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With a jolt, Lawrence’s rational mind kicked in, like awakening from a prolonged and disorienting dream. He was struck by the realization of how precariously close he had been to losing himself completely, spiraling into a state of relentless delusion. For someone like him, a seasoned sea captain who had spent a significant part of his existence navigating the vast, unforgiving oceans, such an insidious mental state could spell disaster. Once trapped, it would be an immense struggle to claw back to the realm of sanity. However, in this moment of revelation, he didn’t feel a surge of relief nor a lingering shiver of fear from his near miss with uncontrolled madness.

All that consumed him was a heavy sense of melancholy and regret.

This sentiment of sorrow and regret served as a harrowing reminder—a signal that deep within, he had stopped fighting against the concept of insanity itself.

Striving to regain control, Lawrence drew a deep breath, attempting to clear the cobweb of jumbled thoughts that clouded his rational thinking. He cast a glance around him. The sturdy White Oak ship lay beneath him, filled with crew members who relied on his expertise to steer them safely back to Pland.

Now was not the time to allow madness to take over.

With a sigh that carried a hint of resignation, the veteran captain muttered to himself, “It’s high time I retire…” He commenced his journey towards the nearby staircase, but after just a few steps, his movement halted abruptly, a serious expression shadowing his face.

His mind involuntarily rewound to the scene when “Martha” had materialized. Even though he was well aware that indulging in such a “memory” could be perilous and might trigger another hallucination of her, he found himself lost in the reminiscence. A pair of sentences Martha had allegedly spoken stirred an uncanny interest within him:

“Lawrence, be careful, you’ve reached the ocean’s heart…”

“If I were you, I wouldn’t waste time with questions and leave immediately… You’ve become less cautious…”

He found himself repeating these sentences subconsciously. Despite being aware that this illusory interaction was a result of his scrambled memory and disturbed cognitive function, he couldn’t resist considering these words as a forewarning. Even if Martha didn’t exist, was there a chance his subconscious had picked up on some impending danger? Could these sentences be an alarm bell ringing from deep within his intuitive psyche?

Casting a wary glance around, the seasoned captain meticulously examined the White Oak once again. Everything appeared as normal as it could be. Following this, he raised his eyes towards the adjacent island state.

The neighboring Frost presented a picture of normalcy as well. The adjacent port area was a tranquil scene, serene and unperturbed, while the city district not far away was gradually coming alive with the soft glow of twinkling lights. In the far-off distance, an imposing cliff towered over the seascape. Its stern and formidable silhouette was etched starkly against the dimming sky.

Nevertheless, a subtle sensation of discomfort started to pervade Lawrence’s being, rising like an unrelenting tide within his chest. Amid this growing unease, he found himself tuning in to the soft lullaby of the nearby waves. Initially, he had difficulty differentiating it from the ambient sound of the ocean caressing the hull of the White Oak, but it didn’t take long for him to understand that the sound was echoing within his own mind.

“The soft melody of the waves… Is it an omen of something threatening? Can it be the divine protection of the Storm Goddess Gomona manifesting itself?!”

A sense of urgency dawned on Lawrence, and he promptly abandoned his initial plan of stepping ashore. Pivoting on his heel, he made a beeline towards the ship’s bridge. The chilly night wind blew past his ears, its shrill howl slicing through the silence of the night and rousing his senses.

“Captain?” His first mate, who was manning the bridge, appeared taken aback by Lawrence’s sudden arrival. Rising from his chair, he hurriedly moved towards his captain, “I thought you were going ashore…?”

“Circumstances have changed,” Lawrence replied tersely, “Something feels off… How long have we been docked here? Has anyone sneaked off the ship?”

“No,” the first mate responded without hesitation, “You had instructed everyone to remain aboard, and they all complied. We have been anchored here for a few hours now.”

“That’s fortunate nobody disembarked,” Lawrence nodded briskly, then turned his attention towards the control panel, “Fire up the steam core, we’re vacating this port.”

“Uh…what?” The first mate was visibly taken aback, “Leaving the port? But we’ve just…”

Interrupting him mid-sentence, Lawrence explained, “Something’s not right with this place, I can’t quite identify what it is, but it’s unsettling. Remember the earlier complications with the observatory? And prior to that, when we were unable to communicate with Frost? Ever since then, our collective guard seems to have dropped. It’s as if something… is manipulating us.”

Lawrence conveyed his concerns rapidly, fully conscious of how eccentric his order might appear. He had no tangible evidence to back up his feelings of discomfort except for his gut intuition. After completing a lengthy voyage, both the crew and the ship’s machinery were in desperate need of some respite. Therefore, his decision to abruptly depart the port seemed audacious, even rash.

