Chapter 313

Chapter 313: Debt Cleared

Aiden jumped down from the platform and walked over to his captain. When he noticed how serious the captain’s expression was, Aiden’s face immediately turned solemn as well.

“Captain, what happened?”

“An invitation I cannot refuse,” Tyrian looked around and then sighed. “Tomorrow or the day after, I may need to leave here for a while.”

Aiden’s eyes went wide at once: “A message came to the island? Just now? And… how can there still be an invitation on this Frost Sea that even you cannot refuse?”

Tyrian sighed again: “…It is my Father.”

Aiden blinked and held it in for a long time before asking: “…How long will you be gone, roughly?”

“I should be back soon. One or two days,” Tyrian said. He did not notice the subtle change in the First Mate’s tone. His mind was full, and he truly had no extra energy for other talk. “A messenger will come to the harbor to take me to the Vanished. Do not announce this matter for now. While I am ‘gone’, you will take charge of everything.”

Aiden lowered his head at once and accepted the order: “Yes, Captain.”

Then the First Mate paused for two seconds. He seemed a bit hesitant. He could not help glancing around, then leaned closer to Tyrian and muttered: “Is he… somewhere nearby?”

Tyrian thought for a moment and patted Aiden on the shoulder: “the Vanished is hiding in the mist around us.”

He could almost see Aiden’s muscles tightening bit by bit.

“…Captain, after not breathing for so many years, I finally remember what ‘cold’ feels like today,” First Mate Aiden said, his voice now very careful. “Are you sure the old Captain… just wants to meet you?”

“I do not know, and I do not want to know. My gut just tells me this trip should be safe,” Tyrian said in a low voice. Then he looked back toward the square, at the sailors who still did not want to leave and planned to drink and gather until sunrise, before turning again to the First Mate. “But the other sailors may not see it that way. You know what I mean.”

Hearing the captain’s serious words, Aiden slowly nodded.

He knew what his captain was worried about.

The Sea Mist Fleet was huge. Aside from a few ordinary people who had been hired with money or contracts as outer members, most of the fleet’s crew were Undying like Aiden himself. Strictly speaking, these Undying sailors could be divided into two groups—

One large part were former members of Frostholm’s navy. These soldiers, who had once sworn loyalty to Frostholm’s queen, had all been ordinary people at first. Only after Frostholm’s rebellion did the loyal ones who stayed in the ranks get gradually transformed into what they were now.

In half a century of endless fighting, in constant clashes with the rebels, death and the power of the Sea Mist’s curse slowly turned them into the “Undying sailors” they were now, and made them part of the Sea Mist Fleet.

The other, smaller group of sailors were the true “original core” under “Steel Vice Admiral” Tyrian. They had once been members of the Vanished Fleet.

Duncan Abnomar was their “old captain”. They had seen with their own eyes the Vanished’s transformation and fall. They had personally lived through this stormy century. They had once followed Tyrian in swearing loyalty to Frostholm, and then watched Frostholm itself turn upside down in great upheaval. The sailors who had been loyal for a full century were called the “First Generation”, and those who had served for half a century were called the “Second Generation”.

Aiden himself, and that half?baked old priest with a dent in his head, Will, were both members of the First Generation.

A century of experience let Aiden see many things hidden beneath the surface.

The Vanished and “Captain Duncan” did not mean the same thing to the two groups of sailors. The same news, when placed before them, would trigger reactions that were complex and hard to control.

And right now, even Captain Tyrian himself did not dare be sure what the Vanished and the “old captain’s” true state was, much less whether that state would really remain stable for long.

So before things became clear and the situation was fully under control, the news that the captain was going to the Vanished could not be spread. Otherwise, the island would definitely turn into a pot of boiling chaos.

Just then, Tyrian’s voice came again, cutting off Aiden’s thoughts: “…Tomorrow morning, send the dancers back to Cold Harbor.”

“Send them back tomorrow?” Aiden did not know why the captain suddenly brought this up. “Are you not satisfied with them?”

