Chapter 440: Sea Mist and Frost
This novel is translated and hosted on bcatranslation.com
The night had descended over the city, enveloping it in darkness as a gentle snowfall began. The snowflakes danced quietly, bringing a surreal calm to the scene. It wasn’t a blizzard, but the snow covered the city in a thin, pale layer, masking the scars left by a recent disaster. The snowfall gently veiled the remnants of destruction: collapsed buildings, bloodstains, abandoned steam-powered machines known as steam walkers, and yet-to-be-removed barricades. There was also a peculiar, dried “mire” in every corner, its origin and purpose unknown.
Although the mirror invasion had retreated, the eerie physical remnants of the disaster clung to the city.
As per protocol, the Death Church took control of the city’s activities once night fell.
Watchmen with lanterns patrolled the shadowed streets, their vigilant eyes scanning every unlit corner, wary of lurking dangers. Their ears were attuned to the slightest sound, while the air was thick with the scent of smoldering incense. Soft, hypnotic chants from the night-watch priests provided a comforting backdrop.
A guardian in deep black robes remarked to his colleague, “The night is eerily peaceful… I was prepared for fierce confrontations tonight.”
His female counterpart, wearing similar robes with her hair flowing gracefully, replied, “You weren’t the only one. After the traumatic supernatural event and the loss of many priests, we believed the city’s defenses to be especially vulnerable tonight.”
“And yet, no alerts from the other squads either. It’s been exceptionally quiet.”
“But we mustn’t become complacent. We need to remain on high alert until dawn.”
“Of course, captain.”
The female guard, acknowledged as the captain, nodded appreciatively and observed another group immersed in their tasks nearby.
A priest silently moved with an ornate brass incense burner, wafting aromatic smoke along the streets while murmuring deathly prayers. Junior priests collected samples of the dried black mud with precise instruments and glass containers.
This strange “mud,” now devoid of vitality, appeared harmless, like semi-dried, finely textured paint.
Turning to her companion, the captain asked, “How widespread do you think this ‘infected mud’ is within our city?”
He answered gravely, “It’s hard to say. While we see it here, the underground areas, especially the sewers and metro tunnels, took the heaviest hit. Some water treatment facilities are practically drowning in this muck. With the city’s administration in chaos, it’s uncertain when or how we’ll get rid of this blight.”
“Addressing this mud is just a fraction of our current challenges,” the female captain reflected, her voice weary. She gazed down the street, focusing on the distant shimmer of the port district. “There are graver matters Frost needs to address beyond this mysterious sludge.”
The guard beside her, clad in the same dark armor, followed her line of sight. Their vision settled on the bustling port district, where a medley of lights painted a vivid tableau and faint, indistinct voices reached their ears.
“It’s not just the mud, is it?” the guard murmured, apprehension evident in his tone. “An entire fleet from the Sea Mist is stationed outside our walls.”
…
The eastern section of the port was a hive of activity, an enclave of life and motion.
The East Port, uniquely amongst its peers, had successfully staved off the massive invasion. Even in the aftermath, it remained bustling. All available docks and sophisticated machinery were mobilized, working relentlessly into the night. Docks that had suffered only minimal damage during the daytime assaults were hastily restored to accommodate seaworthy vessels for docking and repairs.
For many citizens of Frost, the conflict had ended, offering them a brief respite to gather themselves and tend to their wounds. Yet, for the naval forces of Frost and the port’s logistical crew, their fight was far from over. Several ships showed significant damage and required urgent attention. Numerous injured sailors and soldiers awaited medical care, and a more complex problem loomed: the Mist Fleet. These ships, fleeting allies during the day’s conflict, had been the stuff of nightmares for Frost for over fifty years.
Now, the ship that had inspired the most dread, often referred to as the “ghost ship,” was anchored next to the grandest dock in East Port.
Its imposing prow dominated the nocturnal skyline, while the silhouettes of its deck guns and bridge structure cast ghostly shadows onto the freshly fallen snow. Lights from the nearby shore glinted off its armored hull, emitting an eerie, bone-white glow. And on its side, for all of Frost to see, a large banner waved in the gentle night breeze. It bore an inscription: “Sea Mist Venture Company Temporary Inspection Ship to Frost.”
Even the most battle-hardened soldiers of Frost, who had witnessed countless naval engagements, found this sight breathtaking. Passersby at the docks invariably paused, staring in astonishment at the ship’s banner as if half-expecting to wake from a surreal dream.
