Chapter 430: The Fog is Clearing

Devotees of the Nether Lord, dedicated followers of a dark force, met their horrific fate in unimaginably gruesome ways. The ritual they had been performing was thrown into chaos, and the remaining members of the cult made a collective, deliberate decision to sacrifice themselves. They did this in an attempt to forcefully achieve the transformation of the mirror city, a feat that would seemingly defy the natural order of things.

Despite a lifetime filled with maritime adventures that brought him face to face with an eclectic variety of extraordinary sights, Lawrence was absolutely dumbfounded and appalled by the terrifying spectacle unfolding before him. This was beyond anything he had ever witnessed or experienced before.

Driven by a frenzied madness, hundreds of cult members threw themselves ecstatically into the violently churning pool of mud, their bodies breaking apart and melting away in the mire. Their disturbing display of joy was eerily undiminished by their horrifying demise. Meanwhile, shadowy demons, once bound to the cultists’ existence, broke free from their chains of servitude. They exploded around the mud pool, their death throes releasing plumes of corrupted smoke and putrid smells, hindering the progress of the Queen’s Guard. In the midst of this chaos, a large crown of thorns rose from the center of the mud pool, rapidly growing to encompass the entire hall within a blink of an eye, fuelled by the continuing self-sacrifice of the manic cultists.

“I have comprehended!”

A voice, echoing with the intensity of hundreds, boomed from the thorny crown. It was a fevered proclamation, a declaration of understanding that was chilling in its intensity.

“We have comprehended!”

The doomed cultists, hurling themselves willingly into the mud pool, repeated the phrase in unison. Their deafening cries echoed along the length of the Second Waterway, causing it to tremble under the ferocity of their pledge.

“I will fulfill!” “We will fulfill!”

“Manifest the creator’s blueprint!” “Manifest the creator’s blueprint!”

Boom!

Flames erupted suddenly, engulfing the entire hall and the thorny tree crown in their fiery wrath. Lawrence had just enough time to look up and see the crown disintegrate amidst the ghostly flames. The crown transformed into a shower of grey-black dust that rained down until everything was scorched and barren.

However, the tremors of the Second Waterway continued, and the chilling echoes of the cultists’ last cries still hung heavily in the air. Their eerie wails lingered like spectral remnants in this underground domain, sending cold shivers down the spine.

In a state of stunned disbelief, Lawrence surveyed the chaotic aftermath, his mind clouded with uncertainty. Finally, he verbalized his doubts, almost without realizing it: “Did we succeed? The ritual was stopped, right...?”

“All the cultists seem to be dead... and that ‘tree’ was consumed...” Anomaly 077 speculated nervously, casting an anxious glance around the devastated scene, “But I have a gut feeling...”

“This isn’t over yet.”

A voice broke through the crackling of the lingering flames, cutting off Lawrence’s conversation with the “Sailor”. Lawrence, along with Agatha, swiftly turned their attention to the group of “strangers” who had joined them in their battle.

Agatha remained in her combative stance, flames still licking her form, a stark contrast to the woman she was when she first entered this mirror city. She had changed in ways beyond recognition.

Her previously black gown was now a shadow of its former self, having morphed into a ragged cloak. It hung loosely around her body, much like the worn-out attire of an aged priest. Her physical form bore a resemblance to a shattered puppet adorned with brutal injuries and a myriad of deep gashes. Her blood had long since drained from her wounds, replaced by an uncanny green fire that flowed from her injuries, reminiscent of a dreamlike, glowing river. Her eyes had succumbed to the overpowering flames of the Usurper, leaving her with nothing but empty sockets.

“Unidentified vessel approaching from the port side! It’s a swift gunboat... prepare for close-quarters defense fire!”

“Frost Navy’s escort vessel S-30 has sunk in nearby waters. Remove it from the identification list!”

“Fire on the aft deck! Damage control, damage control!”

Commands were being shouted, the thunderous discharge of the primary cannon, explosions, the deafening sound of water crashing against the ship’s hull – all merging into a chaotic cacophony, creating an atmosphere of impending doom.

Tyrian stood at the helm of the Sea Mist, his hands gripping the railing in front of him, his gaze unwaveringly fixed on the distant sea, his face mirroring the sternness of a gathering storm.

The conflict had raged on for a considerable time, but the beacon of victory remained shrouded in the darkness as enemy vessels kept pouring out of the thick fog.

The undead sailors knew no fatigue, but the relentless and intense fighting was gradually draining the energy of the Mist Fleet – the Sea Mist’s self-repair capability was nearing its limit, struggling even to extinguish the flames engulfing the deck, heavily reliant on the tireless efforts of the damage control crew. The Raven had only just withdrawn from the battle a few minutes ago, now retreating towards Frost with its severely damaged hull.

If even an undead vessel was suffering such damage, one could only fathom the dire situation the human-crewed Frost Navy was grappling with.

The dire straits in which the Frost Navy found itself were made starkly clear by the constant stream of distress calls coming over the radio. Their resilience was stretched to its limit as damages and personnel losses on each vessel were rapidly approaching critical thresholds.

Ironically, the members of the Mist Fleet, who had spent the past fifty years mocking and ridiculing the navy, now collectively hoped that these human seafarers could hang on a little longer, that they could continue to fight just a bit more.

A thunderous detonation echoed from afar, followed by a massive flash that punctuated the fog. An unyielding blaze ensued, accompanied by a series of secondary explosions.

Tyrian instinctively turned his gaze toward the commotion, instructing the communication officer to quickly ascertain the cause of the blasts. In the ensuing chaos, First Officer Aiden emerged with grim news.

“The flagship of the Frost Navy, ‘Lord Bruch,’ has suffered critical damage to its steam core. The reactor has detonated, and the vessel is sinking,” he reported.

Tyrian offered no immediate reply, merely closing his eyes in a moment of silent tribute.

Having crossed paths with that ship many times over the last two years, he was well acquainted with its commander – a true Frostman, a man of commendable character, commanding a formidable vessel. Now, all that was lost to the cold depths of the sea forever.

“Log the incident. Perhaps there will be a time in the future to honor the fallen,” Tyrian finally spoke, reopening his eyes as his head gently swayed, “Our current situation, however, doesn’t allow for such sentiment...”

His words were abruptly cut short by an unexpected shift in the scene outside the porthole.

His gaze, filled with surprised curiosity, was drawn to the view. The first officer, along with several others on the bridge, instinctively followed his stare.

The maritime fog... was receding.