“The Vanished is nearby. For now, it is better not to let ordinary people come close to this island,” Tyrian shook his head, casually giving an excuse. After all, “shocked by my own father” was not a reason he could say out loud no matter how he thought about it. He paused, then added: “But what you said just now reminded me of something. If we just send them back like this, that mean ‘Cutlass Martin’ may very well make things hard for the girls… Later I will write a letter. You give it to the dancers’ supervisor.”

Aiden lowered his head at once: “Yes, Captain.”

“Mm,” Tyrian nodded, then seemed to remember something. “Right, when I came over just now I saw one of the dancers stop and say something to you. You looked completely at a loss… What did she say to you?”

Aiden looked a bit embarrassed for a moment: “She said my head shape was very sexy…”

Tyrian silently looked at the First Mate’s shiny bald head.

“…The dancers from Cold Harbor really are passionate and bold—their temperaments are warm, and their taste is very bold.”

…

Darkness, solitude, cold, silence.

A barren plain stretched into the darkness as far as the eye could see. There were no plants and no animals, only jagged strange rocks and crumbling ruins that had weathered and rotted for who knew how many years. They lay collapsed in the gloom, silent forever. From time to time, weird lights flashed across the sky and drifted through the dark, sometimes lighting the plain, sometimes casting mottled, twisted shadows on the ground.

A hollow black figure trudged across the plain.

He did not know how long he had been walking, and he did not know the name he had when he set out. He only remembered that he had started this journey a very, very long time ago, and the faint impression left from that time told him that he should have reached the end long ago, and should already be resting in some peaceful place.

What had delayed this journey? What had forced him to keep trudging across this plain?

The vague, hollow shadow tried to think, but soon those broken thoughts were swallowed by a greater emptiness, and he could only follow his instincts and keep walking forward.

But suddenly, his steps faltered.

Had he tripped over something? Or been bumped by something unseen?

The hollow shadow lowered his head and looked at himself. He saw that a few colors seemed to be appearing on his vague body.

He lifted his head and kept walking.

More colors appeared on him, and more solid details showed on the surface of his body, which had been rising and falling like mist.

Clothes appeared on this human?shaped black mist. It was a seafarer’s uniform.

He slowly gained a face—that of a middle?aged man with black hair.

His steps slowly became steady and light, and at some point the jagged stones under his feet had become much smoother.

More and more memories began to surface in this soul.

First came his name, then the moment of his death. After that came the bright, sunny days of his youth, the blurry, childish memories of childhood, and the tiny, warm flashes of light from when he had been in swaddling clothes.

He trudged toward the end of the plain. In the darkness, shadows of all sizes sometimes appeared and merged into him without a sound.

They seemed to be pieces that had once been torn and split off from him, now returning one by one to their proper places.

Suddenly, the figure stopped at the end of the road.

Cristo Barbelli raised his head in confusion and saw that he had somehow walked onto a great avenue. Ancient stone pillars stood silently on both sides of the road, and at its far end a huge, majestic gate, covered in old and complex patterns, rose out of thin air.

The gate stood open, but the inside stayed hazy, and he could not see any details on the other side.

Only a strong urge rose from deep inside this soul—to pass through that gate and rest on the other side.

The middle?aged man in a captain’s uniform walked forward without thinking. There was no one around him, but he felt as if countless other souls were walking this road at the same time, also heading toward that gate. Every moment in the mortal world, the dead were setting out on their way. It was just that, before this lonely gate between life and death, the souls did not seem to be able to see one another.

Yet just as he was about to touch the gate, Cristo stopped.

A tall figure suddenly appeared in front of the gate and blocked his way.

It was a warden, wrapped from head to toe in bandages, wearing a dark, ornate robe and a hood, and holding a long staff in one hand.

This was the gatekeeper here.

Cristo looked at this almost three?meter?tall “giant” with some fear. Memories from when he had been alive surged up, letting him remember how to speak to others: “Are you… the master of death?”

“No,” the gatekeeper spoke. A hoarse, deep voice came from under the bandages. “I am only His envoy.”

Cristo sounded a little sad: “I am not qualified to cross this gate, am I?”

He remembered more things.

Including the details of his own death.

But the solemn gatekeeper only lowered his head and looked quietly at the soul at the gate for a moment. Then he moved slightly to the side: “Please, go in. Your debt is cleared.”