Reverse: 1999 story · Main story
Chapter 11: Paradise Regained
25 scenes, 3,176 lines
1. Annum Novum Faustum et Beatum
76 linesA sealed office, with a screen emitting white light.
A dial tone echoes through the quiet space before the call is answered.
Liaison Creius, here's the order signed by the Pax House: Annum Novum Faustum et Beatum.
Beeping sounds come from the other end of the line, and soon the fax machine whirs to life.
This is the Military Commission's conclusion: Contact Admiral Somme of Zeno and lead the troops to these coordinates immediately.
Be prepared for an all-out battle.
...
The other end falls silent for half a second.
Hmm. I've never received an order like this.
Standing in the half-lit room, the vice president draws a circle on the frosty window.
Note that the designated coordinates lie in Antarctica.
There, you'll find Manus Vindictae's largest stronghold and the site of their ritual.
Ritual?
Yes, the ritual of both past and future. It seems Manus Vindictae has been preparing it in secret for quite some time.
Her tone is as cold as the weather beyond.
What's this ritual for, exactly?
You'll find out soon enough.
We haven't fought a battle of such scale and so suddenly since ...
The battle of 1999.
...
Her eyes remain fixed outside the window.
Frost clings to spiderwebs outside the alloy window frame.
A thin strand flies off on a long journey down into the piling snow.
History is repeating itself, isn't it?
Liaison Creius.
She doesn't give him the chance to continue.
We look forward to your performance on the field.
As you know, officers with successful track records are often given greater access to information.
...
Yes, madam.
Suppressing any betrayal of tone or emotion, he ends the call.
The screen's white glow illuminates the window again.
Labeled videotapes organized by time and date are slotted neatly on the shelves.
A tape is pulled down and inserted into the projector.
History is repeating itself.
But we still have "hope" on our side.
The screen crackles with static.
A child's voice comes garbled by aged electronics.
What's this?
It's a gift for you.
A gift? A ... suitcase?
That's right. To celebrate your appointment as the Foundation's Timekeeper.
This is a moment to remember, Vertin.
The child doesn't seem to understand the suitcase's significance.
And yet she has more questions.
Who's it from?
Why didn't they give it to me themselves?
It's from an old friend.
An old friend?
She left you a message, too.
She said ...
P a r a d i s e R e g a i n e d
...!
Is everything alright, Timekeeper?
I'm fine.
Thoughts return to the present.
A memory just came to me.
The further south we go and the colder the weather gets, the harder it is to shake this feeling of déjà vu.
It's like ...
That titillation, pain, and pleasure—call it emotion or some physiological mechanism of the amygdala.
Like I've been here before.
Her companion's concern reflects back to her from the window.
A deep breath suppresses her heartbeat.
Will—Will we be there soon?
Words are cut off by bustle of the ship's docking.
Ugh!
...
Her breath crystallizes into mist as the vessel stabilizes.
Looks like we've arrived.
The two emerge from the cabin.
After days of covert detours, at last they stand on the sunlit deck, looking into the distance.
This is McMurdo Sound, the starting point of our Antarctic expedition.
Before them stretches a white field of ice.
Dazzling yet lifeless.
A droning silence that gives up no hint of what may once have been.
Yet beneath the silence roars an imperceptible foreboding.
2. The Rime of the Ancient Mariner
100 lines
Entering the ice zone. Grab your telescopes, explorers.
That's right. We need your eyes on every ice floe. Let's not make a second Titanic.
This isn't the time for jokes, Koht.
Hearts thumping with excitement, our team set off. Thanks to our courage and careful preparation, it wasn't long until we crossed the Drake Passage.
No matter how fierce the katabatic winds were, our will stood firm. In fact, the windstorm we met was very similar to the lab-simulated ones. It didn't take long for the captain to find a way to deal with it.
Soon, we were sailing through the South Shetland Islands. There wasn't much there but black moraine and a few groups of Adélie penguins.
It was clear to us that there was more trudging to be done before we reached our destination. But every one of us was confident that a journey of this magnitude would pay off with very many ancient secrets.
When the sun dawned, we saw the lichen that grows all over the Aitcho Islands. Crimson, green, ocher ... Even the landblink couldn't pale those colors.
That was when we realized that rocks can move too.
I can't help but recall when the famous Guvernøren returned with a full and bountiful load. We celebrated the harvest very amazingly.
We opened a keg of beer and sang the songs of home under the rosy sky.
"The harvest's bounty mankind's blessing be. We children, blind, from mazes must be free."
"The Mother Spirit's light, with ancient glow, guides us to the great current—nature's flow."
Yes, we are the polar explorers. We are meant to be the challengers of the most unknown greatness.
So, with this feeling in our hearts, we will continue our march into the depths of Antarctica.
Carpe diem, as the saying goes. I've never felt more joyful and fulfilled and worthy in my entire life.
A two-stroke diesel engine sputters.
Bzz—bzzt— *thud* ...
Sparks fly as the radio transmitter groans.
I, I must ... I must send it out.
A ragged, maddened voice comes from the research station's darkest corner,
speaking into broken equipment with undeliverable messages.
*panting* Calm down, Nautika. Calm down.
This is your research station. You built it together with the team.
You're safe now. Yes, the Mother Spirit will protect you. You're ... You're safe now.
Just-Just try it one more time, just one more.
Her fingers keep pressing the broken transmitter key while her body shakes uncontrollably.
Come on, come on. You can do it. It's simple. You didn't go crazy. You have all your brains in here in your head. It knows all the letters of Morse code and how to send them.
See? There's A, and D, and E, F, C. You know them all. Just use them to spell out the warning message and send it out across the whole world ... everyone. It, it's easy, like playing a game of "tablut." Yes, so easy.
I can do this.
She munches down on a black gelatinous fluid in her mouth.
Cold. This moldy lime juice and disgusting ice algae, this damn frostbite ... Nothing left to do but sit here, stinking of blood, and wait for death to take me.
I have to warn the world. This place isn't the last oasis, and there's no such thing as the Hollow Earth.
But-But no one will believe me if they don't see it with their own eyes. Nobody!
Because ...
Because I used to be the same way.
<glitch>"Through Giant Mother's bones the path is laid. In bloody pain, eternal life is made."</glitch>
<glitch>"The Mother Spirit's light, with ancient glow, guides us to the great current—nature's flow."</glitch>
Not now, little Máhtu.
Mother Spirit, bless me. Lend me your glorious strength and grant me your protection. L-Let me live through this.
"Boom—" A thunderous noise comes from outside.
!!!
The small figure startles.
She sidles to the window, peeking through the insulation's edge.
A Snow Monster ship?
Excuse me, is anybody ...
A bright-haired "Snow Monster" has invaded the explorer's last refuge.
Excuse me, is there anyone here? We just landed, and this is the only building around. We were hoping to ask for some help.
I-I'm already half frozen to death. Don't you dare crack my skull and suck my blood. I won't taste any good.
My apologies. There must have been some kind of misunderstanding.
Plague in the glacier, the worms beneath the feet of the Mother Spirit, and those sickening masked tyrants.
Bring it on, Snow Monster. If I can wrestle a reindeer, then I can take on you.
W-Wait!
You're not a Snow Monster?
N-Normal behavior, no mask, uses magic, yes, warm magic. I can move my fingers again.
You're right, Máhtu. They don't seem like bad people. At least, not as bad as the Snow Monsters.
Crazed but still wary, she shrinks back to keep an eye on the intruders.
The two newcomers seem without concern. They straighten the furniture and examine the scene as if looking at a puzzle.
Hm. According to Mr. Aleph, this should be the coast that Dr. Dores landed on.
This plain is the way to the heart of Antarctica. We may still catch up with her if we pick up our pace.
I see. But I didn't expect there to be a research station all the way out here.
This place isn't on any map of Antarctica I've ever seen. It must have been built less than half a year ago.
The facilities are quite complete. Diesel generators, snowmobiles, radio transmitters ...
Sonetto steps forward. An empty can rolls to her feet.
However, they seem to have run out of food.
Her eyes turn to the cowering figure.
We're just passing by. We mean no harm. Is there anyone else at this station that can help us?
A hundred days of solitude ends with a simple question. Nautika stands half-hobbled in the corner, rubbing her nose.
I don't mean to offend, miss, but you don't look very well. May I give you a health evaluation?
No, no need. I'm fine. I'm an explorer. I-I know my body. I'm fine.
She retreats back from the newcomer's offered hand.
...
...
What are you eating?
Nautika clutches black slime—a fibrous, mucus-like fluid oozing between her fingers.
She licks her lips and swallows it whole.
The only thing there is to eat here.
Sonetto shakes her head.
And the suitcase's metal clasps are opened with two clicks.
Please, take this. It's turnip and potato soup with beef. I hope it suits your tastes.
Food.
Fresh food.
The long-suffering explorer reaches out as tenderly as a fawn.
I-Is that a magic suitcase?
She points at the suitcase that conjured food out of thin air.
Yes. It's an arcane suitcase. It's bigger on the inside. It can hold food, rooms, even arcanists themselves.
So you're arcanists!
Color finally returns to her pale face as she begins to examine her visitors with fresh eyes.
That's right.
A protein-rich aroma wafts up from the tin.
Actually, we're heading to the heart of Antarctica. Perhaps you'd be willing to offer us some advice?
...!
She knocks over the tin in panic. The soup inside splatters out across the floor.
Her body shakes erratically, and she returns to a mantra of bizarre muttered half-phrases rehearsed in her mind over and over again.
3. An Icy Road
84 linesThe true horror happened on the third day, when we reached the hinterland. An aurora australis appeared in the sky in the broad daylight.
Solar flares and the coronal mass ejections that came with them caused the aurora to appear so bright that it was almost blinding.
Friele saw it as a warning. She said that exploring the hinterland was a profanation of the Creator.
Koht, however, stood against her. He said that the snow brick windbreak we made would protect us and we couldn't let all those days of hard work be in vain.
No one knew that the real terror was beneath the snow, deep below our feet.
The sextant was right. As long as we stick to this direction ...
AAAAAGGGHHHH!!!!
Day 5. Eide has been left behind.
This is an emergency situation. We need some people to shift focus to rebuilding the windbreak.
Those of you who're fixing the communication devices and getting rid of the EMI—drop it for now!
Devil! D-Demon! Hahahahahaha! AAAHHHHHHH!
Day 7. Koht is gone. The situation is getting worse.
Finally, this damned place has shown its claws. I told you we shouldn't have headed so far into the hinterland! We're in way over our heads.
Farewell, everyone. There's no escaping it now. The voice in my head has become one with me, so, so let it end with me. Hahaha. Once I'm gone, it will be gone forever too.
Day 10.
Day 15.
Day 23.
Day 30. Everyone is gone. Only Friele and I have survived.
It's okay. Don't worry about me. Any passing fishing boat will be able to see our distress signal. You just need to go back and wait.
Here. It's a Neptune bar—my favorite. It'll keep you warm a little longer.
Nautika closes her diary.
That's why you cannot go to the hinterlands.
In fact, you-you should leave as soon as possible.
I see. So this is your concern.
But rest assured. We are taking every measure to ensure our safety. That said, even a draft map would be extremely helpful to us.
Ah, I get it.
Timekeeper?
Please take this GPS device. I've pinged its location. Help will arrive soon.
My apologies that we can't stay with you until they arrive. I'm afraid we're on a time limit. Excuse us.
We have our reasons.
Wind and snow batter their coats as the two step outside.
W-Wait!
Nautika, finding some hidden reserve of sanity and strength, shouts to her visitors.
This land of ice is alive! It's alive, and it eats people! I'm not lying! You have no idea what horrors lie in the hinterland!
Even if you somehow escape, you'll go insane! Just like—like Rolf, my grandfather!
The footsteps of those walking toward the snowfields slow.
Breaths hang in the silence.
After a pause, they turn back.
Rolf Amundsen?
I know that name.
What?
The outstanding human explorer. His research has formed the basis for understanding many applications of arcanum. Countless arcanists have benefited from his work.
It's said that your family holds a particular set of beliefs about the unsolved mysteries of the world, and that every one of you holds a passion for arcanum.
Nautika looks down.
Are-Are we that famous?
Indeed. It's widely known that many members of the Amundsen family became explorers. Their passion was so strong that it's been recorded in arcanist textbooks.
Nautika's eyes widen, cheeks red from coldness and excitement.
I assume you're here in pursuit of something, just like the rest of your family.
And that's why you're reluctant to leave, even after all the misfortune you've encountered. Is that right?
Reluctant to leave? I pray to the Mother Spirit to take me away every single day.
This station is close to the shore. There are many ways you could've got the attention of passing ships if you'd wanted to.
...
We're also here in pursuit of something.
A person, to be specific.
Nautika's eyes widen again, this time with confusion.
A-A person?
A sigh echoes through the small station.
Are you familiar with Manus Vindictae?
In a dark cavern, ritual symbols have been carved in a massive array drawn in blood and papyrus ash.
The Roar Lion's Tail is placed at the top.
Tides run in blind by their ever-be routine,
Sacred Scarab Wings at the left.
Staining that Heaven with obscene calamity.
A seashell holding a spirit is embedded in a skull at the right.
The breaker of death's shackles shall rule us all,
Black soil from the rebels is placed above the idol.
The Fountain of Youth elixir from a cursed alchemist completes the offering.
From this day forth, and evermore.
The young Preacher stands at the altar's edge, watching distant shadows.
The figure she awaits traverses the narrow passageway, entering the altar cavern at last.
You've arrived, as the prophecy foretold.
A blind woman approaches barefoot—in one hand a cup of Hauma, in the other a bundle of Barsom.
Finally, she stops at the ritual's sole vacant corner, completing its shape.
The preparation of the ritual is about to enter its final stages.
The Inculcator of Arcanum, Lady Arcana, has revealed to me the final revelation and oracle. Hear ye:
The blind visitor shall start the great ritual on our behalf.
The black-clad believers kneel and prostrate themselves before the blind woman, their chanting synchronized and unceasing.
Her sightless eyes seem to pierce through eternity before finally settling on the ritual's center.
There stands a golden Spinning Wheel, locked in silent communion with her.
4. My Travel Companions
105 linesManus Vindictae is an extremist pure-blood arcanist organization. They used to act covertly to disrupt the world order in hopes of reviving arcanum.
However, in the last year, they've become much more active, even encouraging ordinary people to wear their masks and endure their trial. It's suspected that they went high-profile in order to quickly attract more believers.
According to our intel, they'll hold an important ritual in Antarctica soon.
And we're searching for someone who may play a vital role in this ritual.
Arcanists, masks ... Are the Snow Monsters what you call Manus Vindictae?
