Ashes Of Deep Sea-Chapter 309 - 313 Debts Cleared

Chapter 309: Chapter 313 Debts Cleared Chapter 309 -313 Debts Cleared Aiden jumped down from the high platform and approached his captain. Noticing the unusually solemn expression on the captain’s face, his own expression immediately turned serious as well.

“Captain, what happened?”

“An invitation I cannot refuse,” Theryan glanced around before heaving a sigh, “I might have to leave for a while tomorrow or the day after.”

Aiden’s eyes widened in shock: “Is there a message that arrived on the island? Just now? And… On this Chill Sea, how could there be an invitation that even you cannot refuse?”

Theryan sighed again: “…It’s my father.”

Aiden blinked and struggled to speak: “…How long might you be gone?”

“I should be able to return quickly, in a day or two,” Theryan did not pay attention to the subtle changes in his first mate’s tone, as his mind was filled with a myriad of thoughts and he really had no extra energy to speak of other matters, “A messenger will arrive at the port area to take me to Homeloss. Let’s keep this matter private for now. While I’m ‘gone,’ you take charge of everything.”

Aiden immediately bowed his head in acknowledgment: “Yes, Captain.”

Then, the first mate paused for two seconds, seemingly hesitant, before he couldn’t help but look around and lean in close to whisper to Theryan: “He… Could he be nearby?”

Theryan thought for a moment, then patted Aiden on the shoulder: “Homeloss is hidden right here, within the fog that surrounds us.”

Visibly, he saw Aiden’s muscles tense up bit by bit.

“…Captain, after not breathing for so many years, I finally remember what ‘cold’ feels like today,” First Mate Aiden’s voice became noticeably cautious, “Are you sure the old captain… just wants to see you?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t want to know, but my intuition tells me this journey should be safe,” Theryan spoke softly and then turned back to glance in the direction of the square, looking at the sailors who still didn’t want to disperse and were planning to party until sunrise, before turning back to his first mate, “But the other sailors might not see it the same way, if you catch my drift.”

Hearing the captain’s solemn words, Aiden slowly nodded.

He knew what his captain was worried about.

The Mist Fleet was massive, and besides the few who were bought off or hired through contracts as outsiders, most of the fleet’s members were “Undead” like himself, who could technically be divided into two groups—

One large part was former members of the Frost Navy, these soldiers who had once been loyal to the Frost Queen had originally been ordinary humans. It’s after the Frost rebellion, those who steadfastly remained with the group, the loyalists, were gradually transformed into their current state.

In the endless half-century of warfare, through unceasing clashes with the rebels, death combined with the Curse power of Sea Mist gradually transformed them into the “Undead sailors” of today and became part of the Mist Fleet.

The other small group of sailors were the real “core backbone” under the command of “Iron Lieutenant Commander” Theryan: they were once members of the Exiled Fleet.

Duncan Ebnomal was their “old captain,” they had witnessed the Transformation and fall of Homeloss, experienced a century of ups and downs. They had followed Theryan in loyalty to Frost and witnessed the world-turning chaos during Frost’s turbulent changes—the sailors who had been loyal for a century were referred to as the “first cohort,” while those who had been loyal for half a century were called the “second cohort.”

Aiden himself, along with the half-baked old priest with a dent in his head, “Will,” were both members of the “first cohort.”

A century of experience allowed Aiden to perceive many things hidden beneath the surface.

The significance of Homeloss and “Captain Duncan” in the eyes of the two groups of sailors was different, and the same piece of news could elicit complicated and uncontrollable reactions from them.

And now even Captain Theryan himself wasn’t sure about the real condition of Homeloss and the “old captain,” let alone assured of its long-term stability.

Therefore, until the situation was clear and the scene assured to be under control, the news of the captain’s visit to Homeloss must not be released—otherwise, the island would definitely erupt into utter chaos.

Right at that moment, Theryan’s voice came again, interrupting Aiden’s thoughts: “…First thing tomorrow morning, send the dancers back to Cold Harbor.”

“Send them back tomorrow?” Aiden didn’t know why the captain suddenly brought this up, “Are you not satisfied with them?”

