Deep Sea Embers

In the enveloping darkness, the once-rippling shadows gradually settled into stillness, the ghostly words that had appeared earlier vanishing as if they were never there. Zhou Ming strained his focus, attempting to delve deeper into the obsidian abyss around him, but he could no longer detect any signs of those enigmatic “conversations.”

Yes, he was sure they were conversations—actual exchanges of dialogue that appeared to be between gods or celestial beings of some sort.

Among the names mentioned, one had caught Zhou Ming’s attention: “Bartok,” unmistakably the name of the god of death.

As he stood amidst the impenetrable dark, Zhou Ming chose not to disturb the silence any further. Instead, he plunged into intense contemplation, his mind roiling like a tempestuous ocean. Despite his outwardly calm demeanor, his inner world was a labyrinth of incredulity and conflicting thoughts.

Could all of this be some elaborate, cruel joke? He found that hard to believe.

If this was really happening, then when did these exchanges take place? Were they echoes of past dialogues, or were they real-time conversations happening somewhere in a mysterious plane of existence? The conversations were being broadcast or reflected into this eerie, dark realm where he stood.

Among the other names he had heard, he hypothesized that they too were the names of gods. For instance, the “King of Fire” could probably be “Eternal Flame” Ta Ruijin, a deity revered by a sect known as the Flamebearers. But what about the Leviathan Queen and the Storm Goddess? Could they possibly be the same entity under different titles?

Yet, what truly unsettled Zhou Ming and sent his thoughts spiraling out of control was the fourth name: “LH-02.” If the first three represented deities, then by process of elimination, the last name must be linked to Lahem, the god with dominion over both wisdom and folly. But “LH-02”? It sounded less like a name and more like a product code or a mechanical identifier.

Zhou Ming found himself wrestling with a plethora of wild theories, struggling to contain his overactive imagination from veering into the realm of absurdity. All the while, he didn’t lose sight of the alarming details that were part of those divine “conversations.”

The information pointed to a pressing crisis. Sentences like “The situation was dire” and “The cluster controller had begun duplicating itself, or had lost control entirely” weighed heavy on him. What were “they” talking about? Was it a cryptic reference to the state of the world? Did “the accelerating critical state” mean that some colossal system, perhaps governing the fabric of reality itself, was on the verge of collapse?

These haunting questions filled Zhou Ming’s mind, creating an inner turbulence that belied his outward calm. As he stood in the all-encompassing darkness, the complexities of what he had heard wrestled for space in his already crowded thoughts, leaving him with more questions than answers.

Zhou Ming’s thoughts immediately snapped back to his last interaction with Agatha, where they had discussed various alarming events—Pland and Frost facing troubles, and Vision 001 experiencing malfunctions. As he pieced together these seemingly disparate incidents, they collectively began to resemble the “warning signs” of a large-scale system undergoing a series of cascading failures.

The notion that the “cluster controller had started duplicating itself” gripped him with sudden tension. A phrase unbiddenly surfaced in his mind: “This is a counterfeit.”

As if on cue, he inhaled sharply in the encompassing darkness, his eyes involuntarily darting to the spot where the spectral words had previously manifested. He half-expected new text to materialize, offering further insights into the mysterious situation.

Of course, no more words appeared.

Zhou Ming pulled his gaze away, his facial expression a mask of sober contemplation.

Numerous questions begged for his attention. Even though he had seen only fragments of a conversation, each line was pregnant with layers of meaning, each name invoking deep thought. For example, why were Lahem, Gomona, and Ta Ruijin using pseudonyms, while Bartok, the god of death, used his real name? And what could be deduced from the last message, purportedly from Lahem—also referred to as “LH-02″—who spoke of a “suspicious visitor” that had “sent Dog face and left”? Under normal circumstances, his focus would have been entirely on this cryptic ‘dog face,’ but given the data overload, it just added another layer of perplexity.

Just then, a subtle noise disrupted Zhou Ming’s internal maelstrom of thoughts.

At first, it sounded like a quiet shattering, so faint that it could have easily been mistaken for an auditory illusion. Almost immediately, however, the noise escalated in volume and frequency. As if to match the cacophony, tendrils of distorted light began to ripple across the dark expanse. An intense chorus of discordant sounds filled Zhou Ming’s consciousness, and the surrounding darkness itself seemed to disintegrate and fragment. Spirals of light erupted from all angles, culminating in a resonating “boom” that catapulted him back to reality.

At that exact moment, seated in his chair, Duncan’s eyes flew open. He was jolted by the sensation of the black tome in his hand igniting spontaneously into flames.

Alice’s panicked voice pierced the room: “It’s on fire! Captain! The book’s on fire!”

Duncan was taken aback but quickly composed himself, slapping his hand over the roaring flames. In an instant, he had the fire under control, but not before it had consumed a significant portion of the tome. What remained on the table were only a few charred and tattered pages.

Oozing from these remnants was a viscous, dark red liquid, almost resembling blood. It soaked the remaining pages, reducing them to an indecipherable, pulpy mass. Duncan flicked through the remnants, confirming that the text was now irretrievably lost.

Lifting his gaze, Duncan’s expression shifted subtly as he spoke, “I don’t think I did anything.”