Nautika's words are marked with a strange excitement.
W-What exactly is this ritual they're holding?
Sadly, we don't have much information in that regard. We're hoping to figure it out on this mission.
Ritual ... Arcane ritual ...
Wait, wasn't that one of my research topics?
Draw the formation, place the offerings, and summon or invoke Her spirit through a series of actions to communicate with the Mother Spirit!
She looks up with pure eagerness.
D-Do you know of Her? Do you know the Mother Spirit?
N-No?
Please excuse us, miss. We have to leave now.
Oh, and given that the communication equipment at this station isn't working ...
The suitcase opens again, this time revealing a radio decorated with a flower.
Ah-Atishoo!
Ms. Radio shakes in Nautika's palm, struggling with the harsh shifts in the Antarctic temperature.
May I introduce you to Ms. Radio? She'll receive the signal from the rescue team for you.
In the meantime, you may await their arrival here. The incantation keeping you warm will remain effective until then.
And thank you for your advice. We will proceed with caution.
The station's creaking door reopens.
...
Hello, little explorer. You can call me Ms. Radio, as the Timekeeper said.
The heart of Antarctica, an arcane ritual, a vital role ...
<glitch>"The guide appears, then fades from human sight; If the devoted journey, let their songs unite."</glitch>
<glitch>"The guide appears, then fades from human sight; If the devoted journey, let their songs unite."</glitch>
Um, hello? Can you hear me?
Your topic ... Your research ...
"I assume you're here in pursuit of something, just like the rest of your family."
Their dream ... Your dream.
Máhtu's voice is snapped off as Nautika bolts to her feet.
This is the chance of a lifetime.
The visitors' boots are already cleaving a deep path through the snow outside the station.
The door closes heavily and slowly behind them.
Wait!
The door swings open again as Nautika rushes out holding Ms. Radio.
...
...
Her hands tremble with excitement as she pulls a map from her pocket and struggles to unfold it in the wind.
A crumpled sheet of waterproof synthetic paper, bearing deep grooves with red ballpoint ink.
I-I drew this map myself. It's a draft, yes, but, well, in this situation, it is the authoritative guide on Antarctic mythological archaeology.
I recorded everything I saw in Antarctica on it, see? Here's the route from the station to the hinterland. A-And here, the landmarks along the way. And this—I charted the topography around the ruins at the heart of Antarctica. Right here.
Ruins? You mean there's an undiscovered site in the heart of Antarctica?
Yes, exactly. It's never been recorded in any reports. It's a brand new discovery of our team.
The two exchange glances.
And Manus Vindictae's hiding place.
Sonetto nods.
It's highly possible that the ritual will be held there.
But, hmm, we've never entered the ruins. The closest we came was in its periphery, but the weather was too severe. We had to turn back.
But-But if Máhtu is right, we'll make it this time.
And by "we," you mean ...?
Well, if it's possible, would you mind taking me with you?
Nautika takes a timid step, shuffling forward like a penguin.
You-You see, I could be in danger waiting here by myself. Why not just follow you and ...
She gulps a sharp breath of dry, cold air, and her voice quivers again.
And, wait a minute. Is there really a rescue team on the way?
Meanwhile ...
A small schooner enters icy waters.
Ulrich's ferrofluid moves erratically. He grips a communicator in one hand while impatiently tapping the porthole with the other.
Yes, we've tested the stability of the "Regulus" record in the "Storm" the hard way. But there are still some experiments to be completed, and that is a problem.
Our study is like a baby who's just started to crawl. It's making moves, yes, but isn't exactly going to win a marathon anytime soon.
That's why we need you to stay in the lab. You have the greatest knowledge of the "Artificial Storm." You're more than capable of continuing the work on your own.
Yes, yes, I know how much you wanna see the Timekeeper and embark on your "cross-century rock expedition."
But the experiment in Antarctica isn't one of your concerts. It's a gamble, and we're betting every hypothesis on it.
If "Regulus," that is, your record, is in fact the key to artificially controlling the "Storm" and its Syndrome as we suspect ...
I hope it can at least serve as the Timekeeper's backup plan in this Antarctic operation should the worst happen.
You know the agreement we made with her. I take the "Regulus" record for experimentation and support, and you stay in Laplace to work on the "Artificial Storm."
He adjusts the record to fit snugly and securely under his arm.
Even after surviving multiple "Storms" with its former owner, the record remains good as new.
Boss, we've entered the continental shelf. If Manus Vindictae picks up our long-distance comm signal, this operation will be declared a failure.
A guard chewing chocolate-flavored rations mutters out a warning.
A deafening horn blast echoes in the distance.
Hearing this, the guard exits her casual slouch and moves onto the deck, scanning the horizon.
Oh, we've finally met the Foundation's fleet.
What?
A dark shadow cloaks the heaving waters.
Ulrich looks up from his communicator.
What on earth ...
The propellers spin fast against the swelling sea. The distinct aroma of burning diesel hits the air.
Is that ...?
At the front of the schooner, a sailor turns his face.
Ha! "Triglav" the battleship, and "Dida" the destroyer.
Are they deployed from Petropavlovsk-Kamchatsky, ha! Traveled halfway across the world to get here. Looks like they're finally on the last stretch to Antarctica.
From the north? Surely not.
That's right. Seems that Commander Creius and Admiral Somme have struck a deal.
A torpedo explodes a hundred meters away. A strange, animal-like scream is heard as waves splash over it.
Hold on! Adjusting the sail angle. Damn it, no one told me we'd be fighting on the front bloody line.
It's one of them armed Magnus beasts that the Manus modified. Didn't expect their first line of defense to be an actual monster.
Zeno's elite expeditionary force versus the army Manus Vindictae has gathered across multiple "Storms" ...
This is gonna be a right hell of a fight.
What is he so excited about? Come on, help me at the helm.
After one last loud boom, the shrieking Magnus submarine quickly dives underwater.
Soon, the icy ocean turns blood red.
A line cuts through the crimson water, moving fast toward the fleet.
135T, prepare to engage. Bridge ready.
Warships maneuver over the icy sea. Relays of orders and replies come staccato and clear over the radio.
The guns inch into position, aiming to hit the water at six o'clock.
Let's see if their liquid metal reactor can resist Type 65-76 torpedoes and our aerial firepower.
Attack!
5. Et tu, Brute?
73 lines*whoosh*
A thin lead arrow hits a gallbladder, spilling bile and blood.
Nearly half ...
The young Apostle grows pale, her breath faint as a whisper.
What?
Nearly half of the Magnus submarines have been sunk.
Speak up.
Drop your pompous little act, girl. You'll win no favor with me through airs and graces.
...
Nearly half of the Magnus submarines have been sunk.
That's more like it.
The lead arrowhead finds another target.
At last, those white-clad fools have levied some retaliation. How kind of them to finally join us.
Another arrow is fired.
Frostbitten flesh splits open, oozing rancid fat.
I am loath to witness any more groveling at the feet of that "Preacher" and her so-called "omnipotence."
An elder shuffles forward in plain robes.
The great "Corrector" of the mysterious island, the "One and Only Leader" in the face of the slumbering Inculcator of Arcanum, the "Supreme Caster of the Great Ritual" …
*squelch*
The orb in the avian skull crumbles under the pressure.
She was nothing but the wrong person at the right time.
She alone hears the voice of the Inculcator of Arcanum? Ha! What blatant lies! Yet they submit to her all the same, every one.
While she gallivanted around the world, "preaching" on the back of her falsities, who was it who prepared for the ritual, hm? Yet she alone is granted power. She alone holds their hearts in her hands. Ridiculous!
What does a little girl know about material transportation or personnel arrangement, let alone the great history of the Manus? She is nothing without me.
...
*sharp exhale* It is not you to whom I refer, girl. But you'd better keep that tail firmly planted between your legs.
Your actions aboard the "Free Breeze" have garnered much attention—attention that could easily have been avoided. Now, the whole world has their sights set on the Southern Hemisphere, and it's all thanks to you. No amount of ritual materials can make up for that.
This is precisely why I was against giving power to you infantiles in the first place. Arrogant, reckless fools—there's not an ounce of self-control to share among you.
...
The Foundation's army will break through our first line of defense soon. If we don't stop them—
Their advance will be halted.
Words falter mid-sentence.
Antarctica is no place for them, no matter how many machines they send. Their war efforts have been naught but the desperate attempt to prove to themselves that they are not utterly without plan. Pathetic, as usual.
You're right. There's no need to concern ourselves with the insects scurrying beneath our boots.
Our role is to support from the outside to ensure the ritual proceeds smoothly. That's all.
What driver straps the blinders to your face, hmm? Or were you simply born unable to perform more than one task at a time? Tell me, how do you ensure the safety of the interior?
The young Apostle allows her breathing to grow fainter, struggling to keep the absolute appearance of humility.
I'm not sure what you mean.
The admiral's Sentinel Unit. What is its status?
Igor's unit? They've set up defenses in multiple locations along the coast. They're on high alert for possible Foundation partisans.
The fence-sitters. How could they possibly serve our great Mother of Resurrection?
It's an insult that they were ever allowed to set foot on the holy land at all!
But the Preacher has treated them with the utmost respect. They did bring the key to the ritual after all.
Utter foolishness!
Those heathens are not even willing to undergo the holy trial.
Standing among these unblessed, unguided simpletons is the greatest humiliation to befall Manus Vindictae since its inception.
...
Ugh. Despite this …
It is of little matter in the face of the ritual.
The Great Mother of Resurrection … That is our only goal.
The pitiful remains of the bird are flung at her feet.
The tents are pitched, yet exhaustion lingers like frost on a cold morning.
The aircraft captain leans out, shaking his head toward a woman standing before one such tent.
Lieutenant, we have run the checking program. The problem is with the pedal.
It's malfunctioning, which is somehow deviating the set yaw rate.
That is why we had such severe turbulence and deviation just now.
I suggest we do not fly Canis Minor until we have done a complete overhaul. The weather is just too extreme in Antarctica.
Moldir takes stock of her soldiers, then makes a confident stride toward the transport helicopter.
Report to the Admiral. We are still some way away from our designated station, but it seems we have no other choice for now.
At least we landed in a place with enough space and sightlines to perform our task. This is the best we could have done given the situation. Well done, Danilov.
Of course, Lieutenant.
Now all there is to do is wait.
Wait for what?
The answer is about to be set free.
Attention! We have an order from Admiral Igor.
We are the perimeter defense of Antarctica. We must be ready for any possible attack from the Foundation.
The Admiral is stationed in the sanctuary. From there, he will administer orders to both us and Ptolemy's infantry squad at the other port.
Moldir adjusts her collar, her mouth dry.
Any unit entering the sea within visual range is to be considered a signal to engage, understood?
Yes, ma'am!
The soldiers respond in a disciplined harmony.
She scans the ranks, then lowers her head.
Blinking, she finds herself mesmerized by the strange, golden flurry dusting her combat boots.
6. Safe Driving
169 linesTimekeeper, are you sure this is the right direction?
Please trust me and my map. This is the way to the ruins. I promise.
We need to catch up with Dr. Dores as soon as possible. Hold on tight, everyone. I'm going to speed up.
Please slow down! Just a lit—AAAH!
Tiny blue flower shakes wildly in the wind, straining to grow toward the sheltered side.
The snowmobile races across the frozen plain, its driver's face composed and certain.
Yet her passengers' eyes widen.
Wow, incredible! You really are an arcanist! We couldn't figure out how this thing worked—the new model with the Chevrolet bumper. Only Friele was able to drive it.
But you, you knew how to drive it as soon as you touched the handle. Are you trained to use human technology at the Foundation too?
If you are, it would be a huge case support to my study on arcanist lifestyles.
The truth is, Ms. Amundsen, the Timekeeper has never driven before.
As the world streaks past in a blur, panic creeps onto the backseat passenger's face.
WHAT DID YOU SAY?
Don't worry. I'm generally a proponent of safe driving.
G-GENERALLY?
What are those snowdrifts ahead?
Fumarolic ice towers. Pull over!
<speed=0.1>Stŭpĕo Swift!
...
...
Phew. Thankfully, the vehicle isn't badly damaged. Ms. Amundsen, are there any other obstacles ahead that we should know about?
That's strange. This should be an open plain.
Nautika lowers her binoculars, muttering in confusion.
...!
She stumbles backward as her feet slip over an outcropping of ice.
Where the ice had failed, a burst of steam succeeds in sending her sprawling back onto the ground.
Ms. Amundsen, are you okay?
I'm fine. I'm alright.
Her tough talk dies on her lips. She sniffs the air, her face stiffening.
Has my nose gone wrong? Or are we carrying rotten food?
The pungent odor is not an illusion. It's begun to spread all around them.
Do you smell that smell? It smells like, hmm, rotten reindeer meat.
It's the sour odor of protein being digested and broken down by microbes.
It seems to be coming in waves. First it's pungent, then it gets carried away on the wind.
It must be coming from the ice towers.
Sonetto crouches, examining the hissing ice formation.
What are these towers, exactly?
When there's magma beneath the surface, hot gas escapes through narrow cracks in the crust. When it meets the cold air, it vaporizes and forms hollow towers.
They're often seen around volcanoes, hmm, but there's no volcano here.
Crouching on the ground, Nautika's fingers gather crusted deposits from the vent's rim.
Ugh. It's so stinky.
The sulfur dioxide in lava does have a strong smell, but it's not as sour and smelly as this.
Hmm, besides ...
She begins an analysis at breakneck speed. Beads of sweat roll down her forehead as she shudders involuntarily.
The last time my team and I were here, these towers weren't.
That was less than 100 days ago. They—They shouldn't have formed so quickly.
And I've never seen towers like these before. They're so ... so short and close together, like a beehive.
It's almost like ...
... like they're the pores of the continent.
She unconsciously edges behind Sonetto for protection.
They're warm on the inside.
Warm?
Sonetto raises a hand to examine the sample, not noticing her own fingertips have begun to tremble.
*boom*
Without warning, the nearest ice tower erupts. A geyser of foul-smelling vapor blasting several meters skyward.
Ugh!
Ms. Radio is blown over, plunging deep into the snowbank.
□■□△! Don't hurt my precious flower!
Her muttered complaint is cut short by a panicked shriek nearby.
...
What is that?
*squeal* A nail. It just sputtered out of the tower.
Her voice jumps an octave higher—thin, soft, and wavering, as her legs buckle to the same tune.
Uh!
At least now we can be sure that there are people around here, or there "were."
Let's head further in.
Wave upon wave of snow stretches out beyond them, steep-ridged formations vanishing into the distance.
After struggling up the shifting slopes, they finally stand atop the snow waves.