“Captain,” First Officer Aiden made his way to Tyrian, who stood contemplatively at the ship’s edge, observing the bustle below. “We’ve raised the banner as you directed. We’re doing our best to present a friendly face.”
Tyrian merely grunted in response, then gestured to the Frost soldiers and dock workers below. Their tasks were frequently interrupted as they shot uneasy glances towards the Sea Mist. “They’re still on edge, aren’t they?”
Aiden scratched his bald head, deep in thought. “It’s puzzling what’s causing such nervousness. Perhaps the residents of Frost have become more jittery recently. Do you want the crew to gently steer those spectators away?”
“There’s no need,” Tyrian mused for a moment, then decisively shook his head. “My father’s orders were clear: avoid direct conflicts with the city-state. Given the palpable tension, it’s wise not to provoke the already anxious citizens of Frost further.”
Aiden nodded, “If that was the directive from the old captain, we’ll abide.”
Tyrian, shifting his gaze back towards the city, inquired, “And what of our crew’s morale, particularly the newer sailors from the second wave?”
Aiden’s expression became reflective. “Returning to these familiar waters after decades is poignant for many. There’s an air of peace and calm, but every corner of the ship hums with talk of our unexpected docking and potential interactions with Frost’s navy. The veterans, those from the initial crew, are equally engrossed in these debates.
“It’s a mix of eagerness and apprehension. Above all, there’s surprise. None envisioned what this day would entail. However, the crew firmly believes in your leadership and awaits your guidance.”
Lost in contemplation, Tyrian’s mind replayed earlier events on the bridge.
The queen’s second command in fifty years stood out starkly: “Defend Frost.”
Was this command authentic? Did it emanate from the queen’s residual influence, or was it an illusion, a figment of past memory?
The riddle seemed trivial at this juncture.
The queen once instructed the Mist Fleet to steer clear of Frost, and yet here they were, anchored at its gates. Perhaps the queen’s initial instruction was meant for this very moment.
“We are here now,” Tyrian whispered, his breath crystallizing in the cold night air. “If Frost’s command intends to show us goodwill, it would be right to return the gesture with a formal visit.”
“Do you wish for my presence during this visit?”
“Yes, and select a handful who have a good grasp of formalities. Make it clear that this visit is not a prelude to hostilities.”
Aiden nodded, “Any specific criteria for those accompanying us?”
After a thoughtful pause, Tyrian said, “Choose those whose appearance is mostly intact — those who won’t lose any ‘parts’ mid-step. Ideally, they should conceal their anomalies with their uniform.”
“Roger that, Captain.”
…
In the heart of the port defense office, Defense Commander Lister meticulously adjusted his uniform and medals, ensuring every detail was perfect.
Although no stranger to significant events, even his extensive experience couldn’t calm the nerves about the impending rendezvous.
It wasn’t the grandiosity of the event but its novelty.
He was on the verge of an unprecedented encounter with the captain of the Mist Fleet. After fifty years of cold relations, this fleet, which once broke away from Frost, had made an unexpected return.
The city-state was enmeshed in its own challenges. The mysterious absence of the governor had thrown City Hall into chaos. Yet, in the midst of such turmoil, Lister had orchestrated this unique reception.
Lister was acutely aware that Frost was on the cusp of a precipice, struggling under the weight of its challenges and unable to withstand further catastrophe. Despite the myriad opinions and counsel from bureaucrats and decision-makers at City Hall, his foremost concern was forging a steadfast alliance with the elusive, formidable Mist Fleet. If there was even a sliver of hope of reconciling with the infamous “Great Pirate,” he was resolute in grasping what might be the city’s lone lifeline.
With nimble fingers, Lister fastened the last button on his crisply ironed uniform and took a moment to draw a long, steadying breath.
He reached for the gleaming, freshly crafted breastplate that rested on the mahogany table before him. This emblem, boasting meticulous carvings and emblematic designs, symbolized his recent promotion to the esteemed rank of general.
“An ascension during such tumultuous times,” he mused aloud, tracing the detailed etchings with his fingertips. “But desperate times call for decisive leadership.”
Standing tall, he glimpsed his reflection in the ornate, full-length mirror that adorned his office. Carefully, he adjusted the breastplate until it sat perfectly upon his chest, reflecting the pride and responsibility of his newfound stature.