After a brief pause, Morris cautiously ventured, “Based on what just happened, it seems the book couldn’t withstand the intensity of your power. This is what one would call a ‘transcendental overload.'”

The room fell silent, the weight of the words and the mysterious incidents leaving more questions than answers in their wake.

“Couldn’t withstand my power?” Duncan repeated, his brow furrowed as he muttered under his breath.

Was it simply a matter of the book not being able to withstand his power? But he suspected that the book had just served as a conduit for forces far more potent than anything he could muster. This brought to mind his experience with the golden sun mask he had originally found in Pland. That relic had offered him a glimpse into the visage of the “true sun god,” but at the cost of the mask’s own destruction.

Morris, who couldn’t read Duncan’s thoughts, nevertheless noticed the solemn expression that crossed his captain’s face. Unable to contain his curiosity, he ventured, “This book may just be a ‘facsimile,’ created through some arcane ritual from the ‘original’ supernatural artifact. These kinds of replicas are notoriously fragile…”

Duncan looked up sharply, his eyes narrowing. “So you’re saying that if there exists an ‘original,’ that one might not disintegrate when I… ‘read’ it?”

“Logically speaking… yes,” Morris said, adjusting his monocle. “In theory, the original should be more stable.”

Alice, who had been silently observing from the side, finally moved closer, her curiosity getting the better of her. “Captain, did something unusual happen? You’ve been awfully pensive.”

Duncan massaged his temples, his thoughts returning to the enigmatic scenes he had witnessed in the dark abyss. For a moment, he considered spilling the details, but then thought better of it. Revealing such arcane knowledge could prove harmful, or even fatal, for those ill-equipped to handle it.

“I saw something quite different from what you or Morris might have witnessed,” he said cautiously, choosing his words with care. “However, I can’t share the specifics with you. It’s too risky.”

Morris and Vanna exchanged a meaningful look, and Duncan noted that their eyes were now filled with a mixture of tension and concern.

“Different from what I witnessed?” Morris mused aloud, pausing as he thought deeply. “Does this book show varied content to individual readers?”

“It might, or it might just be showing different content specifically to me,” Duncan replied, his voice tinged with regret. “Unfortunately, I should have been the last one to examine it. If Tyrian had even skimmed through it, we might have gleaned additional clues. Now, our only copy is ashes.”

Morris looked like he wanted to say something but hesitated. Vanna, however, was more straightforward. “We should also be concerned about Mr. Tyrian’s mental well-being, shouldn’t we?”

Duncan waved away the suggestion. “Reading books should be safer than indulging in other, more reckless activities. Besides, I’m here to supervise. Nothing would go wrong. Enough of this.”

He shook his head to dismiss the conversation and turned to Vanna, deciding to probe another angle. “Vanna, have you ever heard of the term ‘Leviathan Queen’?”

Vanna looked visibly surprised, her eyes widening as she pondered the question. “Leviathan Queen? No, I haven’t. Is it the title of a ruler in some city-state? I can’t recall ever hearing about a city-state with that name.”

As he scrutinized Vanna’s reaction, Duncan also subtly focused his senses to detect any abnormal energy shifts or otherworldly phenomena in the surrounding environment. He wondered if merely uttering the term “Leviathan Queen” in this realm might trigger some sort of response.

But after waiting for what felt like an eternity—though it was only half a minute—nothing out of the ordinary occurred.

“Alright, let’s set that question aside for now,” Duncan finally said, shaking his head to clear it. He then turned his gaze towards Morris. “What about LH-02? Have you ever heard of that?”

“No,” Morris replied, clearly puzzled. But seeing the gravity etched on Duncan’s face, he took a moment to search his memory before finally shaking his head. “It sounds like some sort of machine code or serial number, doesn’t it?”

Both Morris and Vanna appeared to be genuinely ignorant about these terms, confirming that they hadn’t heard of them before.

Yet Duncan knew that their lack of knowledge didn’t necessarily eliminate the possibility that the terms “Leviathan Queen” and “LH-02” could correspond to the mysterious “Storm Goddess Gomona” and “God of Wisdom Lahem.” It was a well-known fact that above the level of saints like Morris and Vanna, there were the Popes, and even beyond the terrestrial domains of city-state cathedrals, there were the elusive “Cathedral Arks” that sailed the Boundless Sea. These remote locations were the repositories of ancient wisdom and tightly guarded secrets far removed from ordinary human experience.

Having concluded that nothing untoward was happening in the cabin—no inexplicable energy shifts, no sudden apparitions—Duncan let out a carefully modulated breath and shook his head. “Forget about these names for now,” he cautioned, his eyes meeting each of theirs in turn, instilling the gravity of his next words. “Don’t mention them to anyone, especially once we leave the Vanished. Do not utter or discuss these terms with anyone. Is that understood?”

Both Vanna and Morris nodded, the weight of Duncan’s instruction hanging heavily in the air. They sensed that they had come into contact, however tangentially, with matters of great and potentially dangerous import. And so, in that solemn moment, the topic was closed—at least for now—as each person in the room quietly contemplated what these mysterious terms might mean and what role they might play in the unfolding saga of their lives.