Timekeeper, over there.
Bloodstains bloom across the white expanse, crimson glaring against the snow.
A massive research station looms ahead.
Blood has been smeared over its doors in violent streaks—a grotesque testament to the tragedy within.
Let's take a look.
Vertin ...
Yes?
I ... I can't go.
Her refusal dies half-spoken in her throat.
*mumbling*
Nautika clenches her jaw tight against the shivers of both panic and cold and takes a step forward.
Picking one's way past bloodstains and toppled insulation panels into the darkness proves difficult.
This is a large station. They have a kitchen, separate bedrooms, a bio laboratory, and a daylight simulation room.
But judging by the mess, it's been abandoned.
...?!
What's this sticky substance on the ground?
It's black algae. There's so much of it here. Watch your step. It could be slippery.
The search continues.
Following her pointed finger, deep in the shadowed interior, a faint glimmer pulses.
Excuse me, is anybody there?
Hello, we're here to ask for help.
I-I don't think we should go any further.
Sonetto—
Her teammate's voice rings out from the adjacent room.
Yes? Timekeep—
Unfinished words fall to the ground like wet sand.
It's impossible to tell whether what is left is a human or a lamb.
A tent stake pierces his palm, pinning it high on the storage room wall.
The arctic wind slips between the explorers' boots, rushing into the room—the corpse's frozen feet kick out over dust-covered cans.
Dried blood has crumbled into flakes in the hyper-arid air, scattering like snow when the wind stirs.
He's been dead for quite some time.
There's an odd mark carved into his forehead.
Look at his hands. His nails have been pulled off.
Silence falls over the three.
It's like ... like some kind of sacrifice.
Some cultures believe the connective tissues containing keratin are unclean ...
Overwhelmed by the horror of the sight, she drops to her knees and retches violently.
Stop it, Máhtu. It's just a corpse. It's—It's not the first time you've seen one. It's not the first time.
Her hands are trembling as she clutches at her head.
Something else is off. There's gauze on the floor and brown powder around his wound.
Looks like somebody gave him first aid.
Timekeeper, look. What's that hanging around his neck?
A stethoscope?
Aside from a few creases on the tubing, it looks rather new or at least well-kept.
Do you think he was a doctor?
The body's bloodied, but the stethoscope is clean. It was put on afterwards.
Which means someone came here before us.
Their analysis reaches a conclusion as their eyes meet.
Dr. Dores.
Let's take it off and have a look.
The instant her fingers brush the stethoscope—
The bloodied windbreaker, wool tops, desiccated skin, atrophied muscles—the horrific truth fractures before their eyes.
Timekeeper, watch out!
...?!
She stumbles back instinctively, yet the remains collapse toward them with gravitational inevitability.
Cover your mouth and nose.
When the dust clears, only two grotesque tent stakes remain embedded in the wall.
...
<glitch>"Within the great eternal mystery,</glitch> <glitch>even death itself shall die—instantly!"</glitch>
Whuh ... Ahuh ... AAAHHH!
She screams—a raw burst of terror too long bridled now explodes.
This is exactly what Máhtu said would happen. I-I told you. I told you we shouldn't have come here.
Mother Spirit, please, please save me. Oh, Grandpa, save me.
Nautika's teeth sink into her own fingers as her frenzy deepens.
Ms. Amundsen, it's okay. Just take a breath.
No, no, no, no, no. You don't know what this means. Those poisonous monsters, those, those beasts! They hide in the whiteout. They eat people. They eat our souls.
Timekeeper, she's ...
...
That's it. Hah. It's over. Everyone will be eaten, and you—you will be left all alone.
Nautika collapses and curls up on the floor.
Just you and their nails, alone.
Nails?
The realization comes as suddenly as a thunderbolt.
Nautika, did something similar happen to your teammates?
Now paralyzed by her growing terror, Nautika seems deaf to all questions.
Timekeeper, watch out!
Suddenly, human-sized monstrosities swarm from unseen corners around them.
Sonetto, prepare to engage.
Copy that.
The beasts snarl, breathing in and out with hungry and aggressive pants.
Ed è subito sera!
BANG!
Though the Field Mission Evacuation Instructions never covered how to outrun a pack of monstrous hounds, somehow, the well-trained team manages.
Woof! Woof woof woof!
But in deep snow, the beasts' superior speed and stamina render the end of their chase inevitable.
I removed Manus Vindictae's effect on them. They should've calmed down by now.
Maws snap wildly, just inches from snagging their fleeing prey.
Máhtu, the Mother Spirit will protect me, right? She'll protect me. Yes, She will, won't She?
Timekeeper, there's the snowmobile.
Their snowmobile stands loyally in the clearing.
Friele. Hah. Friele's snowmobile has come to save me.
Get on. Ms. Amundsen, give me your hand.
Grab tight. I'm starting the engine.
The engine screams to life, throwing a spray of ice shards into the air as its treads churn—a glittering mist rising behind it.
Woof! Woof woof!!
7. Under Glaring Light
106 linesAnother equally forgotten research station.
Close enough, just a few slopes away. Yet it proves enough distance to put the crazed dogs off their chase.
The windows are drafty, the power dim and dying, but at least the air carries no stench of blood or decay.
Every room has been checked. There are no hidden enemies.
Thank you, Sonetto. Let's take a rest before we set off again.
Timekeeper ...
According to the official map, the previous station we entered is called Shackleton Station. It's supposed to be the site of the largest scientific research operation in a 70-mile radius.
If even they fell victim to such a tragedy, it's hard to imagine any of the smaller stations surviving it.
There must be a purpose behind these attacks.
Judging from the state of the corpses, the researchers were sacrificed for some kind of ritual.
If we assume that Manus Vindictae did this—
There is no doubt. This was done by those Snow Monsters.
Nautika's muffled voice emerges from the corner. After their last encounter, she had been silent and still as if like a statue, but at last she begins to unpack jars and cans of food from her bag.
Then it's highly likely that this was all in service of the same "ritual" Mr. Aleph mentioned.
It's so cruel. What kind of ritual would require such a thing?
We have too little information to piece together the truth. But judging by this massacre, they need human sacrifices.
Or perhaps, they're eliminating any "aliens"—in this case, humans—in the vicinity before they perform the ritual.
In any case, this shows how much this "ritual" means to them.
Dr. Dores.
If Dr. Dores was in fact here, then we're on the right track.
According to Ms. Amundsen's map, we're not far at all from the central region. We must catch up with Dr. Dores before she enters Manus Vindictae territory.
From the looks of the angle of the sun, we still have some time to catch up to her before it gets dark.
Nautika arranges the food by type and size, muttering under her breath.
Mother Spirit, thank you for feeding us and for everything you provide.
And, of course, thank you to Ms. Vertin and Ms. Sonetto for providing the food.
Their voices fall quiet for a time, replaced by the soft murmur of chewing and the slurp of canned food.
I'm glad to see you looking more calm.
Sorry. I wasn't always like this.
She stammers out an apology that gathers into an explanation.
...
The incandescent lights flicker as if nodding in agreement.
Is it to do with what we saw in Shackleton Station?
...
She untangles her fingers with force.
I know you need information, but there isn't much else I can tell you.
Insanity, Snow Monsters, starvation ... Death just kept on coming. Friele told me to run, so I did. I ran all the way back the way we came.
I ran fast, as fast as I could. But when I got to the station, everyone had either left or ... *sigh*
She stops, unable to continue.
Words aren't necessary to piece together the rest of her story.
I'm sorry.
Nautika shakes her head. Meeting Sonetto's gaze, she steels herself and tries again.
I don't know if it's because of hyperventilation or that I hit my head, but there are some things I can't remember clearly.
But that fear I felt—that fear still haunts me. I'm no longer as brave as I used to be.
Ms. Amundsen ...
Back in my hometown, you're considered brave if you can tame a reindeer. We have a racing festival every year.
Whoever wins the race serves as the voice of the Mother Spirit. They hear Her voice and beat its rhythm in praise of the sun, and the flag of our village is raised high into the sky to declare their victory.
I was the best dog-and-reindeer trainer of my age. I always thought I would be the one to beat the drum one day.
...
But now, even my sled dogs are gone. They were so brave to venture all the way to Antarctica with me.
I ...
Her eyes drop. The words still don't come.
Her fingers twist back together, untwist, then twist again.
I'm not that girl anymore.
...
The air feels damp, damper than it has any right to be on this cold, dry continent.
Sonetto turns and pulls out a thick stack of documents meticulously organized, as always.
Ms. Amundsen, I thought you would like to see this.
Yes. Due to the urgency of the situation, we were only able to grab a few documents.
We thought you'd have liked to look through them, had we not encountered those rabid dogs, so we took what we could before we left.
A Survey of the Antarctic Critter Biosphere, An Indexed Dictionary of Arcane Runes ... A Polar Guide to the Arcane Cultivation of Vegetables!
Incredible! Fantastic! With this, we may finally master how to grow potatoes in polar regions!
Under the dim light, Nautika's face flushes red with emotion.
A long time passes before she realizes she's been lost in her reading.
She gathers each precious page, then looks up at her new teammates. There's a conflict burning in her eyes.
Thank you. Thank you so much.
In the end, all she can manage is to repeat her thanks.
It was worth the risk.
The scent of canned food lingers as each savors both the fullness of their bellies and the rare moment of peace.
...
What are you looking at, Sonetto?
Sonetto closes the door, looking very grave.
The sun doesn't seem to have moved at all since we last calculated the angle, Timekeeper.
Oh, is it the midnight sun? If only I had the eyes to see it.
Technically, it's autumn in Antarctica at the moment. Polar day only occurs in the summer months.
Indeed. We've seen it rise and fall several times since we left from Tierra del Fuego.
And even if it were the season for polar day, the solar angle would still vary.
Nautika's breathing once again picks up speed as their analysis progresses.
No. No, it can't be.
All these abnormal phenomena, the sun standing still in the sky, that aurora in the broad daylight—
*boom*
Agh!
What? What's that sound?
Are we in an avalanche? No, it sounds like the screaming of critters.
Timekeeper, take a look at this.
They burst out from the station's door.
Weird creatures flap their wings in the cold wind, hissing desperately at the intruders.
It's the Snow Monsters. Their flying beasts.
Ms. Amundsen, stay back.
With a piercing shriek, the Olitiau plummets from the sky.
And as if perfectly aligned, it lands square and heavy on their poor snowmobile.
No, no, no, no, no.
She dashes out, desperate to save the vehicle teetering on the edge of destruction, only to be held back by her companions.
Don't—!
Flames shoot out first, followed by a screeching roar,
rising to its grand finale: a spectacular explosion.
The transmission tears free from the blast.
The snowmobile lies scattered across the white ice field, flames still licking over its spilled fuel tank.
Blinded by the smoke rising from the fire, they make out a glowing mass that brightens the endless daylight sky.
8. The Worst Journey in the World
128 linesThey trudge upward through the deep snow.
Unsteady and fresh snowpack makes it nearly impossible to keep a steady footing.
Each step comes with a wobble as she rebalances herself.
Traveling on foot was never a good choice for an expedition. Evil Snow Monsters!
First sled dogs, then mad critters. *grunt*
Her ice ax slams deep into the packed snow.
And now endless daylight. Endless glaring sun.
Is all this because of that ritual? What the heck are those Snow Monsters trying to do?
...
Ms. Amundsen, how long until we reach the ruins?
A low, thunderous rumble vibrates the ground beneath their boots.
An earthquake?
No, no, no, no, no, not an earthquake. Lower your body. Whatever you do, don't lose your footing.
The black substance surging beneath the ice shatters the frozen layers, erupting out over a distant ridge.
The creeping darkness spreads downhill, fracturing the earth as it advances toward the cluster of research stations.
Woof ...
The polar wind carries faint, helpless howls from the same sled dogs that had chased them yesterday.
The sled dogs, they're smart. They avoided the cracks very intelligently.
Nautika murmurs under her breath, unable to hide her concern.
...
Nautika, you're a capable reindeer-and-dog trainer, right?
Her protests die on her lips until, finally, she swallows up her remaining objections.
W-Well, maybe I can give it a try. They might still have some sense.
On hands and knees, she scrambles up the slope.
But it's been a while since I last gave any orders. W-What if they don't listen to me?
Come on, Nautika. Time to "hit the drum."
Her eyes widen, then she nods.
*gulp* You're right.
A long, clear whistle pierces the air from Nautika's chapped and cold lips as she waves her arms wildly.
In the distance, the frenzied sled dogs take notice and gradually quiet.
Hike!
She sweeps her arm backward in a grand gesture.
Chaotic snow-scrabbling sounds carry from afar, the long-unruly dog team now stirring to command.
A pause hangs thick in the air.
The sound of barking dogs gets nearer as approaching paws churn the snow into a rushing tide of powder.
Haw! Easy!
Nautika presses her palms downward.
Get ready, everyone!
Her legs are shaking, but her eyes glitter with exhilaration.
Timekeeper, are we really going to do this?
The dog team is nearly upon them, still half-wild as they speed forward. Yet in a single swinging motion, Nautika pulls herself up and over the top of the lead sled dog.
Ms. Radio rustles, nearly tumbling from her perch.
Oh, holy mother of—What are we doing?
I-I have no idea.
Straight ahead. Straight ahead! Hahaha!
The dogs charge downslope without hesitation, ignoring any potential pitfalls that may be hidden in the mist.
I suppose that makes sense.
Fingers brush over a sled dog's head, coarse yet soft fur slipping between them.
I hope Ulrich has come across friends as reliable as these.
Nautika presses low, burying her face in the soft fur behind the dog's neck.
Lieutenant, we have spotted a suspicious unit.
Moldir grabs the intercom and pulls it close, listening for messages cutting through the whiteout.
A schooner has come ashore due east. It appears to be alone.
Team One and Two, come with me. Team Three, stay and keep watch.
With mutual trust, the disciplined soldiers move in perfect and silent synchronization, slipping behind a natural barrier near the ice shelf.
With an anchor's splash, the schooner drifts up against the icy shore.
Target presents as unarmed, but we can't rule anything out yet.
Team One, follow me.
Team Two, stand by at Bunker A2. Keep your eyes on the coast. We don't want to be caught unaware if they send reinforcements.
Her hand held over her firearm, Moldir leads the infantry squad forward in measured strides.
Blinded by the whiteout, the schooner's passengers march themselves obliviously into the waiting ambush.
Sea sickness, whiteout, and judging by the trembling compass pointer, something's messing with the magnetic field here.
Boss, you're probably the least suitable person in the world to be doing this mission.
Shoot. I can already hear my silicon dioxide crackling.
