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He stood silently at the front of the Vanished, patiently awaiting the end of their current leap through space, when he heard footsteps approaching from behind. Without the need to look back, he recognized the presence of his companion.

“Lucy,” he spoke softly, acknowledging her without turning around, “we’re nearing our destination.”

“I’m aware,” Lucretia replied as she joined Duncan at the ship’s bow, gazing alongside him at the landscape gradually transforming in the distance. “This is the final node, isn’t it? After this, we return to the Storm Goddess’s haven. Every journey must come to an end.”

Duncan exhaled a gentle sigh, a mix of resignation and sorrow in his voice. “I’m sorry that I must embark on the next part of our journey alone,” he confessed, feeling a swell of emotions despite knowing he was merely inhabiting an “avatar.” The complexity of his feelings in Lucretia’s presence left him questioning which of these emotions genuinely belonged to him or “Duncan Abnomar.”

Lucretia cut him off, her voice carrying a mix of warmth and seriousness, “You’ve fulfilled your promise by bringing me to the world’s end.”

She faced Duncan, her gaze steady and her demeanor composed, yet a hint of humor soon broke through as she laughed lightly. “What did you expect? That I would dissolve into tears, clinging to you to prevent you from embarking on what needs to be done? Or that I would lash out in anger, leaving you with a heavy heart as you set out on this crucial voyage? Did you think I would let my disappointment jeopardize the world’s hope at this critical moment?”

Duncan, faced with Lucretia’s laughter and resilience, found himself at a loss for words, managing only a resigned smile and a shrug in response.

Lucretia inhaled deeply, her smile serene as she locked eyes with Duncan. “I’m no longer a child, Papa. I can’t deter you from making your next move, nor can I offer a better solution to the problem at hand. The best I can do is smile in this moment… That’s something you taught me.”

Duncan responded with honesty, “I don’t recall teaching you that.”

“To smile at each goodbye,” Lucretia reminded him softly, cherishing the memory, “so if we never meet again, our last memory of each other will be one of happiness, not sorrow.”

Duncan remained silent, choosing not to mar the moment with questions about Lucretia and Tyrian’s final farewell to the captain of the Vanished—a century prior—when it set sail toward the eternal horizon.

After a brief pause, Lucretia raised her hand, her gaze locked firmly on Duncan.

Duncan, somewhat perplexed, looked at her. “What?”

“High-five,” Lucretia proposed simply.

“High-five?” Duncan echoed, his confusion evident in his slight frown.

“Promise me you’ll come back. Then, we high-five,” Lucretia explained, her voice steady and calm. She looked up at Duncan, standing tall at the bow against the backdrop of slowly shifting black lines in the distance. It seemed to her as if Duncan’s silhouette was about to merge into the changing patterns of light and shadow. For a moment, she was transported back to a sun-bleached afternoon at the dock, with her father standing silent and statuesque at the plank to the Vanished.

“High-five. Promise me and my brother you’ll return safely.” Those were the words she had uttered back then.

Back when she was much younger, not yet known as the “sea witch,” she couldn’t recall whether she had been smiling at that moment—likely not, as she wasn’t as emotionally resilient and seasoned as she is now.

In her memory, Duncan eventually turned and walked away in silence.

But the warm touch and the sound of their palms meeting snapped Lucretia back to the present. She saw her father smiling, his hand enveloping hers in a reassuring gesture, reminiscent of the farewells he offered each time he departed from their home during her and her brother’s childhood.

Suddenly, the dark silhouette in the distance swelled, filling their entire field of vision outside the Vanished and the Bright Star. The grey-white backdrop seemed to silently collapse, and a distorted voice echoed in everyone’s mind: “…jump… stop.”

Before Lucretia and Duncan unfolded a vast, colorless wilderness, a landscape devoid of any hues except for shades of black, white, and grey. There were no shores, no seas, only a barren expanse where black and white grass grew untamed, waving in the wind in eerie silence, like the quiet waves of death.

The Vanished and the Bright Star sailed above these undulating grasses, silently traversing this desolate wilderness under the cloak of perpetual night.

…

The night appeared endless as if the sun would never rise again.

Frem stood beside the roaring bonfire on the Ark of the Flame Bearers, his gaze wandering back towards the path they had traveled from, towards the fringes of civilization. Yet, all he could see was boundless darkness, with the World’s Creation emitting a cold, pale glow over the sea, reflecting like a mirror. It seemed as if from the distant past to the far future, the world had always been ensconced in this somber state.

