Chapter 385: The End of the Battle

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In the depths of darkness, a formidable warship navigated its path. It was an eerie vessel, seemingly crafted from smoke, fog, and various remnants. Sailing alongside the White Oak, this mysterious ship boldly ventured towards their foe, the Seagull. Its silhouette, shrouded in dense fog, hinted at a shared lineage with the White Oak, yet it maintained its unique features.

Lawrence struggled to reconcile this hazy sight with his mental image of the ship. Despite its apparent state of ruin and alteration, it was unmistakably the same vessel. The ship’s appearance was unusual and eccentric, but it conjured a surge of familiarity, rekindling potent memories as it always did in Lawrence’s dreams.

This ship was indeed the Black Oak. It had returned, resurrected from the past, sailing alongside its twin, the White Oak, a poignant reminder of their previous voyages together.

A piercing steam whistle suddenly cut through Lawrence’s confusion and dreamlike trance. The noise emanated from the spectral ship, serving as a harsh wake-up call to Lawrence that this was not a time for idle reminiscing amidst such critical circumstances.

The daunting sound of shells raining from the heavens echoed again as the Seagull’s ruthless attack continued mercilessly. Lawrence’s focus quickly shifted as he watched a flaming orb strike the bow of the White Oak.

In a flash, flames soared skyward. The fiery projectile was absorbed by the vibrant green flames already ravaging the ship. The impact brutally tore apart a section of the ship’s bow, sending fiery chunks of molten metal scattering in all directions. Yet, in the next moment, the devastated structure began to mend as if time was reversing, restoring the ship to its pristine state amidst the swirling green inferno.

Lawrence felt a sensation of being drained, his vitality and life force seemingly leeched away. However, the lost energy was rapidly replaced by the otherworldly flames enveloping him. Subsequently, the defensive artillery on the bow and flanks of the White Oak sprang to life, releasing a barrage of shells that shrieked through the air like vengeful spirits, leaving trails of glowing streaks behind.

Almost simultaneously, the adjacent Black Oak launched its attack. The deafening roar of cannons reverberated, and within the swelling black fog, a series of bright flashes appeared. Ghostly shells were catapulted from the mist, ruthlessly descending upon the enemy vessel in the distance.

Lawrence gripped the wheel firmly, sensing the potent vibrations from each cannon blast radiating through the ship’s body. His perception seemed to magnify, extending not only along the trajectory of the soaring shells but also through the rhythmic pulsations of the seawater, until it felt like his senses encompassed the entirety of the vast ocean. At the far reach of his amplified senses, the enemy vessel Seagull emerged like a luminescent beacon within the encompassing darkness, emanating a formidable, almost blinding, aura.

Not so long ago, the Seagull was regarded as a fearsome rival for the White Oak. However, in this charged atmosphere, Lawrence found himself viewing the adversary not as a threatening opponent but as enticing prey, ripe and ready to be consumed.

Within moments, the White Oak’s retaliatory fire connected with the Seagull with unwavering precision. A monstrous explosion ensued, with flames reaching high towards the sky. The unique warship looked as though it had been viciously torn apart by an invisible beast, with a significant portion of it brutally ripped away. The gaping wound unveiled the strangely contorted internal framework of the enemy ship in harsh detail.

Despite the inflicted damage being substantial, it was far from a fatal blow.

“Full speed,” Lawrence commanded, his hands firmly anchored on the wheel, his eyes intently focused on the steadily advancing enemy vessel. He was acutely aware of the subsequent actions needed to ensure the White Oak survived. “We need to replenish.”

His First Mate Gus echoed the command across the ship’s bridge: “Yes, full speed!”

The ship’s steam core bellowed with renewed vigor, driving the already high-speed White Oak to further extremes. Like a swift hunting falcon, the ship lunged towards the distant Seagull. Sailing in parallel, the Black Oak mirrored its companion’s pace and trajectory.

Despite the looming clash, the Seagull showed no intention of adjusting its course or decelerating. This ship, which had initiated an unrelenting assault since its arrival, now resembled an unthinking, rampaging monster. Unaffected by the drastic metamorphoses of the White Oak and the turning tide of the battle, it resolutely stuck to its initial objective: complete annihilation of the enemy.

Two colossal ships, one enveloped in eerie green flames, the other sheathed in a twisted, dark, fantastical architecture, sped towards each other with terrifying velocity. The shrill whistle of the steam horn sliced through the air, its high-pitched cry seemingly tearing the very fabric of the sky apart. A ceaseless salvo of shells launched from both vessels churned the ocean surface, their intensifying bombardment illuminating the seascape and skies. The gap between them shrank rapidly, their reciprocal fire striking the hulls with increasing regularity and ripping through the structures of both vessels.

Lawrence and his crew stood on the White Oak command deck, their gaze unwaveringly directed ahead. Their minds seemed held captive by a powerful surge of anticipation. Any trace of fear and hesitancy had evaporated from the souls aboard, supplanted by a fervent readiness for the imminent, unavoidable clash. Then, the moment of impact arrived.