Find a windproof bunker. I need to reapply the hydrophobic and cold-resistant coatings.
Now!
Muzzles snap up in unison, all aimed at the Awakened and his guard.
...!
Sergeant Frekhtman, take two soldiers with you and search the schooner for any other threats.
At her signal, three armed soldiers advance through the swirling snow.
You are under arrest.
An ID badge hangs conspicuously on the chest of the figure before them.
Laplace researcher.
The ferrofluid inside his head morphs through multiple shapes at blinding speed.
That uniform ... Are you from Zeno? There must have been a mix-up. We have the official approval of the St. Pavlov Foundation.
After a prolonged silence, the guard interrupts his testimony.
Boss, I've seen their faces hanging in the Hall of Merit. So, unless they're ghosts ...
We've just stumbled upon the rebels.
Moldir closes her eyes briefly, as if avoiding a particular word.
What is your purpose here?
Ulrich raises his right hand to the white mist, his left remaining in his pocket.
It's none of your business. All you need to know is that we're not a threat to you.
We came here alone, no backup.
A voice comes over the intercom.
Lieutenant, the schooner is cleared. Only an unarmed sailor on board. The outpost confirmed that they haven't spotted any other ship.
...
A poor excuse, researcher.
Please head back to where you came from. Now is not the best time to play sing-song in Antarctica.
I'm not leaving.
The Awakened raises his left hand, a grenade gripped within it—the pin already loose—the pressure of his fingers on the lever all that stands between the striker and the fuse.
!!!
Fall back!
Moldir barks her squad back and advances alone, her firearm held high and steady.
Calm down, sir. You're a researcher. Perhaps you should stick to the pursuit of knowledge and leave the explosives handling to me.
She locks onto the tiny silver lettering stamped on the grenade.
...
RGD5-72-85-128-TTK-006.
I know the owner of this grenade.
After the first "Storm," all Zeno equipment was codified under a particular numbering system and distributed among the platoons.
But the number on this grenade belongs to someone special. Someone in an independent team.
Someone who has a unique code on all her equipment, including her famous Su-01ве flying device.
A Slav.
So, you've been in contact with Team Timekeeper.
And what if I have?
From the swirling pace of his ferrofluid, it's clear he's taken the question badly.
So the weapon that was supposed to protect me is the very thing that gave me away. How ironic!
With a wave, Moldir signals her squad to hold position while she holsters her gun, then grasps the grenade with one hand.
Are you out of your minds? This is a real grenade, you know. Powerful as 200 grams of TNT.
Что было, то и будет.
The pin whips back into place. The spring retracts. Everything resets to its factory-new state.
Your arcane skill?
She offers no explanation as she wrenches the now-harmless grenade from Ulrich's grip.
For the last time, what is your purpose here?
Is it about the Timekeeper, about Vertin?
9. The Fool and the High Priestess
139 linesMoldir's fingers tense around the intercom.
Yes, that's right.
Given the helicopter malfunction, we would be hard-pressed to make any movements unless absolutely necessary.
We still have plenty of resources. We are prepared for the long haul.
...
...
She hesitates at the difficult question, weighing her answer before speaking.
No Foundation armed forces have yet appeared.
I suspect the King George V Coast is not their first landing choice.
...
Victoria Land? Isn't that near—
Her inquiry is cut short.
Moldir puts away the communicator.
Ulrich sits restrained along with his guard.
All that chatter, yet you didn't report the thing most worthy of reporting. Am I so trustworthy?
You're disarmed, with no locator and no backup.
It would be redundant to report you. There's no need to disturb Father with such things.
...
Redundant, useless information, like the hundreds of millions of possible combinations of the Enigma machine that are discarded once the code is deciphered.
Anyway, are you certain there's no room for a deal?
He raises his handcuffed hands.
A bullet is loaded.
That single action makes it clear who holds authority in this camp.
No deals for captives.
Ulrich pauses, though not entirely too long.
...
The shadows of distant clouds cascade down the mountain, bringing a rush of chill air as if to freeze both time and space.
It's "none of your business."
Touché. Did the other soldiers agree with this decision?
...
No need to tell me. Your silence is answer enough.
Ulrich laces his tone with sarcasm.
Those who were loyal to you stayed, and those who weren't were exiled. While I'm sure you have a trustworthy team, you must have suffered a significant loss to your manpower.
...
...
"Those who weren't."
Moldir takes out her communicator.
So, you're here to listen to music, huh?
My father would appreciate this record. Given this is the only thing with you besides your expedition gear, it must have something to do with your purpose here.
I assume the LSCC has made another development. But I wonder, how many sacrifices have been made to get to this point?
And what will these sacrifices get you this time? The expected results or an unexpected failure? I'm on the edge of my seat.
She taps the communicator again, masking simmering anger with a distant but focused calm.
He refuses to take the bait; all he does is flicker.
Then I assume you're able to accurately predict the consequences of all your actions? So, where do you predict this decision will take you?
...
Her finger freezes mid-dial.
To wearing their mask and losing your sanity? To screaming and gouging your eyes out?
Or are you planning to play the loyal Manus dog, helping them bring about one "Storm" after another until every one of your rivals has been washed away?
Uh, I don't think pissing off the rebels was on the mission brief, boss.
...
Your actions are poised to undo all your past efforts by your own hand.
I'll admit, I'm no tactician, but as a researcher, I can't see the logic in this choice.
Were my experimental method to be proven wrong, I wouldn't simply give the entire project up. I'd adjust the variables and change my method.
As a new Laplace member said, there are no wrong projects, only rules that have not yet been made reproducible.
Every researcher will inevitably experience many failures. We just brush ourselves off and get back on our feet.
...
Or are you hiding behind your military orders to absolve yourself from making decisions?
Is that why you're hiding here on this coast right now?
...
Well. Guess that ship has sailed.
Moldir turns toward the coast.
She draws a deep breath, letting her thoughts stabilize in a single direction.
The King George V Coast—a place where defense would be favored.
Intelligence has confirmed that the Foundation's fleet is coming from the Ross Sea. Presumably, that's the area of operations.
They should have rushed reinforcements to Victoria immediately.
There's only one transport helicopter. But the journey is traversable for a well-trained team.
...
But ...
Father never gave that order.
He just left his children waiting at the ice shelf's edge, far from the battlefield, still on standby.
Well, looks like this mission is a great big fail.
Least we can have one last chocolate MRE before we're toast. Do you want a piece, boss?
Thank you, but chewing isn't in my repertoire. It doesn't matter how ready-to-eat the meal is.
Mr. Ulrich.
Moldir snaps out of her thoughts and turns with piercing focus.
How much do you know about Manus Vindictae's plans in Antarctica?
Her sharp shift in questioning puts Ulrich on edge.
No deal made, and you still want some info? Is this how Zeno trains its soldiers?
She looks away deliberately.
Honestly, I've never been much of an interrogator. But before I pour you into Terra Nova Bay, I have to know who or what is behind your mission here.
Wait. What?
The ferrofluid flickers, circuits crackling inside.
The situation appears hopeless.
Sergeant White Gloves, Sergeant Frekhtman.
At Moldir's call, two sergeants flank her on either side.
Take him back to the old building in the station. That will be a more suitable location for interrogation.
She signals with two fingers, and the sergeants seize Ulrich by the arms, dragging him away.
Wait, wait, wait. You don't know what you're doing. You're making a huge mistake.
There's no response nor reaction.
Moldir leads the way, the golden tassels on her boots fluttering with each step.
A throwing knife slices through the restraints.
The guard's freed hands immediately find a pistol, concealed by an optical arcane skill.
Watch your step!
Gunfire cuts through the swirling snow.
Tch. She's a tricky one.
The captives trudge onward, leaving uneven footprints in the snow.
Ahead, Moldir marches with her head high, gaze fixed forward.
Boss, the situation's critical. Do I have your permission to use ...
The whispers drift up with the wind.
So close to death, yet you're still in the mood for chit-chat.
The guard flicks the intercom on her chest.
This emergency intercom has a direct line to our commander in chief. If I press this button, our mission will fail, but it'll also send our coordinates to him.
And we both know what'll happen after that.
Moldir shows no trace of concern. She doesn't even turn back.
Leading the way, Moldir pushes open the doors to the research station.
Faint moans echo behind the door.
Sergeant White Gloves, Sergeant Frekhtman, please wait outside.
I would like to have a private conversation with our guests.
With the click of an aged switch, dim lights flicker on one by one.
...?
Light, dim and flickering as it is, dispels the darkness, revealing the sources of moans one by one.
This is ...
The research station has been converted into a field hospital. Frail patients lie sprawled out on each cot.
The aftermath of Manus Vindictae's actions.
Moldir's face is half-shrouded under the dim lights.
They have slaughtered researchers from stations across Antarctica. Most died immediately, while others were taken to their base. They didn't tell us why.
These are the people we found who were still breathing.
Are they all humans?
His indignation is clear enough.
For the most part. There are some of our kind, too.
She approaches a cot and gently tucks the patient's hand back under the warm blankets.
When we first arrived in Antarctica, we were hit by a blizzard near Manus Vindictae's base. We lost some of our men in it. By the time we found them, they had all suffered serious mental breakdowns.
Father promised us a "shelter."
But now, everyone in Andrea's team has donned the mask and become a mad follower of the Manus.
I know how it feels to lose your comrades.
Some untold story lingers, but the guard chooses silence.
After inspecting each patient, Moldir halts at a square desk, her silhouette gilded in the lamp's amber glow.
Alright, I'm putting all my cards on the table.
The current situation isn't good for either of us.
...
We need to trade information if we want to stay in the game.
10. The Call of the Wild
80 linesThat's odd.
Nautika looks down at her map, then up at the surrounding snow slopes and peaks. She repeats this several times, searching for familiar landmarks.
Are we lost?
My team reached the outer perimeter of the ruins twice. The entrance should be right around here.
She rubs her gloved hands together, the fabric rustling softly.
S-Sorry, Vertin. The terrain here is nothing like I remember.
Just so you know, I've lost all radio reception from the Foundation.
No signal, no landmarks, no working compass, and the terrain doesn't match what's on the map.
What should we do now, Timekeeper?
...
Their energetic sled dogs, after only a brief rest in the snow, start chasing each other's tails.
Hey! Hey! My watch is not for dogs! Give me that! Shoo, shoo!
Nautika wipes the drool off her antique watch before storing it safely in her pack.
The dogs play in an Ouroboros-like circle, happy whimpers filling the air.
I have an idea. In fact, the answer's right in front of us.
...?
Shh. Watch.
Dr. Dores's stethoscope?
Ah. You're right. It's been staring us right in the face.
The sled dogs are canines after all. They should have a sensitive sense of smell.
Yes, if we give them a moment to smell the stethoscope, they may be able to track down the scent left on it. Let's hope it works.
The lead dog releases its companion's soggy tail and lowers its snout to sniff the stethoscope.
Woof! Woof woof!
They—They smelled something!
Hop on their backs.
The daylight that shines on this hinterland stretches into eternity.
Movement across the icy wastes seems meaningless without reference points, just as none could say how long the sled dogs run before their sudden halt.
We made it. This is where my team went before.
She pulls the harness, and the sled dogs obey in a steady and contented stop.
<glitch>"The guide appears, then fades from human sight; If the devoted journey, let their songs unite."</glitch>
Máhtu was right. The Mother Spirit was right. It was the right decision to join you.
The companions pat the dogs as they dismount.
Where are we? A labyrinth in a valley?
Friele believed that these were the only outskirts of the site. She said that if we passed through the valley, we might even find the real ruins of a temple, or a city even.
Look at this stone wall. There are excavation marks on it.
We ran into an abnormal whiteout last time. It was too dense. We couldn't make out any details.
She sprints to the nearest rock face, crouches, strips off a glove, and presses her warm palm against the frozen stone.
I've never seen this kind of rock before. Is it some kind of fossil?
It's tholeiitic basalt. It forms at mid-ocean ridges, down at the bottom of the sea. Look at the geometric pores and the golden mineral veins.
If Friele were here, she'd call it a miracle. A once-in-a-425-million-year occurrence.
Friele ... heh. She would have been so excited to see this, even if it is only the size of my palm. That's why she joined the expedition.
Head bowed, she warms the rock before slipping it into her pocket,
as if cradling some cherished lifeform.
...!
After a faint tremor, the arcane fluctuation dissolves into flying snow pellets.
Instinct carries her two steps forward before freezing.
...
Timekeeper?
Her sight has locked onto an anomalous snow mound at the base of the opposite rock face.
Not an illusion.
Crouching, she brushes away the accumulated powder.
A portable vintage typewriter.
I read about this typewriter in the file. Ms. White Rum and Nala also mentioned it.
In this era, it typed terse medical records for the drowning girl, recorded São Paulo's raucous nights, and bore witness to Ushuaia's poetry society.
That's right. This is Dr. Dores's typewriter.
Another one of her belongings. Is it too coincidental to be mere chance?
*cough* What's this all over it? Scale powder?
...!
Blood. It's dry.
Penguins, seals, or the fallen at the research station.
The bloodstains could belong to anyone, including Doctor Dores.
Whether these were left intentionally or not, this proves that we're heading in the right direction.
So much blood. She may be injured. We need to find her as soon as possible.
Everyone crowds around, including Ms. Radio, who had been lying on one of the dogs.
Barren mountains flank them on both sides, a stone labyrinth of basalt standing sentinel at the pass, its end shrouded in mist.
...
The lead dog approaches, then raises its head, alerted to some unseen threat.
Woof! Woof woof!
Stop! Whoa!
Nautika presses two fingers to her lips and issues sharp whistle commands.
Woof! Woof—
Their paws churn the soft snow, drowning out the whistle commands meant for the loyal friends.
The excited sled dogs charge into the labyrinth, carrying the helpless Ms. Radio with them, and soon disappear from view.
They're gone. W-What do we do now?
Think positively. Perhaps they'll just get there before us. Let's go after them.
Their movement triggers something hidden, causing the snowfield around them to shake.
11. Des pas sur la neige
119 linesUmm, guys ...
Exhausted, Nautika finally breaks the silence of their long trek.
The chief assistant waves her glasfeder, inscribing a tiny "VI" beside them.
To its left are the five preceding numerals in solemn sequence.
Yes, Nautika, we noticed it too. This is the sixth time we've passed this stone wall.
It might even be more than the sixth time. We walked for 15 minutes before we realized we were going in circles.
I'm afraid we have to face the fact that we're trapped in this labyrinth, Timekeeper.
Just like in the legends.
"The Black Forest," "The Demon of the Crossroads," "The Twilight Loop" ...
W-Wait, Ms. Amundsen ...