He turned his attention back to the bonfire, continuing his prayers in its flickering light.

The cold northern winds whispered secrets in his ear, mingling with the deep, mechanical groans from within the ark. Occasionally, the distant sounds of ice shattering or continuous thunderous roars broke the silence—ominous noises made by the ark’s ice-breaking prow as it navigated through the ice-laden waters.

The Ark of the Flame Bearers ventured further north, having passed the series of “northern city-states,” including Frost, and now entered what was once deemed the “end of civilization”: the frigid ocean.

In this icy realm, the vast expanse of the sea was replaced by endless layers of ice that stretched into the darkness. Mist rose from the depths of these ice fields, reaching up to meld with the sky. Illuminated by the enigmatic light of the World’s Creation, the entire landscape was bathed in a uniform, eerie silver glow that, paradoxically, seemed to shimmer with a sort of “brightness.”

After what felt like an eternity immersed in prayer, Frem opened his eyes, a frown creasing his brow as if he’d sensed an anomaly. Shadows, indistinct and fleeting, separated from the surrounding darkness, moving toward the great bonfire at the forefront.

As the figure representing historical continuity merged into the flames, Frem gave a subtle nod and summoned an attendant of the Flame Bearers, who was always on standby nearby. He whispered a set of instructions to the attendant, who then departed to carry them out. Before long, deep, mechanical sounds resonated from within the Ark of the Flame Bearers. This feat of engineering marvel began to adjust its trajectory with precision, simultaneously recalibrating its ice-breaking mechanism to continue its voyage deeper into the ice fields. Amidst the sound of ice being shattered, a series of disconcerting, sharp noises could also be heard.

A priestess, dressed in a black robe and veil, quickly approached Frem next to the bonfire. “Your Holiness, we’ve suffered a malfunction in one of the transmission shafts within the ice-breaking mechanism,” she reported urgently.

“Is it still operational?” Frem inquired.

“The mechanism’s efficiency has decreased by thirty percent, but it remains functional,” the priestess responded promptly. “However, the chief mechanical priest has warned that the failure of the initial transmission shaft is likely to set off a domino effect. There’s a risk that additional shafts may fail within the next five to seven days, potentially rendering the ice-breaking mechanism inoperative.”

Frem shook his head slowly, his response measured. “That’s acceptable for now. The ice-breaking enhancement was always meant to be a temporary measure. This vessel wasn’t originally designed for ice navigation,” he explained, displaying a calm demeanor. “Don’t worry. We’re nearing our destination.”

The priestess glanced towards the great bonfire, a beacon in their icy surroundings. “Is the ‘direction’ given by the Lord directly ahead?”

“Yes,” Frem confirmed with a gentle nod. “The Lord revealed to me through the vision in the flames that we are approaching a pivotal moment in the real dimension’s historical continuum. Transporting these critical archival documents to this location is essential for leaving ‘traces.’ Though the Lord’s guidance has grown increasingly indistinct, and the exact nature of these ‘traces’ remains unclear to me, their significance is undeniable.”

The priestess offered no further questions. Instead, she bowed her head in devout prayer before the great bonfire. While she harbored no expectation of receiving divine communication—as such messages had long been exclusive to the Pope—prayer had ingrained itself into the daily routine of the clergy, becoming a source of comfort even in the absence of direct responses.

The biting cold of the ice sea, capable of penetrating to the bone, was relentless. Despite this, the clergy and crew aboard the ark found themselves gradually acclimating to the frigid conditions. Those who had initially fallen ill due to the cold were beginning to recover, a small yet positive development in their challenging journey.

Concluding her prayer, the priestess rose, and the cold wind was a sharp reminder of their harsh environment. “I’ll inform the engineering team to maximize the operational lifespan of the ice-breaking mechanism. We need to keep those hydraulic hammers active until we reach the ‘focal point.’ Should the mechanism fail entirely, we’ll resort to explosives. We’ve prepared a substantial stockpile for such an eventuality.”

Frem acknowledged her plan with a slight nod.

The priestess offered a respectful bow before departing. Yet, she paused for a moment to cast another glance at the great bonfire, its flames casting more shadows than warmth. “This fire is so cold.”