Deep Sea Embers

In the underbelly of the Second Waterway, an ethereal fog had covertly seeped into every crevice, filling the vast, underground landscape. This vaporous, chaotic mass hugged tightly to the arc of the sewer tunnel’s ceiling, draping it like an otherworldly veil. In its enigmatic form, the vapor conjured the illusion of a robust, impenetrable ceiling morphing into a spectral semblance of a “sky”.

Down the heart of this ominous and oddly tranquil corridor, a small figure embarked on his journey. He was an elderly man, wrapped in a coat from another era, purposefully traversing the damp, echoing pathway. Time had etched deep lines onto his face and slowed his stride to a measured pace, no longer the springy steps of his youth. But today, he felt an unexpected surge of vigor coursing through his veins as if the years had rolled back and restored his youthful energy. His usual companions of chronic joint aches and muscular fatigue were conspicuously absent.

His steps quickened in rhythm with his heart. The heavy wrench he held was unusually light in his grip. With the knowledge and dexterity that came from decades of familiarity, he navigated through the labyrinthine network of dank passages and intersections, firmly set towards a destination that was unclear yet hauntingly familiar.

The main assembly awaited him, and the ticking clock was relentless.

However, an unforeseen obstacle emerged. A chaotic mound of crumbled stone and rubble had fallen, obstructing his path.

“Blocked… Is it blocked?” The old man halted, studying the pile of debris with a mixture of confusion and curiosity. His mind raced to piece together fractured memories as glimpses of the past flickered in his mind.

He remembered now. The guards set off the explosives during their retreat through the connected well, aiming to slow down the insurgent forces attempting to infiltrate the sewer system.

Yet, there was something out of place. This wreckage was more than just a delay tactic against the rebels. Many years ago, a young soldier had triggered the explosives, and the resulting collapse had buried something else…

Standing motionless before the debris blockade, the old man’s expression hardened, his brows furrowing as he prodded the pile of rocks with his wrench, uttering words that were lost in the echoing tunnel.

This path was supposed to be clear. It was critical for his journey to the assembly point. But now it was blocked, and his humble wrench was powerless against a mountain of wreckage.

Suddenly, a phantasmal fog erupted, filling his field of vision. The old man, momentarily distracted by the rubble, looked up, his confusion deepening, and he instinctively retreated a few steps. His eyes grew wide as fog tendrils seeped out from the cracks in the rubble, steadily consuming the entire tunnel and clouding his vision.

Eerie echoes and metallic clangs reverberated from within the swirling mist, accentuated by a deep voice that seemed to boom, “Is this justice?!”

Yet, no figure emerged from the thickening mist. The only visible object amidst the expanding fog was the barrier of rubble, which had now inexplicably dissipated.

The once impassable tunnel was now accessible. The aging gas lamp attached to the wall cast a feeble, flickering light, throwing ghostly shadows that danced across the walls of the tunnel. It revealed thick layers of desiccated black mud, untouched and undisturbed for what seemed like an eternity, silently claiming ownership over the arid drainage channel that had once seen better days.

“The path is open… Indeed, it’s a relief that the path is open…”

A tide of confusion swirled through the old man as he struggled to make sense of the abrupt disappearance of the rubble blockade. However, the whirlpool of his thoughts soon swallowed this puzzle. Then, with an air of unwavering determination, he pressed forward, stepping into the dimly illuminated corridor.

…

Suddenly, Agatha’s eyes darted upwards, prompting the trailing procession of guardians, priests, and nuns to halt abruptly in their tracks. A collective intake of breath echoed among them, their bodies stiffening as they prepared themselves for a disturbance in the enveloping fog.

“Did anyone else discern the echo of footsteps?” Agatha broke the prevailing silence, her voice resonating in the eerie calmness that followed, “Footsteps that are distinct from our own.”

“Yes,” a nun in their group softly affirmed, her slight nod adding weight to her confirmation, “A few moments ago, faint but strangely close, almost as if…”

“As if they were mimicking our own,” Agatha interrupted, her words heavy with grave undertones as her eyes meticulously scanned the surrounding mine tunnel.

They found themselves engulfed within the open maw of the metal ore mine, navigating the path “Sergeant Blythe” laid out. Their journey thus far had been unambiguous, the route deeper into the mine tainted by the ever-present spectral fog.

The mine’s lighting system clung to life defiantly. Its weak glow unveiled the mine’s skeletal support structure and the rail tracks under their feet. Yet, amidst the trembling shadows, an oddity caught her eye.

Agatha noticed two support columns on the opposing wall that were eerily identical – their surface textures and patterns of discoloration mirrored each other with uncanny precision.

Elsewhere, her attention was captured by intersecting beams that seemed to melt into one another, their connections defying logical explanation.

A priest among them, holding a lantern, approached one of these anomalistic structures. After a moment of intense scrutiny, he began to murmur in a hushed voice, “Gatekeeper…”

“I see it,” Agatha interrupted him, her composed demeanor unshaken, “It’s clear that the realm harboring the ‘forgery’ is merging with our reality.”