We need to think dialectically. Let's not jump straight to evil spirits.
It could be the result of some kind of arcane skill.
I had the same thought, but I don't sense any arcane fluctuations around here.
That said, Ms. Radio and the sled dogs couldn't just vanish into thin air. There must be a hidden exit, or something else at play here.
Nautika stomps back and forth, soft snow rustling under her feet.
She begins rummaging through a mountain of gear, searching for a vital tool.
The mechanical gears turn dutifully, just as they had half a century ago on this same frozen ground.
My grandfather taught me how to tell the directions using a watch and the position of the sun. I have his watch right here. I took it with me.
Let me see. What was it again? Point the hour hand toward the sun, and bisect the angle between the hour hand and 12 o'clock to find the south.
Wait, we're in the Southern Hemisphere, so it actually points north.
Thankfully, we aren't in the polar night yet. We still have the sun in the sky.
Her excitement soon falls into silence.
...
Nautika shakes her head and curls up, giving the appearance of a startled armadillo.
Th-There's no sun.
North, south, west, east. The sky is smothered under thick clouds in every direction.
Snow and mist scatter enough light to see. The now-red sun lies hidden away.
Manus Vindictae's ritual is affecting the day and night cycle.
Don't worry, Ms. Amundsen. There must be another way.
Timekeeper, I suggest we try to exit this area first.
Agreed. We can't afford to risk any more time in here.
*panting*
We, ah ... We're back at the beginning again.
I've been keeping an eye on the sled dogs' footprints. We've been following them all this time, yet we still seem to be going in circles.
How did they disappear along with Ms. Radio?
Is-Is this a trap? A trap that only lets dogs leave? I-I don't wanna be stuck here forever.
The ruins are just behind the pass. They're so, so close. Is it really impossible to get there?
But—but Máhtu told me that it's different this time. This is the closest I've ever been.
Her voice shakes as she looks into the distance, brimming with expectation.
<glitch>"Across this land the Mother's light is sown. And through all things, Her spirit clearly shown."</glitch>
This is what I came for.
Faint barking drifts out from the labyrinth's end, distorted by distance.
It ought to be less than a mile away but seems now to extend into an unimaginably vast space, distorted by the labyrinth's power.
...
The sled dogs followed Dr. Dores's scent from the typewriter.
That's right.
And the direction of their barking is consistent. So, unless the labyrinth has been designed to carry sound in a particular direction, they must have made it through to the other side, where the ruins are.
Which means Dr. Dores must've made it through the labyrinth too.
Exactly.
Although we can't be sure whether she was guided here, let's assume that she was alone.
...!
Then, despite the fact that she's blind, somehow she didn't get trapped by these stone walls.
This Dr. Dores you're looking for—she's blind?
Nautika gasps in surprise, lifting her head from the snow.
Yes. She always covers her eyes with a patch or bandage.
A look of intense focus settles on Nautika's face.
"Through the Giant Mother's bones the path is laid. In bloody pain, eternal life is made."
"The blind seer walks, and we her path do take. For all will shift in the evernight's wake."
Are those proverbs from the legend of the Mother Spirit?
Yes, they are.
Could this folk tale from your hometown actually derive from reality?
Even in my hometown, many people think this proverb is an expression of the peoples' want for spring after the long polar night. But I've always thought that there is something else behind it.
You see ...
The blind Dr. Dores wasn't trapped, and the dogs who followed their noses also made it through the labyrinth.
We looked around this labyrinth, we looked for landmarks and for clues, we even looked for the sun to guide us ... We looked. That's the difference between us and them. We've only been using our eyes.
Are you saying that ...
Maybe, if we close our eyes, the true direction will be revealed.
Close your eyes, Vertin.
Only when your eyes are closed will your mind open up.
Clear clues, simple deductions, familiar theories.
It's worth a try. We don't have any other ideas at the moment.
We trust you.
Their ice-cold hands clasp together.
Are you ready to walk in darkness, ladies?
She closes her eyes.
Through the darkness, she follows old footprints along paths of melted-and-refrozen ice.
The snow here feels different. It's harder than the last path we were on.
I don't think we came this way when we were following the dogs' footprints, did we?
Basalt, stone walls ... A path that can't be found with open eyes.
I see it now. The designer of the labyrinth used these stone walls to create an optical illusion. We missed this entrance over and over again.
Right! Even if the dogs hit into a wall, they could still follow the scent.
Of course. The Mother Spirit is always right.
...!
I think I see her.
What do you see, Vertin?
No. No. It's gone.
Take my hand, Timekeeper.
Darkness floods her vision, but the edge of the gloom still reveals a scattering of faint light.
Through this flickering, directionless world, a golden melody pierces the silence.
Ms. Urd ...
What is the answer that you're searching for?
Footsteps? Timekeeper, Ms. Sonetto, Ms. Amundsen? Is that you?
A familiar voice calls out.
Oh, thank goodness you're here! You have no idea how many times these reckless dogs almost flung me off their backs.
Ms. Radio!
Snow and wind blur her sight.
Er, where are we?
The wilderness lies silent.
The cries of ancient creatures, streams bordered by tropical jungles, and the life they held—all that once flourished and has since vanished in this barren land.
Life's meaning emerges at the confluence of cosmic dust and time. When it comes to its silence and sounds, its texture and shape, it just follows the flow without compromise or resistance.
Across the firmament, the rhythm has been struck.
...
Her initial excitement dulls into a daze. She stands frozen, unable to look away.
Grandpa ... Friele ...
She clenches her trembling fingers, tilting her head up to hide tears mixed between joy and fear.
I-I made it. I found it.
I-It's real. The Mother Spirit does slumber far to the south. The legends are true, and ... and I found it.
Its ancient architecture whispers out forgotten histories.
The air hangs so heavy that Nautika's sobs seem to sink straight into the earth.
...
We should keep moving.
I have a feeling that all our questions will be answered once we pass through that gate.
The unsetting sun's cold light bounces between the walls until the heavy doors swallow the last glimmer.
A colossus frozen in the sky that gazes down upon all visitors.
Its silence an acknowledgment that they have passed the first trial.
12. Just Another Laplace Experiment
141 lines他只继续在险阻中前进，一面思前想后，
The edge of the world resists change in its own way.
Frozen soil, stagnant time, and roaring winds.
Yet the battleship's armored prow surges forward, blast waves shattering every obstacle.
Magnus's scream sinks beneath the sea, staining the thick ice crimson.
Radar's out, no sonar contact. Targets eliminated. We got them.
Good work, everyone, but let's not start celebrating yet.
The ice is getting thicker. We are entering an ice zone. Notify all bridge personnel to reduce speed.
Engineer, what's the damage report?
The Magnus hit our portside propeller. We're down to about 20% thrust on the steering, sir.
Sir!
The sentry bursts through the door.
Visual on an iceberg at 12 o'clock! It's closing in fast!
The captain leans into the high-powered telescope.
A speeding iceberg? Really? What did I tell you about staring at the snow too long? It messes with your visi—
The first mate takes the telescope next.
F**k! That's no iceberg!
It's a fin! A massive one! Something's under the water!
A Leviathan!
A shiver runs down the captain's spine.
Triglav, all systems engage!
Weapon targeting systems whir alive, but the bottom of the battleship takes the first brutal hit.
All units, report your status!
Water in main battery magazine!
All watertight compartments are under pressure. Captain, we're going down!
Understood.
Flames erupt across the nearby sea as the frigate's fuel tanks ignite in the blast.
For all these years, we have fought side by side with Triglav and her three frigates. Not once have these old girls let us down.
The Manus must be desperate to stop our landing—sending a Leviathan after us, of all things.
The captain stares out at the colossal creature as it looms closer and closer. Its piercing shriek tears through the air as a prelude to another charge.
Let them try. The Foundation will not be stopped at the Ross Sea.
The captain presses the communicator on his chest.
<glitch>Triglav to Operations—initiating detonation of the onboard array.</glitch>
...
Static hisses briefly before the signal dies over Antarctica.
Yet within moments, precise and clear orders are reissued.
Operations to Dida—steer clear of the ice zone, fall back to defense line A2.
You made your way here through the Ross Sea. The front lines must've given you a grim taste of the war.
The Manus won't let the Foundation set foot on Antarctica—not without a fight. The ritual is too important. They will stop at nothing to see it happen.
So here's my offer: reciprocity. As a gesture of good faith, allow me to share some intel on their movements with you first.
There's a ruin of an ancient city deep in the heart of Antarctica. That is where the ritual will be held.
A ruin? Here?
Against that mountain, yes. But it isn't just any ruin. It's Manus Vindictae's stronghold. Rituals, preparations, high-level meetings—that is where they all happen.
In order to secure the continent, they have fortified the coastlines, covering every possible landing point. The Order of Enlightenment is stationed at King Edward VII Peninsula, the Apostles Brotherhood controls Marie Byrd Land, and the former Zeno Sentinel Unit has deployed its forces along King George V Coast.
The terrain is already a natural fortress, but that wasn't enough for them. They have deployed a number of arcane-modified beasts. Several Magnus and a Leviathan, if my intel is correct.
Whoa. No way. A Leviathan? I heard you could sink Australia with one of those things.
Moldir presses the communicator to her ear as battle reports crackle through.
Not anymore. The Triglav just blew it up and sank with it in the explosion. She was one of the Foundation's best battleships.
A heavy price to pay to only reach a stalemate. If I were you, I wouldn't count on support from the Foundation forces. They're already spread thin just holding the front line.
You need a plan to complete your mission without their help.
And if you're as smart as I hope you are, you will see that this map is your best shot at reaching the city without getting caught in their territory.
...
It all sounds too convenient, boss. We've got no clue what she's really up to.
Ulrich's head remains bowed, only the crackle of circuits breaking his silence.
Fair enough.
But know that the admiral has ordered the coastline be sealed, I can't let you pass—at least, not without a deal.
Whatever your purpose is, you won't make it further without some assistance.
Fine.
Seriously?
He lifts his fishbowl head, the fluid remaining in a steady flow.
I'm meeting with the Timekeeper at the site of the ritual.
*sigh* Brilliant.
Now it's the guard who lowers her head, as if surrendering to defeat.
What's the Timekeeper doing there?
Ulrich raises his tied hands.
I'm not saying another word until you remove these cuffs.
You think you're in a position to bargain?
Bargain? You were the one suggesting reciprocity. Hardly seems reciprocal to keep us locked up, don't you think?
...
The key clicks into the handcuff's lock, the bolt turns, and then the now freed captive flexes his wrists.
We really are here because of a song. The record is the key to everything.
In 1995, before the world was afflicted with the "Storm," this record—along with its arcane record player—was sent into space aboard the "Regulus Space Telescope," serving as the power source of the satellite.
For 12 years, it took pictures and transmitted them back to Earth.
Then, in 2007, the satellite crashed near Aldeburgh, destroying everything but this record in the process.
Precisely. A rock music enthusiast from that era found the record and later brought it to Laplace. She is now a member of the Timekeeper squad.
The last image transmitted from the satellite was timestamped April 16, 2007.
Even after the "Storm" sent everything back, the satellite's timeline kept moving forward.
We believe it's because of this record.
It's the only material that has been proven to be immune to the "Storm."
In our previous experiments, it reduced the severity of the Storm Syndrome afflicting one of our researchers and slowed its progression on me.
Wait, what?
But those results were from small-scale, isolated tests. We've never tried it in a real "Storm."
Since replicas of the record haven't demonstrated the same immunity as the original, we've developed an upgraded amplifier system for it.
Now, when played on our upgraded player, this record can create an immunity zone with a 2.5-mile radius.
But the immunity isn't permanent. We found that the element "Regulus" in the record is consumed every minute it plays. At best, we're looking at 12 minutes of protection with this original copy.
If Manus Vindictae succeeds in triggering another "Storm" with their ritual, this record may be our last line of defense. That's why I've brought it here.
And that's why I need to get it to the Timekeeper. Should the worst happen, at least we can minimize the damage.
And I'll be able to see how it works during an actual "Storm"—an invaluable boon to our research.
Sounds like Laplace has made remarkable progress since the Equilibrium Umbrella.
I have to say, I'm impressed.
So, there it is—all my cards on the table. What have you got for us?
...
The actual location of the ritual is in a sanctuary hidden in the heart of that mountain behind the city ruins.
Hah, first a city, now a sanctuary? Boss, she's got to be messing with us.
I am telling the truth. There's a tunnel in the city that leads into the mountain. Only the "chosen" are allowed through.
And you can bet that the tunnel will be heavily guarded.
Moldir turns aside, processing the information absorbed from Ulrich.
2.5 miles of immunity, you said?
That's right. I'll need to know the size of the city and the length of the tunnel to figure out the best placement for the record.
I have an idea.
The mountain's interior is hollow. The sanctuary sits right in the heart of it.
It used to be an active volcano, but it hasn't erupted for centuries.
The elevation of the volcano is 11,616 feet. That's just under 2.2 miles.
...
Ulrich exchanges a glance with the guard beside him.
Boss, it's not exactly easy to tell what you're thinking, you know. Surely you're not taking her seriously, are you?
Three figures emerge from the abandoned research station, now repurposed as a field hospital.
The two freed captives adjust their clothes, ready to depart.
Moldir hands the map to the guard.
Scaling the mountain isn't going to be easy. I have marked the dangerous areas on this map. Try to avoid them when planning your route.
The guard nods and receives the map.
Before you go, let me make one thing clear. This is just my advice. Whether you take it or not is up to you.
If just the two of you go up the mountain, you may keep yourselves out of the enemy's sights, but it will be highly dangerous. There will be no saving you if something goes wrong.
Of course. We'll weigh our options before we make a move.
Good. Keep your head on straight, soldier.
...
So, just like that, you're letting us walk out of here? With the record and a map? You call it "reciprocity," but what's in it for you?
It may have just been the wind or a trick of the eye, but for a moment Moldir seems to smile.
Arcana's death hasn't weakened Manus Vindictae. In fact, they have kept the Foundation very busy, taking different names and causing chaos around the world.
They rallied their followers, journeyed across the globe, and set the stage for their ritual on this barren land, and all right under everybody's noses.
They planned every step, but you—you just barged in here with nothing but a record and an idea. If you were my soldiers, I would have thrown you out of my camp by now.
That said ...
She returns the record to its rightful owner with a solemn gesture.
I would rather see the "Storm" end than see you fail.
Ulrich accepts the record in turn.
After a final handshake, Ulrich turns toward the snowfield with his guard.
A few steps later, he looks back.
A
G
H
13. The Nine-Layered City
186 linesI see. Thank you, Mr. Ulrich. This is exactly the information we needed.