Much like a fragile snowball forcefully compressed against the scorching surface of a blazing furnace, the prow of the Seagull plunged headlong into the raging spectral flames that encased the White Oak. Accompanied by a terrifying shriek and a loud roar reminiscent of a chorus of millions crying out simultaneously, the seemingly robust steel hull disintegrated gradually in the face of the intense emerald flames. As the catastrophic collision persisted, the Seagull began to vanish from bow to stern into the fiery jaws of the White Oak, giving the impression of a beast being swallowed whole.

Even as the last turret of the Seagull was consumed by the ghostly flames, the ceaseless barrage of cannon fire exchanged between the two vessels didn’t falter for a moment.

Eventually, a deafening silence descended upon the battlefield.

After relentlessly roaring and belching fire, the defensive cannons of the White Oak fell quiet as did the rumble from its steam core. Additionally, the ethereal flames that had been rampaging across the ship started to calm, transitioning from their previously aggressive state into a gentle, tranquil burn along the ship’s hull.

Lawrence found himself momentarily disoriented. His hands had slipped from the wheel without him noticing, and he observed the scene on the command deck.

One by one, the sailors turned their heads towards him. Their physical forms seemed to meld with spectral apparitions, casting an unearthly pallor onto their faces. Their empty eyes appeared devoid of any trace of human cognition or empathy.

Blinking, Lawrence felt the peripheries of his consciousness waver, threatening to engulf him in obscurity, when a figure abruptly materialized at the edge of his vision.

A young man emerged as if from the ether, stepping through the rising spectral flames surrounding him. He was attired in the deep blue robes of a storm priest, a radiant emblem gleaming on his chest. With purposeful strides, he advanced towards Lawrence, extended his hand, and pressed his glowing emblem against Lawrence’s chest.

An intense wave of heat radiated from his chest, and Lawrence felt his faltering mind abruptly regain its equilibrium. His humanity and rationality surged back into his consciousness like a jolt of electricity.

As the fog of confusion started to lift from the captain’s mind, the crew members aboard the White Oak also seemed to emerge from their spectral stupor. They exchanged glances, piecing together fragments of memory from the final showdown, the climactic clash, and the monumental ‘collision’ between the White Oak and the Seagull. Some reacted with retrospective cries of awe, others examined their bodies instinctively, while some turned their gaze towards the young priest who had seemingly materialized on the command deck.

A crease appeared on Lawrence’s forehead as he studied the young man before him. He paused for a moment, then hesitantly voiced, “Priest… Jansen?”

“It’s me, thank God, you can finally see me,” came the breathless reply from the young ship’s priest. He seemed to be gasping for air as if he had just emerged from the sea’s depths. His robe was soaking, with water trickling down from his hair and neck as he spoke, “Thanks to the protection of the Storm Goddess – I’ve been shouting at your side for days.”

A residue of confusion still lingered within Lawrence. It took him a few moments to gradually recall another peculiar circumstance from the past few days.

A ship’s priest should always be onboard, just like the sun should always be in the sky. However, throughout this time, he hadn’t laid eyes on this young priest once.

Priest Jansen had not only vanished from everyone’s sight but also from their memories – to such an extent that the crew had forgotten the basic tenet that “there should be a priest onboard.”

Lawrence had noticed the strange absence of the sun, yet it was only now that he realized Priest Jansen had been missing too.

“…What happened?” Like a man slowly emerging from a dream, the captain turned his head and asked in a gentle tone.

“I’m not entirely sure. Over the past few days, it felt like I was cut off from all of you, confined within a different dimension,” the drenched young priest shook his head, a wry smile playing on his lips, “I could see everyone, but nobody could see me, as if I had become an ‘outsider’ on this ship. It was only just now… when the ship underwent a ‘transformation’ amidst the flames that I felt the barrier starting to fade. At the same time, I noticed something was wrong with your mental state, so I tried to stabilize your mind with the holy emblem. Luckily, I managed to do it in time…”

As Lawrence listened to the priest’s explanation, a maelstrom of disorganized thoughts and speculations swirled through his mind. Upon hearing the term “improper mental state,” a delayed sensation of fear finally seized his heart.

Lawrence vividly remembered the uncanny state he and his crew found themselves in during the final stretch of their skirmish with the Seagull. The memory sent a shiver down his spine, making him feel as though he was on the brink of breaking out into a cold sweat.

However, no sweat materialized – he was still veiled in spectral flames, and his phantom-like form showed no signs of returning to normal.

Lawrence shifted his gaze down to his arm, its appearance still ghostly and translucent, his mind teeming with a myriad of conjectures.

“Is this the ‘blessing’ from the Vanished?” the seasoned captain shook his head, a mirthless laugh slipping past his lips. He was uncertain whether to regard their current state as a stroke of luck or a cruel twist of fate. “Surviving the relentless scrutiny of Duncan Abnomar appears to be no simple feat, but at least we’ve made it… if indeed, we can consider this to be alive…”

With these words, he slowly lifted his eyes, peering through a nearby porthole, taking in the expansive sea that flowed alongside the ship and the mysterious dark ship mirroring the White Oak’s path.

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