“The realm of the forgery?” echoed a guardian, his voice laced with perplexity.

Agatha fell momentarily silent, a wave of familiar confusion threatening to overtake her. She rubbed her forehead, muttering under her breath, “Yes, it’s plausible that all the forgeries originate from an alternate reality, and the evidence before us suggests that this reality is gradually bleeding into our world. Perhaps… we could think of it as a ‘mirror’…”

Her voice dwindled into silence as if a sudden realization had taken root within her. As she vocalized these inferences, a strange sensation enveloped her—an encompassing coldness akin to being thrown into a corridor laden with frost as if her blood had been robbed of its innate warmth.

However, this eerie sensation dissipated as rapidly as it had come. The ghostly feeling of being confined in a desolate, icy passage disappeared. She found herself briefly disoriented, her loyal followers encircling her, the warmth radiating from their lanterns and gas lamps swiftly driving away the lingering chill that had seized her consciousness.

“Is it the decay of reality, or is it because we’re perilously close…” Agatha mumbled to herself, her voice merely a whisper that her companions failed to catch.

A guardian, lifting his lantern high, scrutinized their surroundings when he appeared to spot something, “There’s a man collapsed here!”

Agatha was suddenly snapped back to the reality around her, her facial expression hardening as she quickly moved towards the indicated spot.

A soldier, adorned in the distinctive uniform of the city-state guard, was lying lifeless on the mine floor, his existence seemingly extinguished some time ago.

His dark combat attire stood out starkly, reinforced with a metallic chest plate, a steam-powered gauntlet, and a steam backpack securely strapped to his back. A sturdy respirator mask clung to his face.

Agatha knelt, using her finger to brush off the dried blood concealing the nameplate affixed to the soldier’s chest, her gaze resting on the name engraved into the metal for a few heartbeats.

“Sergeant Blythe,” she shattered the silence, her voice carrying a restrained echo.

“The blood is a vibrant scarlet, with no signs of the body decaying or disintegrating,” observed the priest standing by her side, “This is undeniably the ‘original’.”

Agatha remained silent, temporarily absorbed in her thoughts.

The solemn scene confirmed Agatha’s suspicions—Sergeant Blythe lay eternally silent in the mine tunnel while his spectral duplicate had appeared before the church’s expeditionary force from the enveloping fog. The apparition was an illusion, but the message it relayed carried a disturbing truth.

“Another casualty here!”

A vanguard guardian lifted his lantern, his voice bouncing against the tunnel walls from some distance away.

More fallen comrades began to emerge from the mine’s murky depths.

With resolute haste, Agatha directed her team forward, uncovering an escalating number of city-state soldiers scattered within the mine—each one a trusted member of the city-state’s elite, loyal soldiers under Governor Winston’s command.

The reasons for their untimely deaths varied—some bore horrific wounds inflicted by sharp weapons, others had endured crushing trauma from potent blows, while a handful displayed the grim evidence of gunshot injuries.

Along with these lifeless bodies, Agatha and her team discovered heaps of dried black mud. If these piles were reshaped into human forms, they would likely surpass the number of deceased guards.

“…This was a dreadful and relentless battle. This group clashed with an enemy who vastly outnumbered them within the mine, succeeding in advancing several hundred meters amidst the pandemonium… Most soldiers exhausted their ammunition, eventually turning to bayonets and steam-powered gauntlets.”

Agatha scrutinized the surrounding casualties with a discerning gaze, drawing inferences from the residual traces on the bodies and their immediate surroundings, a rising apprehension gnawing at her.

The count of fallen soldiers was increasing, and it was clear that Governor Winston’s squad was in a precarious situation. This battle probably occurred several hours ago—with so much time having passed, could the governor still be alive?

Almost as if in answer to her mounting anxiety, a guardian at the forefront of their group suddenly stopped.

“Gatekeeper, the path ends here!”

“The path is blocked?” Agatha repeated, her voice laced with a hint of disbelief, quickly rising to verify for herself.

As the guardian had announced, they had reached a dead end.

The group had arrived at the tunnel’s termination, met by a smooth, solid wall. There was no further way forward. Yet, this was a glaring inconsistency.

Agatha swiftly turned to survey the path they had just navigated, her gaze landing on the quiet forms of the fallen guards receding into the gloom. Among these bodies, she did not spot Governor Winston.

“Perhaps Governor Winston redirected his team upon realizing this path led to a dead end…” A priest amongst them ventured aloud.

“There was only one path,” Agatha contradicted immediately, shaking her head, “And based on the remnants at the scene, I’m inclined to believe that Governor Winston did not have the chance to guide the surviving guards towards an alternative route.”

“But this tunnel is closed off…” the priest voiced his confusion, his brows furrowed with concern.

Unmoved by his objection, Agatha turned back and methodically approached the sleek, solid wall.

After a brief hesitation, she extended her hand towards it, seemingly penetrating the barrier as if it were a mere illusion.