If everything's gone to plan, the Foundation's spy should already be in Antarctica.
But they haven't made contact with us yet. It seems we won't be getting any more intel on the ritual from them anytime soon.
...
Are you certain?
...
Alright. If you've thought it through, I won't stand in your way. Just be careful, Mr. Ulrich.
Mr. Ulrich?
Ulrich's voice dissolves into a static noise.
Signal's gone. I can't tell if it's an issue on his end or ours.
Still, we got what we needed: the ritual will take place in a sanctuary hidden in the volcano at the edge of the city ruins.
As one, the group turns toward the towering mountain at the edge of the ruins.
That means we'll need to cross the city to get there.
Perhaps it's best to report back to the Foundation and wait for reinforcements before going deeper.
Beep-beep ...
Buzz ...
I'm afraid comms are down.
Could be another trick by Manus Vindictae, like the unnatural day-night cycle here.
Timekeeper, maybe we should fall back. Get out of here, fix the communicator, and call for support.
That would be the safest choice, but according to Mr. Ulrich, the Foundation is tied up on the front lines.
I doubt they'd be able to come to our aid in time. Besides, with every passing minute, we fall that much further behind Dr. Dores.
I suggest we stay here and search the area. Perhaps we'll find something to point us in the right direction.
Sonetto scans the surroundings.
Well, there are no immediate signs of danger. It should be safe to look around.
Sonetto's wandering gaze finally settles on their human explorer.
But before we proceed, should we escort Ms. Amundsen back to the research station? There's a high probability that we'll come into conflict with the Manus now that we're so close. She'd be safer there.
G-Go back? After all this?
Crouched on the ground sketching, Nautika's head jerks up.
These ruins ... They're the only thing that has kept me going.
Her fingers tighten around the map as a whispered protest slips out, filled with both hope and defiance.
No. I can't turn back now. I can't.
...
It's okay, Sonetto. Nautika can come with me. We'll just look around the city's perimeter. You have my word.
Alright. Please be careful.
She nods and strides forward.
The snow, compacted by wind and time into a thick blanket, forms a welcoming path underfoot.
Nautika takes a breath, then leaps as gingerly as a hare. The white ground of the ruins seems to radiate from her impact.
Ah. Then I can take some samples, right? Maybe even dig a little?
A determined gleam flickers in Nautika's eyes.
Yes, but please keep an eye out for anything suspicious while you work. The Manus might be closer than we think.
Oh, and before you go, let me enhance the warming incantation on you.
Sonetto steps lightly onto the snow.
Urghhh!
My arm ...
Timekeeper! Are you injured?
I'm fine. Don't worry.
The ground was probably already caved in. We must've stepped on the thin layer of ice left behind. Ugh, this happened back home once.
The group crashes through the snow trap, landing on a soft, semi-fluid surface.
Looks like we've fallen into some underground part of the city ruins. No signal here, either.
We need to get back to the surface and contact the Foundation as soon as possible.
...!
She tries to stand but slips, barely keeping her face from slamming into the ice.
This is ...
I've been meaning to ask: what is black algae, exactly?
Aase, my team's arcanobiologist, was the first to notice it.
It looks like algae, but it's actually a hybrid of an ancient fungus and I think some kind of fibrous plant. Luckily for me, she found that they were edible.
This is what I ate after I ran out of food at the station.
Nautika climbs a few steps and peers deeper into the ruins.
But, there's so much of it here. Look at the pattern. It looks like they've grown all the way from the foot of the volcano.
She dusts off her hands and hops down from the steps.
This algae grows very fast and very violently. I saw one grow by a few dozen meters overnight. It's no wonder they can crack open ice and make those "earthquakes" happen.
Hmm. Perhaps it's a new type of arcane material. I imagine there'd be quite a debate over its classification.
Alright. Let's just watch where we step.
Nautika, do you have any idea where we are?
Nautika produces a familiar crumpled sheet of waterproof synthetic paper from her pocket.
Oh, I think I do. I listened in on your conversation over the comm and filled in a few gaps on my map based on what your colleague said.
Let's see. The ritual sanctuary is here, at the far end of the city, inside the dormant volcano.
Manus Vindictae will surely have that area heavily guarded.
And outside the sanctuary entrance there's this, a kind of circular clearing, probably one of their daily ritual sites.
And this is where we are, at the outskirts of the ruins.
Just look at it—this ancient city—from here, all the way up to the foot of the volcano. It's, hah, it's incredible.
Just imagine all the secrets and answers hidden away within these walls.
If we're going to find out anything about Manus Vindictae's ritual, the answers will be in this city.
Stay close, everyone. Let's head back to the exit of the labyrinth first.
Before the words are even spoken, Nautika has already begun to bound forward.
Heeding the call, the other two file into the nearest room.
Nautika is the first to reach out and touch what might be called furniture.
A peridotite stone bed, a gneiss stone table and chairs ... Someone used to live here.
It's so stark, even for life in Antarctica. Do you think this is where those masked Snow Monsters live?
I can't say for sure, but the owner wasn't exactly subtle about their interests.
On the small altar sit retorts, water baths, and test tubes filled with red and green potions, while dark metallic powders are scattered across the surface.
This is an alchemist's chamber.
After careful examination, Sonetto delicately extracts a manuscript from beneath the alchemical materials.
"This manuscript was written by the great Paracelsus, whose river of verses quenches our thirst for an endless life and whispers the secret of the Fountain of Youth."
"Transcribed by ... Cavendish." I can only make out the surname.
The Fountain of Youth? What else does it say?
There are just a few verses and illustrations.
Paracelsus ... Why does that name ring a bell?
Sixth grade, second semester, History of Alchemy, week 1 ... "The life of Paracelsus."
He was a pioneer in ancient alchemy and medicine. Legend has it that he invented a potion that could revive the dead.
REVIVE THE DEAD
A warning alarm sounds deep in her mind.
Revive the dead ...
There was an array in Tuesday's Motel, which the Foundation confirmed to be part of a resurrection ritual. And here in Manus Vindictae's city, there's a manuscript about a revival potion.
Perhaps this is what their ritual is for. To bring back the dead.
And the only person they'd go to such lengths to bring back is—
The answer is clear.
Arcana.
But what's Dr. Dores's part in all this?
That's still unclear.
But if Manus Vindictae needs her to complete their ritual, we're on borrowed time. I'm afraid waiting for reinforcements is no longer an option.
We have to go through the city. Now, Sonetto.
Agreed. The situation may be more urgent than we thought. We can't afford to linger any longer.
Sonetto sighs and turns toward Nautika, who's busy grappling with the building's exterior.
Ms. Amundsen, there's been a change of plan. We're entering the city.
We'll do everything we can to keep you safe, but there's no guarantee we'll—
Ms. Amundsen?
Nautika had kept quiet during their discussions and continues to run her hand along the weathered stone walls without reply.
You were right, Friele. The tales are true. The Mother Spirit is here at the southernmost edge of the world.
This is Her resting place.
She presses her face against the stone, body warmth melting the thin snowdrift clinging to it.
<glitch>"The first age ends, the tolling bells are rung. Before the last, a mournful dirge is sung."</glitch>
<glitch>"Alas! Where will our bones be laid to rest? O Mother, let us lie upon your breast."</glitch>
The sound causes her ears to spring up and her head follows shortly after.
Ah, Vertin. Here, this place. Oh. This is the place I've been searching for.
...?
...
Look, here, beneath the surface of this rock.
She taps the wall with her ice ax, causing pale fragments to flake off and reveal a translucent, milky crystal beneath.
Feel it. It looks like chalcedony, right? But it's much heavier. This rock is totally unique to Antarctica. It's never been seen anywhere else. We call it Rock of the Blank Era.
This is the exact same rock Friele and I studied!
Three years ago, we ran a carbon dating test on the rock samples my grandfather brought back from Antarctica.
When we ran the test on this rock, we found something strange. It was pointing to an era that didn't exist in any geological record.
None of the other samples matched that strange era. We looked for other evidence, but we found nothing—no fossils, no minerals, no records.
But then, when we couldn't think any longer, our folk tale suddenly came to mind, and it all started to make sense.
Our book, Tales of the Mother Spirit, led me here, to the end of the Earth. It guided me to these ruins, to this very rock.
I see what you're saying, and I'm sure there's more to discover through this rock, but isn't it a little too soon to link it to your tale?
I'm sure of it. This is the place.
It's just like Máhtu said. This is where the Mother Spirit rests. There is no doubt.
If I can bring more samples back to the lab, we might be able to figure out the connection between the Mother Spirit and the Blank Era. We can finally find out what it was like.
...
Lost in thought, Nautika continues to trace out the wall of the room, searching for its weakest point to extract an intact crystal.
Sorry to interrupt, but may I point something out?
*sneeze*
It's getting very cold in here. I can feel my resistance starting to drop.
Vertin!
A soft exclamation from Nautika draws the others out.
Mo-mon-monster ...
A pallid, grotesque figure stands before Nautika.
Its face is blank, its skin appearing to have been peeled and reattached inside-out.
It twitches as if watching the intruders from nonexistent eyes.
*wailing*
Don't provoke it. There's a chance it might just leave us be.
*wailing*
Distant playful barks echo back through the walls, drawing a stark contrast to the scene.
*wailing*
With a whimper, the humanoid creatures lurch toward the group.
*coughing*
The enemy's strike shatters the weathered ground, sending them scrambling up from the rubble below.
Timekeeper, are you alright?
Alive and well, and you? Where's Nautika?
They call out her name, but it goes unanswered.
She didn't fall through with us. She's still up there, alone.
I don't hear any movement above us. Perhaps she's found a place to hide.
Ms. Radio, could you get her on the comm?
I ... I'm trying.
A delicate moth brushes past her ear.
Is that girl with you?
...?
Countless pale and weightless moths stream forward from a fixed direction, reflecting in the bright polar light.
You're a tricky one to track, Timekeeper.
I'm ever so glad you've made it this far into the continent.
I'll admit, I'd be more than happy to welcome anyone from the Foundation here.
She approaches, her steps betraying a faint unsteadiness.
But, oh, what a pleasure it is that you, of all people, would be the one to show up.
Grace? Is that you?
Her "old friend" seems to be recovering her breath from some kind of exertion.
No. Who are you really? Kayla from the ranch? Captain Grace of the "Free Breeze"?
Or ...
Or just a familiar stranger.
Who would ask a common moth its name? Who would even notice it if it weren't drawn to the flames?
So many lives have been lived through me—so many names taken.
Cecilie, Kayla, Grace ... I've been them all, yet never quite been any of them.
...
So which one are you now? What's your goal here?
Sonetto already has her glasfeder raised, ready to fly into attack or defense as needed.
No need to get worked up.
Ms. Stranger reaches out a hand.
About Dr. Dores, or rather, Ms. Urd ...
I have the final piece of the puzzle that will lead you to her.
14. My Dear Siblings
104 linesMoldir taps a code into the communicator before putting it back in her pocket.
Lieutenant.
Against the howling wind, Moldir tucks her curls behind her ears and turns toward the voice.
What is it, Sergeant?
With all due respect, what are we doing here?
Her subordinate poses a simple but tough question.
Her troops are relaxed, warming themselves around their fires. Yet each one would be ready the moment she gives the word.
We're on standby.
It's a question Moldir can't answer, so she turns away.
She'll have to feign determination for now.
Standby for what?
To capture any Foundation soldiers that make it to the shore.
Then what about the ones we already captured? Why are we only holding the run-of-the-mill seaman? The other two could have been useful, but we just ...
The sergeant stops, his eyes flicking toward the clinic, where Ulrich and his guard just departed.
Those two? Hardly. What can an Awakened researcher and a rookie guard do in Antarctica? Holding them would be a waste of resources.
She directs her stare out into the white distance.
Where's Danilov? Tell him to meet me at the helicopter.
The order comes quick, as do her steps out and away.
Captain Danilov takes a long and deep sip of stew, letting the warmth linger on his tongue, making it all the worse when he is suddenly tapped on the shoulder.
Ah! Stop sneaking up on me like that!
Haha, gotcha! Some things never change, huh? Still as jumpy as you were when you were a kid.
Come on. Cut it out. I'm a captain now, you know. Not some kid.
He sets down the can reluctantly and rises to his feet.
What do you want? Did the lieutenant send you?
Yep. She wants you over at Canis Minor.
As they pass each other, Captain Danilov catches a muttered complaint.
Lucky you, getting to stretch your legs while the rest of us have to sit here idling away the hours.
*sigh* Guess that's how it is these days. Everything still seems foggy.
He takes two steps outward, and the sergeant matches him stride for stride.
Tell me about it. I thought Brazil was tough, but this? This is worse.
Sometimes, it takes more courage to stick to a choice than to make one. I think someone might be struggling with that.
You should know better than to doubt our leadership, White Gloves.
The sergeant stops.
Sure, but what if they start doubting each other? What if the admiral's steering us one way and the lieutenant another?
You saw how the lieutenant let that Foundation researcher go. Didn't that bother you?
...
Silence lingers as the captain finds himself watching snowflakes settle on his boots.
At last, he forces himself forward.
I trust them both. No matter what.
The captain closes his maintenance manual, finding himself in search of the least technical way to explain the helicopter's malfunction.
A yaw rate issue might just be a pedal problem, you see.
In this case, either the rudder pedal has loosened, which is affecting the responsiveness of the tail rotor, or the tail blades were damaged by the impact.
I see. Let me take a look.
She nods and climbs into the cockpit.
From her tool set, she draws out a small, arcane item.
Что было, то и будет.
A stream of glimmering powder flows from her tweezers into the detached knob.
Beads of sweat form and then evaporate into the cold air.
This is more complicated than I thought.
As the arcane skill fails to activate, she shakes her head and puts away the tool.
I would be surprised if you managed to fix it in one go. Aircraft can be tricky.
Took me two full years back at the Academy to pass "Theories of Flight Mechanics," and even longer to really get the hang of it.
...
She studies Captain Danilov for a moment before offering a rare smile.
*chuckle* I remember. Your teacher called me in three times because of the "extreme frustration and concern about your grades."
Haha ... I'm just glad they didn't call Father. That would've been the end of me.
You know, I don't see you using your arcane skill much these days.
Well, there's not much use for it, really.
Bullets and medicine are a thousand times more useful on the battlefield.
Detecting the rare and likely unintentional emotion in her tone, the captain hesitates.
Oh, I didn't mean it like that, sorry. Do you want some space?
No, it's fine. You're fine.
We just need to get this helicopter fixed as soon as possible. Can you run another check?
There was a blockage in the system that stopped my arcane energy from flowing through. Maybe the issue isn't as simple as just the pedal or blade.