“Homeloss is nearby, it’s best not to let ordinary people near this island for now,” Theryan shook his head, casually coming up with an excuse, since “Dad’s shocking appearance” was a shameful and unlikely reason to voice, he paused for a moment, then added, “But your last statement did remind me, sending them straight back that way, that gruff ‘Curved Blade Martin’ might treat those girls harshly… I’ll write a letter, you hand it to the lead dancer.”

Aiden immediately bowed his head: “Yes, Captain.”

“Hm,” Theryan nodded, as if he had remembered something else, “By the way, I saw a dancer stop to talk to you just now, you looked pretty bewildered… What did she say to you?”

Aiden felt somewhat embarrassed in response: “She said my head shape was very sexy…”

Theryan silently looked at his first mate’s shiny bald head.

“…The dancers from Cold Harbor are indeed passionate and unrestrained—passionate in spirit, and unrestrained in taste.”

“`

…

Darkness, solitude, cold, silence.

An endless barren wilderness stretched out in the darkness—lifeless, without flora or fauna—save for the jagged rocks and the strange ruins decayed beyond measure, eternally silent in the desolate atmosphere, sometimes illuminated by the eerie lights that flickered across the sky, casting speckled, distorted shadows on the ground.

A hollow shadow was trekking across the wilderness.

He didn’t know how long he had been traveling, nor the name with which he had begun his journey. He only remembered that it felt as if he had set out an eternity ago, and that a lingering, superficial impression told him he should have already reached the end, should have long found rest in some peaceful place.

What had delayed his journey, condemning him to wander endlessly through this desolation?

The vague and hollow shadow pondered, but soon these intermittent thoughts were swallowed by a greater emptiness, compelling him to continue forward on instinct.

Then suddenly, he stumbled.

Had he tripped over something? Or had he collided with some unseen force?

The hollow shade looked down at himself and saw that blurry colors seemed to surface on the mist that was his body.

He lifted his head and continued forward.

More colors appeared on him, more solid details emerged on the surface of his once mist-like, fluctuating form.

Clothing materialized on the figure, the attire of a sailor.

Gradually, he acquired a face: that of a middle-aged man with dark hair.

His steps became stable and light, and the jagged stones underfoot smoothed over without notice.

More and more memories began to surface from the depths of his soul.

First a name, then his final moments, followed by the sunny days of his youth, blurred recollections of childhood, and the fragmented, warm glimpses from his infancy.

He trekked towards the end of the wilderness, and in the darkness, shadows large and small emerged and silently merged with him.

These were pieces of himself that had once been torn away, now returning to their rightful places.

Suddenly, the figure stopped at the end of the path.

Cristo Babeli lifted his head in bewilderment and saw he had unknowingly stepped onto a road lined with silent, ancient columns, and at its end stood an immensely tall, majestic gate adorned with ornate, ancient patterns.

The gate stood ajar, its interior remaining indistinct and blurred, the details beyond the portal impenetrable.

A strong impulse surged from deep within his soul—to pass through that gate, to find rest on the other side.

The middle-aged man in the captain’s uniform unconsciously advanced, alone in all directions, yet he felt, in the same moment, countless other souls walking this path, all heading towards the gate—in every second of this mortal world, the dead embark on their journey, but at this lonesome threshold of life and death, the souls seem invisible to one another.

Yet just as he was about to touch the gate, Cristo stopped.

A towering figure suddenly appeared before it, blocking his way.

A guardian, shrouded in bandages, clad in a dark, intricate robe, hooded, holding a long staff.

The gatekeeper of this place.

Cristo watched the nearly three-meter-tall “giant” with a mixture of awe and fear, the memories of his living days flooding back, enabling him to regain the ability to speak, “Are you… the master of death?”

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“No,” the gatekeeper spoke, a hoarse and deep voice emanating from beneath the bandages, “I am but His messenger.”

Cristo’s voice carried a tinge of sadness, “I don’t have the right to cross this door, do I?”

He remembered even more.

Including the details of his own death.

But the imposing gatekeeper merely looked down silently at the soul at the door for a moment before stepping aside slightly, “Please, enter. Your debt is cleared.”