Moreover, the act of leaving the port required compliance with various maritime regulations and coordination with the harbor authorities. Igniting the steam core without prior notification would be a flagrant breach of protocols, and he would be held accountable for his actions.

Yet, the ominous foreboding within Lawrence’s heart was intensifying, and the sound of the waves echoing within his mind grew increasingly loud and persistent. It was as if Gomona’s divine protection was urging him to sever all connections with the port authorities, to refrain from uttering another word.

His first mate stared at the captain, an array of emotions flickering across his face. Then, snapping to attention, he saluted and responded with a decisive, “Aye, Captain!”

Aboard the ship, the captain’s command was absolute.

An unhinged captain could steer the entire crew towards disaster, but on the flip side, a seasoned and knowledgeable captain could navigate them out of perilous situations.

The command was promptly relayed across the ship. The bewildered sailors were hastily rallied, and they quickly sprang into action, making preparations for an unforeseen departure with their well-honed skills.

A new metal catalyst was loaded into the steam core, triggering the deep, reassuring hum of machinery within the bowels of the White Oak. The sailors discreetly loosened the moored ropes and hauled the gangway back onto the deck. Meanwhile, Lawrence stationed himself on the bridge, watching the activity on the dock through the expansive glass window with hawk-like intensity.

There were figures moving about on the dock, their forms hazy and almost spectral under the soft glow of the gas lamps. A couple of freight vehicles rumbled by in the distance, their bulky silhouettes casting long, eerie shadows on the cobblestone path.

No one seemed to have noticed the ship firing up its steam core in the cloak of darkness, nor did any obstruction emerge to prevent the White Oak from making its stealthy escape.

The circumstances were unfolding much better than Lawrence had anticipated. His pessimistic contingency plan had even considered the possibility that the moment the steam core was rekindled, numerous monstrous tentacles might rise from the surrounding sea, dragging the White Oak into its watery depths.

“Ensure complete darkness onboard, and do not blow the steam whistle,” Lawrence swiftly instructed his first mate. He then proceeded to the helm, gripping the wheel with a firm hand, “I’ll handle the steering—keep the boiler pressure high, and be prepared for an overload at any moment.”

“Yes, Captain.”

Though plagued with doubts, everyone aboard the ship adhered to their old captain’s orders without question. Lawrence could feel the metal leviathan beneath him awakening and stirring into action.

As the ship maintained its blackout, the underwater propellers began their rhythmic churn, nudging the White Oak away from the port. However, the sound of water churning under the ship’s movement filled the air, causing a palpable tension to grip everyone. Their eyes remained fixed on the silhouette of the city-state, now enveloped in near darkness.

Taking this all in, Lawrence felt the clammy sweat moistening his palms.

Yet, the city-state exhibited no signs of abnormality. Even though the stealthy actions of the White Oak were likely not as concealed as Lawrence had hoped, no signs of curiosity or investigation followed.

His gaze shifted to the radio communication station nearby; the telegraph machine was ominously silent.

In an ordinary circumstance, the port authority should have already initiated an urgent communication, and the port officials on duty would be questioning the White Oak’s abrupt departure. Yet, strangely, there was only silence.

This peculiar lack of reaction only fortified Lawrence’s resolve, affirming his suspicion that his judgment had been accurate.

Something was undeniably off about this place!

The steam core’s power surged another notch, the propellers spun with increasing vigor, and the White Oak swiftly retreated from the dock. Directly ahead of the ship, the open sea unfolded like an enormous canvas, the water’s surface sparkling under the feeble light.

Inhaling a deep breath, Lawrence tightened his grip on the wheel, “Full speed ahead!”

…

A gust of ashen wind coursed through the courtyard, culminating in the cathedral’s entrance to form the figure of Agatha, who moved briskly through the antechamber and nave, heading towards the “Chapel of Contemplation” where Bishop Ivan resided.

The statue of Bartok, the God of Death, held a silent vigil at the far end of the chapel. A dark, lid-open coffin was positioned horizontally on the platform at the statue’s base. Bishop Ivan, who typically rested within the coffin, was standing next to it, his gaze lifting in Agatha’s direction.

The bishop was swathed in bandages like a mummy, revealing only a single eye. He was dressed in a black robe adorned with gold trimmings for this occasion, a scepter in his grasp. As Agatha approached, he broke the silence, “I’ve been informed about Dagger Island.”

“I gathered as much since you’re personally overseeing this meeting,” Agatha responded with a nod. Her tone held a note of concern, “But can your physical state endure this?”

Bishop Ivan raised his bandaged hand, and from the gaps in the wraps, it seemed a ghostly, grey-white mist was slowly wafting out.

“As long as either the body or the will possesses the strength, it’s sufficient.”