Got it. I'll take another look.
The lieutenant exhales softly.
That blockage. I just couldn't push past it.
Did I follow the wrong circuit?
Or did I just do the whole thing wrong?
A silence lingers after her words, forcing the captain to shift position.
I wouldn't overthink it if I were you, and stop underestimating your arcane skill. It's saved us more times than I can count—frozen prosthetics, broken casts, ripped tents.
Hell, you've been fixing our guns since we were kids.
There's nothing wrong with your power. We all appreciate it a lot more than you think.
...
He wedges his bulk beneath the cramped seat, flashlight in hand, inspecting each wire and following it with his fingers.
Did you get the adoption form when you were little too, Lieutenant?
Hm? You mean the ...
Yeah. Mine came after my parents died in 1999. Even now, I still don't know what happened that day.
His tone turns light, as if he's telling a joke.
When they brought me the death notice, they handed me an adoption form along with it. It was from Admiral Igor.
At first, I hated the idea. I didn't want anyone to take my father's place.
But you signed it; otherwise, you wouldn't be here.
I did. Because I needed to know what my parents gave their lives for, and the man they fought beside.
"We are alike."
Moldir keeps that thought unspoken, turning her eyes down to her repair tools.
I've never regretted it. I'm proud of where I am, proud of everyone in this army.
Not because we're the best soldiers Zeno's ever had. I mean, I'm sure they definitely don't think that now.
No, I'm proud because we're more than just an army.
The captain's head disappears entirely beneath the seat, his voice coming through muffled and distant.
We're a family.
We "Storm" orphans grew up together, trained together, fought side by side. We trust each other like we trust ourselves, hell, maybe even more so.
He extracts himself from the cockpit, grease smeared across his face.
Under her flickering gaze, Danilov drops his voice.
I know Father hasn't told us everything. But maybe that's for the best. The less everyone knows about his plan, the better.
But no matter what, I will follow you and the admiral to the very end, whether it's flying a fighter into the Foundation headquarters or waiting here until the spring.
I believe in him. I believe that he can take us home.
And I believe in you, sister.
...!
He salutes solemnly—proudly, but the smears of engine oil on his nose take all the seriousness from the moment.
A long-unfamiliar tightness rises in Moldir's throat.
She blinks, breathes deep, and then exhales a misty stream into the air.
Those are our orders. Let's be sure we see them through.
15. In the Mouth of Madness
127 linesSonetto steps forward, her glasfeder aimed squarely at the Manus Apostle's chest.
Ms. Grace, you're a Manus Apostle.
Don't think we've forgotten what you did aboard the "Free Breeze." What exactly are you scheming now?
Ms. Stranger tilts her head, sensing the arcane energy gathering at the glasfeder's tip out of the corner of her eye.
A cough escapes her and is quickly suppressed, her whole body twitching to contain it.
Ah, the "Free Breeze." My lovely little cruise ship. Like you, I often find myself missing those serene days on the water.
But it seems a few unpleasant memories and misinterpreted actions have deeply wounded your trust in me.
She leans closer until the glasfeder point presses against her skin.
...
The Timekeeper steps forward and stands beside Sonetto, allowing her to lower her shaking outstretched hand.
Timekeeper?
It's fine, Sonetto. I have a few questions I'd like to ask.
Wind lifts the ribbon around Ms. Stranger's neck as glistening powder dissolves into the snow.
On our way here, we discovered a couple of items that I believe belong to Dr. Dores—a stethoscope and a typewriter.
It seems they were intentionally left behind, like a series of signposts pointing us here.
You wouldn't happen to know anything about these items, would you?
...
How about the powder we found on the typewriter?
It's finer than snow and reflects the sunlight differently. It sticks to the skin and is bitter on the tongue.
...
Any idea how it got there? And how the typewriter ended up lying in the snowfields?
Did you leave it there? Were you giving directions to the Foundation's investigators?
Come to think of it, that powder looked like the scales from a lepidoptera wing—a butterfly, or a moth.
...!
Moth. It's you, isn't it? You're the Foundation's spy!
A moth alights on Ms. Stranger's fingertip, then flutters off with a barely perceptible twitch of her finger.
I could provide you with a detailed account of the Foundation's phototaxis experiments if you need further proof of my identity.
But we're running out of time.
Their astonished stares hold on Ms. Stranger as she turns her face toward the ruins beyond.
I'll lead you to the sanctuary. Dr. Dores—Ms. Urd—is already inside.
Oh, and my moths have just brought some new information.
Your human friend has also gone in that direction.
With that, she turns her back to them and advances without fear.
A weary yet relieved sigh sinks into the snow.
The gate to the sanctuary won't stay open forever, Timekeeper. Shall we?
No, no. This-This can't be real.
This is how it ends, isn't it? I can't ... I can't do this. I can't do this alone!
Vertin? Sonetto? Ms. Radio?
Trudging alone through a perilous labyrinth had never been Nautika's idea of an ideal scientific expedition.
Possible cause of death one: freezing. Frozen solid with a bunch of unstudied samples clutched in my hands.
Possible cause of death two: getting torn apart. Cold, sticky monster fingers sinking into my skin and ripping me to pieces.
Possible cause of death three: killing myself before one or two can happen to me.
An empty room.
Another empty room.
Like a waddling penguin moves from nest to nest, Nautika swivels her head around in constant search for her lost companions.
...
A break in her rhythm finally comes—this room holds life. Yet the occupant possesses neither brilliant copper hair nor an arcane suitcase.
...!
She drops into a crouch, tucking her legs in close to her chest, turning instantaneously from penguin to armadillo—in appearance, anyways.
Who ... Who was that?
She summons every ounce of courage in her, forcing her head and vision up to the figure.
F-Friele?
The once-bright parka in her memory has faded with the wind, its dull hue mirrors the owner's new ashen demeanor.
Nautika uncurls, half-stumbling as she rises to her feet.
Tears burst forth as Nautika clutches her friend's gaunt arms.
The survivor's glazed eyes roll into focus. Two labored breaths escape, each exhaling without drawing anything back.
Oh, thank you, thank you, Mother Spirit. Thank you for keeping us both in one piece.
We'll find a way out of here. We'll look after each other. Goodness, Friele, you're a sack of bones.
I met two arcanists. They'll help us. I would have never even gotten here if it weren't for them. You should've seen how they chased off those Snow Monsters. You can trust them. Come, come, Friele. We have to find them.
They'll protect us. They'll get us home.
...
Friele? Why aren't you saying anything?
Friele holds her gaze on Nautika, letting out another ragged breath as she points to her own mouth.
Can't you speak?
Hm, it must be the cold. Yes, once we get back, you'll feel better, I promise.
Nautika strains to pull her up from the stone bed, but it feels as if she is rooted to it.
Panting and spent of her strength, she releases and spies the motion of her friend's foot as it cuts words into the snow.
"No."
"Can't."
No? Why?
Friele, Friele, listen. I found it. The resting place of the Mother Spirit. And the Rock of the Blank Era. Remember? I found lots of it. I found everything we came for.
Friele holds her eyes on her once-cherished friend, shifting into a devout smile.
She wipes away the words, writing something new.
"Mother Spirit ..."
Nautika gasps.
"... will see me soon."
...
Friele nods with a smile, fingers clenched on the pendant around her neck.
Friele nods; her conviction seems absolute.
But ...
Cold sweat runs down her spine.
You mean She has a mortal form? She's a living creature, like us? And She's here, in this ruin?
Friele nods.
But ... But how?
Nautika's blood surges into her limbs with sudden intensity.
Friele tries to object but only produces wheezing breaths. With visible frustration, she smooths a fresh patch of snow.
"Homage."
"Approach."
"A great gift."
Is this what the ninth story in the Tales of the Mother Spirit is about?
"Mother and child, their heartbeats both align, in joyful union, through the womb of time."
She nods, her relief obvious through gesture alone.
No. No, it can't be. The tales say that the Mother Spirit should be asleep. She shouldn't wake up until after the Arctic polar day.
Nautika grips her head tightly, as if preventing it from flying off.
So, she's asleep, then who are you going to see? Friele, I really don't understand.
...
Friele merely smiles.
Hypoxia sets in, whether from this information overload or the bleak coldness, and Nautika crumples once again.
You really won't come back with me?
But if, if you come with me now, we'll be home soon. I-I drew a map, like you always did. There's food cached in the depots on the way. I even managed to train new sled dogs—
Friele slaps a hand over her mouth.
*hiss*
With a swift kick, Friele sends a wave of snow bursting upward, then shoves Nautika flat against the ground.
...?!
Nautika presses down deeper as the snow blankets her.
Footsteps crunch closer, deliberate, unwavering, methodical.
They halt at the room's entrance.
The ritual is ready. THEY are waiting.
Nautika hears Friele get up and walk away.
The sounds pause for a moment.
Time to go.
The footsteps resume without hesitation, fading until silence reclaims the room.
...
Nautika emerges from the snowdrift.
On tiptoes, she darts to the doorway, desperate to catch a glimpse of her friend.
But beyond the door, there is only one spot of color—a pendant lying in the snow.
Shaking off snowflakes still clutching to her nose, she stares at the engraving.
<glitch>"Onward, child, follow the word of mouth."</glitch>
<glitch>"To the Earth's edge, the land farthest south."</glitch>
"The Mother Spirit's light, with ancient glow, guides us to the great current—nature's flow."
Sweat drips down her temples as she swallows hard.
Wait for me, Friele.
She lifts her foot, placing it precisely over the footprints in the snow.
16. The Broken Land of Bliss
209 linesMs. Stranger, where are we now? Ms. Amundsen is a human. If she's been caught by Manus Vindictae ...
Shh, keep it down.
We're in the tunnel to the sanctuary. It's the easiest path to follow, but also the most dangerous.
Is that a lake?
A prolonged silence hangs after the question. The answer obvious, yet the words petrify on their tongues.
No. That isn't water.
The wind tugs at black hemp cloaks, but the hoods remain unnervingly still.
It's the believers ...
The circular plaza is flooded with believers, the "lake" rippling with their kneeling forms.
Their eyes see not one light of the Bright Star.
Down THEY fell in martyrdom, but from death's murky waters, THEY rise once more.
An older woman stands atop the ringed ruins, delivering fiery words upon the frozen earth.
Children of the resurrected Mother—lowly bearers of THEIR mantle—let your bodies and souls be the means of THEIR return. It is through THEIR eyes alone that we may see the truth of this world, for there is no Inculcator but THEM.
Black-clad believers chant hymns that undulate with each wave of rhythmic bows.
Call THEIR name! Beseech THEIR light! With the Mother's will manifested, the gate of ascension will swing open! Oh. What glory! Oh. What exaltation!
A fervent voice erupts from the center.
The gate to the sanctuary is at the far end of the plaza.
Her fan points across the "lake."
But how do we get past all these Manus followers?
The believers kneel or prostrate, every head held low, their recitations seeming more and more mechanical.
Strange. It's almost like they're in a state of unconsciousness.
"It's the easiest path to follow, but also the most dangerous."
Whenever a sacrificial ceremony is held in the plaza, Animus has all the believers put on masks to ensure she has full control over them.
Right now, there is only one thing on their minds—the ceremony.
If we're careful and choose our route wisely, we can slip by them unnoticed. No one will see us except for Animus.
What's the purpose of this sacrifice?
They're taking a life just to open a gate?
Ms. Stranger keeps her focus locked on the elder conducting the ritual.
We must take this opportunity to slip through to the sanctuary.
What exactly do you mean by that?
Another rising wave from that distant voice muffles their whispered discussions.
Great Revealer of Arcanum, we humbly present this offering.
As the elder's voice fades, the "offering" steps onto the plaza.
...
Though well-worn, her attire betrays her former status.
The offering is human?!
No. Not just any human.
That's one of Nautika's expedition team members.
Timekeeper, look over there. It's Ms. Amundsen.
The believers fill the plaza in concentric rings; while across the gates, Nautika stands motionless.
She is transfixed on the "offering" with unblinking eyes.
What's she doing there? Something about her doesn't look right.
She's too close to Animus. At that distance, the arcane skill controlling the believers could affect her too.
We need to get her out of there.
Praise THEM! Worship THEM! Children of flesh, bear witness, for we shall bask in THEIR radiant blessing!
An offering taken, a gate opened! Through bone and blood let the gate fling open, and the path to ancient glory be revealed!
Be thankful, you unenlightened little beast, that the Mother is willing to take your pitiful life as THEIR gift. What great mercy THEY show!
The horrific vision in Animus's words is laid bare, yet Friele maintains her eerie smile.
She walks toward the gate, nodding respectfully to the kneeling believers along the way.
Then she halts just before the entrance.
Her lips mouth inaudible words.
"Through the Giant Mother's bones the path is laid. In bloody pain, eternal life is made."
It's just like in Tales of the Mother Spirit.
Friele drifts her eyes rolling over the scene until they seize on the sight of her former companion.
Their eyes lock.
Cracked lips part, soundlessly forming words.
"Homage." "Approach."
...!
"A great gift."
You really are going to see Her.
"The Mother Spirit's light, with ancient glow, guides us to the great current—nature's flow."
The ninth story in Tales of the Mother Spirit.
"It happened in that season on that day—The children found their Mother at the gate."
"With offerings the finest of their art, they paid Her homage with a faithful heart."
"And in return, their reverence repaid. By Her great gift, Her children were remade."
"By Her great gift, Her children were remade."
Countless hands reach from inside the gate, swarming over Friele in waves.
They coil around her like vines and gnarling roots, reality fracturing across her body inch by inch.
Right, that's right.
This is the climax of the story.
When the children come close to the Mother Spirit, share Her pain and Her sorrow, and become one with Her.
Her breath hitches, a scream claws up her throat, blood boiling in her veins.
Suddenly, a deafening wail explodes from within.
AAAHHHHH!
Friele crosses the threshold, and a shriek tears out from her searing chest.
AAAAAAHHHHHHH!
The scream echoes across the expanse, its force so profound even the lava seems to halt mid-flow.
Nautika latches her hands onto a prostrate worshipper, gasping out questions—
What's happening to her? Have you been through there? Why is she screaming?
Her questions are met with a devotional void.
One minute. Two. The crowd does not speak, does not murmur. Silence rules.
Mother Spirit ...
That shriek still rings in her ears, muffling all sound as if it were vacuum-sealed.
The believers are unresponsive. Unspeaking.
Unbreathing.
Friele ...
The shriek fades into a dull tinnitus.
Animus taps her longbow on the ground, shattering the silence.
You humans should be grateful, flawed and pathetic as you are, yet nonetheless granted access to the gate at the mere cost of your tongues.
