” Duncan replied, dismissing the idea with a wave of his hand as he walked toward his quarters, “I find the life of piracy just as monotonous. A relaxing stroll seems a more suitable activity after dinner.”
Duncan entered the captain’s cabin alone, giving a telepathic instruction to Goathead to take control of the helm. He had already planned a second journey into the spiritual realm for the evening. This time, however, he intended to experiment with his powers in the company of the dove.
A cluster of bright green sparks danced around Duncan’s fingertips as he conjured up ghostly flames. At the same time, the bird, which had been wandering aimlessly on the table, disappeared only to reappear perched on his shoulder.
Connecting deeply with the bond between himself and Ai, Duncan steadied his breathing. He remembered the sensation he had felt when he had used the brass compass – his aim now was to communicate with the dove using the same method.
At his command, the spectral green flames transformed into a thin thread that wrapped around Ai’s wings. Suddenly, the white dove was enveloped in a brilliant blaze!
As the dove’s feathers shifted into a ghostly form, they fluttered like those of a miniature phoenix, constantly changing shape but never solidifying. Meanwhile, the compass attached to Ai’s chest came to life; the glass lid snapped open, the needle spun wildly, and arcane runes appeared in the air. Like before, the needle eventually stopped, pointing decisively in one direction.
Within moments, the familiar surroundings faded away, replaced by a dark tunnel and captivating streams of light that filled Duncan’s vision. He let his heart guide him to the next entity ripe for contact.
Suddenly, his consciousness was drawn toward a radiant cluster of starlight in the distance.
While Duncan couldn’t be sure if this was the “Captain Duncan’s intuition” Goathead had mentioned, he decided to trust his instincts, which seemed just right. Whoever was behind that cluster of starlight was, at least for now, destined to meet the infamous Captain Duncan.
…
In the neglected sewers on the outskirts of the city-state of Pland, cultists of the sun god, who had just narrowly escaped the clutches of the church’s enforcers, took refuge in their secret hideout.
Above ground, the world had surrendered to the peaceful embrace of sleep, while their underground sanctuary flickered with the dim light of a few lamps, barely holding back the complete darkness. Beneath their formidable and intimidating appearance, these cultists were simply humans, vulnerable to the fear and anxiety that night inevitably brought.
Amid the thick air of tension, their dying companion took his last breath.
“May the sun continue to shine upon your soul in the everlasting darkness,” a disciple clad in black robes whispered solemnly. He motioned to the others, “Bring him…”
His voice faltered as he and the others witnessed an astonishing event.
To everyone’s shock, the lifeless body began to breathe again.
Massacre, again.
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