In an expansive wasteland where the colors black, white, and gray dominated the landscape, a relentless and bone-chilling wind swept across the terrain without pause. The grass moved in waves, and the surrounding plants, devoid of any color other than black and white, swayed without life in the gusts. Occasionally, small, faint lights would emerge from the grass, floating and drifting above this desolate expanse like lost souls wandering in a forgotten realm of the dead.
This entire land was bathed in a dim, perpetual twilight, under a sky that was clear of fog or clouds, yet filled with swirling, murky patches of color that danced endlessly.
The Vanished and the Bright Star moved silently through this desolate expanse. This bizarre occurrence defied explanation, so Lucretia dispatched two toys from the ship to explore the “land” beyond. They confirmed that beneath the undulating grass was indeed solid ground. Yet, both vessels continued to glide over this vast terrain, their hulls cutting through the earth as though they were navigating waters, blurring the line between the concepts of “sea” and “wilderness.”
At Duncan’s behest, both ships slowed their pace, navigating carefully under the never-ending night sky. Shirley ascended to the scout’s nest atop the mast, scanning the horizon, yet all she could see was the endless wilderness. The land was flat, save for slight undulations, with no structures or notable landmarks in sight—not even the smallest hill.
After a time of aimless journeying, the ships gradually came to a halt, as if marooned in this boundless and uninterrupted wasteland.
“Given the unusual circumstances we faced at the ‘Island of Ashes’ previously, we must tread carefully this time,” Duncan addressed his crew gravely after assembling them on the deck. “We mustn’t leave the ship without due caution. Right now, understanding the ‘rules’ of this ‘Dead Wilderness’ is paramount.”
“We should seek advice from an expert,” Morris interjected promptly. “Miss Agatha might have insights into the realm of the dead...”
No sooner had the aged scholar spoken than a shadowy figure materialized on the deck, and Agatha’s voice, carrying a mysterious and otherworldly tremble, filled the air: “I’m attempting to decipher our current predicament, though it may be quite complex.”
She took a brief pause, seemingly gathering her thoughts, and then proceeded to elucidate, “According to ancient texts, those who find themselves in the Dead Wilderness are set upon a ‘Path of No Return’ that winds through the wilderness. This path stretches indefinitely, with only one direction to follow. Those who have passed away walk this path, gradually losing memories of their earthly lives. Along the way, they will meet the ‘Gatekeepers,’ messengers who guide the deceased further into the realm of the dead.”
“The Gatekeepers are tasked with leading the deceased along unseen pathways, traversing the entire wilderness in a mere moment to arrive at the heart of the realm of the dead—a place marked by a colossal gate. It is here that the departed glimpse the silhouette of Bartok guarding the entrance. Under its watchful presence, they shed all earthly burdens and impurities, entering through the gate in a state of purity, to embrace eternal peace,” Agatha detailed the beliefs of the death church.
In this belief system, unlike what Duncan was accustomed to, there was no notion of reincarnation. Death marked a final transition into perpetual rest, not a cycle of return to the living world.
This revelation piqued Shirley’s interest. “So, does this mean that everyone just... goes to sleep behind that gate after they die? But what if there’s no more room? People continue to die, after all...”
As Shirley pondered out loud, Alice, who had just descended from the helm, joined in the speculation with a soft voice, “Wouldn’t that make it crowded? Are they piled on top of each other as they sleep?”
Shirley, leaning closer to Alice, whispered a humorous theory, “Maybe they sleep standing up, packed tightly like bamboo skewers, stacking vertically until there’s no more space, and then they start stacking horizontally on top, creating layers—one horizontal, then another vertical, and so forth...”
“But wouldn’t the ones at the bottom feel crushed by the weight?” Alice pondered.
“No, I’ve heard that the dead don’t weigh anything...” Shirley answered.
Then, as eyes shifted to Vanna, she quickly dismissed the notion, “And I’m not a valid candidate either, right? Yes, I died once, but was revived. My continued existence has been affirmed by the captain, so I don’t fit the criteria of being truly deceased...”
She trailed off, adding with a note of uncertainty, “At least, not in the full sense of the word?”
“I’m out of the question too—I’ve become a shadow demon after being reborn,” Shirley quickly asserted, noticing the gaze of the group turning her way. She waved off the speculation, “Even though I’ve died once, the current me, being reborn, means I’m beyond the reach of Bartok’s ‘Gatekeeper’...”
Duncan surveyed his crew, his expression turning thoughtful as he stroked his chin, a hint of bemusement in his voice. “It’s rather odd, isn’t it? That on this ship, it seems we’re devoid of both the living and the dead as traditionally defined...”
While musing aloud, Duncan’s gaze inadvertently fell upon Morris, who was engaged in an unusual activity. The old man was holding an unlit pipe in one hand and a screwdriver in the other, meticulously adjusting something at the back of his head with a series of mechanical clicks.
Catching the captain’s inquisitive look, Morris hurriedly tucked the screwdriver away, a faint buzzing of springs emanating from his chest. “Apologies for the racket—seems a screw’s gone loose in my noggin,” he explained, almost casually.
A hush fell over the assembled group on the deck, each member exchanging silent glances that spoke volumes of their shared bewilderment.
Amidst this contemplative silence, Alice, emerging from a moment of distraction, leaned closer to Shirley and whispered, her mind still tangled in their previous musings, “...Could it be that they are like how Sailor sleeps, by hanging...”
Shirley, caught off guard by the sudden return to a seemingly abandoned line of discussion from earlier, replied incredulously, “Are you still on that topic? We’ve moved on countless times since then...”
Her voice trailed off as a thought struck the demon girl, “Wait, who did you just bring up?”
“Sailor, he likes to pretend to be sleeping by hanging,” Alice clarified, unfazed.
Slowly, Shirley turned her attention back to Duncan, a new line of inquiry forming in her mind. “Speaking of which... why hasn’t that mummy joined us yet?”
“He’s likely below deck at this moment, probably shirking his duties again,” Duncan acknowledged, his brow furrowing at the realization. “But that brings us to another question... Can Anomaly 077 be considered ‘deceased’ in the conventional sense? Somehow, his ‘death’ seems less genuine than that of others here.”
His gaze lingered thoughtfully on Agatha, Vanna, and Shirley, each embodying their unique state of being between life and death.
Sensing the situation’s oddity, Shirley remarked, “Captain, you have an unusual way of putting things...”
To which Duncan responded, his eyes widening in mock surprise, “Isn’t the nature of our entire conversation unusually strange?”