Deeper is her sin than our cleansing could purge, greater her crimes than our judgment could mete. Yet, in THEIR boundless benevolence, the great Mother of Resurrection has seen fit to accept her.
May the Guiding One return to us and restore this world to the ancient order.
May the Guiding One return to us and restore this world to the ancient order.
Animus shakes her bell, and at the cue, the entire congregation erupts in synchronized cries, heads bowed.
Cleansing ... judgment? What are they talking about?
Animus sways with her bell, the spectacle becoming a wild dance.
And the chant resumes.
Their eyes see not one light of the Bright Star.
Men's past ways are shaded by their shame.
Barefoot, Animus circles the center, fully lost in her movements.
I-Is that it? Is that the whole ritual?
She darts her eyes around, searching for some purchase in her whispered questions.
W-Where's Friele? What's behind the gate? And those hands ... What were they?
Is she really with the Mother Spirit now?
But their hollow eyes only stare ahead.
Paeans are but admiration's mirror half.
Uh, what just happened?
A dissonant note cuts through the chant.
A small voice reverberates between earth and sky, the sound almost pitiful against the enormous volume of the scene.
...
Yet Animus pauses her dance; atop the raised center, she spies down at Nautika from the corner of her eye.
Ah, a conniving little rat dares to taint the purity of our sacred land with her profane, filthy paws!
Nautika draws a shuddering breath, the crisp air shivering her inside and out.
My friend—Friele, where is she? Why hasn't she come back through the gate?
Why, it seems the lowly little beast has a friend to share in her misery.
Disgust and impatience twist her lips.
She has been taken by the Mother of Resurrection—not that there was much flesh and wit to take.
Flesh and wit?
A blinding light hits Nautika's face, and her eyes narrow by instinct.
The gate cracks open.
They watch as the crack widens into a gap, then a doorway, and finally, the gate swings open.
Praise THEM! Worship THEM, children of flesh!
The sanctuary gate has opened! The Mother is pleased with our offering, and we have been welcomed into THEIR hall to bear witness to the final ritual!
Yes, bear witness to all THEIR infinite kindness—THEIR unmatched benevolence! THEY have taken so little, yet THEY grant us so great an honor.
Great Mother of Resurrection, O Guiding One. We fall to our knees before your boundless love.
As if Nautika's presence had become intolerable, Animus waves her hand with the kind of lazy energy usually reserved for swatting flies.
How much longer do you intend to allow this human to sully THEIR holy land, hm? Feed her to the gate. She must be removed.
Without another glance, she surges toward the gate.
Behind her, two silent disciples seize Nautika.
No, let me go!
They're taking her!
Don't. Now is not the time to act.
If Animus spots us, she might lift her control over the believers. Then we'll find ourselves in some serious danger.
Nautika is lifted up like a fledgling bird, then slammed onto the ground.
Ugh!
Still halfway in a daze, she looks up toward the gate.
All this ... It was all just to open the gate?
But this feels wrong, horribly, horribly wrong. This isn't how it's supposed to be. Is it, Máhtu?
But, Friele did say that she was going to see the Mother Spirit, so she must be with Her now, right?
Then the Mother Spirit must be there. She must be behind that gate!
Animus stops—turns back with an inscrutable smile.
Hah, Mother Spirit?
What nonsense are you sputtering?
...
Nautika staggers to her feet.
She is the tides! The flowing light! She is the rocks and the soaring partridges and the swooping peregrines! She is the energy behind all things!
She will give Her children a great gift! A gift that will change their lives forever!
I have traveled all the way from the northernmost edge of the world to this place, following Her guidance!
And I have found proof—proof that the legends were true, proof that She is here!
Ah, I see.
Animus strides toward her, longbow tapping once again over the ground.
Mother Spirit ... Ahahahaha!
That's how you imagine the supreme being of this world, is it? A deity no greater than a charlatan shaman? And what flattery to claim yourself personally guided by a goddess.
Yet, still, I cannot help but feel a twang of pity. What hope can there be for a kind born with minds too narrow to comprehend true greatness?
Playful malice kindles in her eyes.
An inescapable predicament, indeed. Before you are thrown to the gate, allow me to share with you a fragment of truth, so you may die knowing what you've served.
Arms spread wide, Animus shuts her eyes with sick devotion.
There is no "Mother Spirit." The great Mother of Resurrection has cast THEIR eye upon the Earth from time immemorial.
Antarctica has ever been the sanctuary of Manus Vindictae. Here, we serve Arcana, the only and eternal Mother of Arcanum.
Her lids slip open again, and a flood of venomous glee surges out.
Few are fortunate enough to learn this truth. What was that pitiful thing's name again?
"Fraley"? ... No matter. Your little friend came to me, boldly claiming to share our noble faith, and pleaded to be thrown to the gate so that she may meet her goddess.
And though I was inclined to turn down such a blindly foolish request, I agreed.
...?!
She must have been ever so disappointed when the flesh dissolved from her bones and her body melted into naught but a lump of flesh behind the gate—all that screaming and crying.
Ah, humans. So full of your precious "reason" and "logic," yet turned at even the most basic arcane trick. How foolishly simple you are.
Animus laughs. The shock and agony on Nautika's face is expected—anticipated.
Ahahahahaha! Yes, that's the look—confusion, disbelief. It suits your kind perfectly.
What a miserable, blind existence.
Scurrying about in the dark, unseeing, unperceiving, your limited, darkened minds blind to the spark of enlightenment.
A creation forsaken from its inception. You could never wield true knowledge!
Yet still, you have brazenly infested every corner of this Earth, claiming that you would uncover all its mysteries.
Such ignorance! Such arrogance!
Rage and revulsion accumulate too much and too long, like a vast bank of snow waiting to fall into an avalanche.
How could you possibly grasp its secrets? How could you catch so much as a glimpse of the greater existence in the barren tenebrosity of your minds?!
The enormous, twisted gate pulses as if to match her statement, a movement somewhere between convulsing and retching.
Gulp ...
Glug ...
Something is being digested.
...?
From beneath the gate, strands of crimson slime creep out toward her.
Is that red algae?
The algae surges below and beyond her, bleeding over the white rock. With every inch it advances, its color decays.
Scarlet.
Maroon.
Brown.
Black.
...!
Red and black algae sprawl across the ruins in tangled knots, their tendrils creeping toward the glacier beyond.
Blackened arteries pumping and pulsing over the land.
There's black algae here, too.
No ... I ... No, no, no way.
I ate them. I was eating ... No. *vomit*
Her murmured mantras fail her. Kneeling, she clutches her stomach as her throat convulses and a stream of vomit pours out.
Are you satisfied? Has this "great gift" satiated your curiosity?
Animus steps onto the soft, viscous algae. That familiar, chewing sound grates against Nautika's mind.
Has realization finally dawned in your darkened mind?
Your friend is gone. She will never return from the gate.
17. The Owl of Minerva
141 linesYour friend is gone. She will never return from the gate.
Her eyes crinkle with pleasure, drinking deep from tears running over Nautika's face.
Still held under the arcane skill, the believers remain frozen in place.
Timekeeper, now!
Three figures burst in from the edge of the plaza.
Slæstu í djúpan dvala.
Ms. Stranger charges through the believers, her fan-spell dazing the gate-guarding Apostle just long enough to reach back for the other two.
Go! Through the gate, Timekeeper!
We can't just leave Nautika here! Sonetto!
Ed è subito sera!
An incantation is cast from Sonetto's glasfeder, and Nautika's bonds begin to unwind.
...
She lifts her head, but her glazed eyes don't fix on her rescuers.
The gate only stays open for a brief time after an offering.
You have to pass through it before it closes again.
The Manus's arcane skill falters too soon as Animus shakes off its effects in a blink.
Come, Nautika!
Half-conscious, Nautika is tugged toward the sacred gate, her wavering vision briefly pausing over a blue neck-ribbon as it flutters in the distance.
Hmph! Why am I not surprised?
She sneers.
<speed=0.04>Sie mußte mich leben lehren oder sterben lehren.
*roar*
...?!
The still disciples flanking the door snap into motion, their massive hammers barring the threshold.
How hopelessly naive. How delusionally optimistic.
Their rescue teeters on the brink.
Animus approaches slowly, wiping her longbow.
Has the thought not crossed your ignorant little minds for even a moment?
Would I, under the supreme guidance of the Mother of Resurrection, simply allow you poisonous little pests to scurry about these sacred grounds right beneath my nose?
Ha! Since the moment you stepped foot on this holy land, every one of you has been under my watch. Nothing escapes my gaze. Not here.
With a raised arm, she raises more believers up from their trance. They swarm in to encircle the group, some seizing the intruders' wrists at her signal.
From behind the dark wall of believers, Animus holds a hard stare on the face of Ms. Stranger.
And you, Ms. Grace. Indulge my curiosity.
...
Animus closes in, halting just before the intruder, letting her longbow's tip rest by Ms. Stranger's feet.
That noose about your neck—is it simply a choice of fashion, or a reminder of the precariousness of your situation?
Life must be ever so suffocating, knowing that the smallest breeze could tighten its grip at any moment.
You must be longing to loosen it.
You're making sport of me again.
She tucks her hair behind an ear, a moth slipping out from her collar as it twirls toward the light.
*choke*
Animus snaps it from the air, crushing it into glimmering dust between two fingers.
Moths. Creatures easily overlooked when eyes are turned to matters of greater import.
Tell me—how long have you been with us?
What made you worthy to ascend so quickly to the glorious heights of "Apostle"? Hm?
A throbbing drumbeat provides cover as she circles Ms. Stranger with measured steps.
We have painstakingly cleared the path to THEIR final ritual, yet ever since you reared your head, greater and greater complications have continued to arise. Do not take me for a fool, girl. I know treachery when I see it.
You were lucky, taking Mr. Forget Me Not's place after his expulsion over his alchemical failure.
But fortune can be fickle, don't you think?
...
You need no reminder that the trial of the Guiding One is not to be tampered with. Those who sow discord will be silenced forever.
You've fallen. Your ladylike visage cracked. I can only imagine how strenuous the fight against THEIR will must be in the face of your waning willpower.
Ms. Stranger runs a hand through her hair, releasing a shower of scale powders.
You are courageous, I suppose. Ambitious, even. But my! Do you lack wit? For you have found yourself in service to the wrong master. The Foundation is already crumbling at our feet. The information you risked your life to provide has been of little import.
At this very moment, the Foundation's fleet is stranded off the Antarctic coast, and the only reinforcements you've received are some arcanist children and a human.
...
As Animus paces away, the two intruders from the Foundation exchange nervous glances.
...
Both pairs of eyes settle on Ms. Stranger, who lowers her eyes to the crowd.
As I said, you must be jesting, Lady Apostle.
I fell ill at sea while serving the Guiding One aboard the "Free Breeze." The Timekeeper isn't an enemy to be taken lightly, as I'm sure you're aware.
...?!
She took the ship we left in Ushuaia and followed the trail I carefully placed for her, all the way here.
I have brought her to you.
She is my tribute to you and the Guiding One—a toll I pay for the path I've chosen.
She pats the believer before her on the arm.
*roar of confusion*
The weapon-bearing arms lower.
She steps forward, pausing beside Animus.
Then she kneels, pressing lips to Animus's withered hand.
What would you have me do with them?
You've been lying to us this entire time?
...
Heh.
Animus lingers on Ms. Stranger's youthful face, weighing the truth of her allegiance.
What did I say about airs and graces? It'll take more than the kiss on the hand and a few hostages to prove your loyalty, girl.
She offers up her longbow, guiding Ms. Stranger's hand to the string.
Go on, end them. The Great Mother will be quite pleased to see THEIR enemies dealt with.
Now they face the intruders together.
Perhaps you'd like to start by piercing their eyes. I personally find it particularly potent in sowing fear.
Ms. Stranger raises the arrow's tip, holding it level at a pair of cloud-gray eyes.
Timekeeper!
Sonetto struggles against the disciples' control; her hand—still grasping her glasfeder—is nearly bent backward.
Though now unrestrained, Nautika mutters vacantly, lost in delirium.
Pale, slender fingers draw the bowstring taut.
...
Gray eyes face down the arrow's gleam.
Follow the wind, Timekeeper.
A forceful burst of snow erupts as a squall that covers the plaza; its dazzling whiteness blinding every open eye.
What?
What's going on?
A snowstorm?
Don't let them get away!
*roar of confusion*
*roar*
A swirling tide of moths comes next, thick enough to blot out the sun, wings settling over every mask.
Ms. Stranger turns to her Foundation colleagues, her lips curling into a faint, relieved smile.
Now is the time to act.
Sonetto, now!
Sonetto pulls herself free, then casts an incantation from her glasfeder, repelling the enemies surrounding her companions.
Stop them, you fools!
Animus's cries are suffocated in the moth-filled air.
Countless wings beating in an audible flutter, reflecting the hinterland's eternal sunlight, washing the world in blinding white.
I can't see!
Where did they go?
The plaza becomes drowned in a cacophony of screams.
*roar*
How could you pull such a thing from that feeble body of yours? Just how far are you willing to go in service of the Foundation?
...
Ms. Stranger doesn't respond. She collapses slowly onto the ground.
Moths descend one by one upon her motionless body, encasing her, piece-by-piece, in an immobile cocoon.
Out of the corner of the furious elder's eye, she sees three figures flash toward her.
The girls stand hand in hand under the glaring light, already leaping toward the dark gate.
On the count of three!
Three ...
Two ...
You cannot pass. I will not allow it!
A lead arrow pierces into Nautika's flesh.
Ugh!
Nautika!
Blood soaks through the leg of her trousers as Nautika falls before the gate.
Heh ...
The Manus Apostle's incantation strikes down whole sheets of moths as more and more believers swarm forward.
I need only the Timekeeper. Dispose of the rest.
*roar*
Sickening little pests, blasphemous filth.
And that ever self-important "Preacher."
Animus narrows her eyes at their stubborn resistance, then flashes a smirk.
Come, children of flesh! We need not entertain these fools any longer. The Mother awaits.
Her longbow taps the ground as arcane light floods the plaza in eerie blue.
At her command, the Manus believers advance like a long-awaited avalanche—layer upon layer closing in, yet none spare a glance for the intruders.
The crowd presses around Animus, who stares back at the intruders with undisguised contempt.
Then, she sets a foot into the sanctuary gate.
Let this meeting be our last, heathens.
The blinding light fades and the plaza is empty—the rushing tide of black is gone. Each and every believer has followed the Apostle through the gate.
The gate ... It's closed?
Ms. Stranger exhales a long breath.
We missed the window.
All eyes turn toward the deserted plaza, now strewn with the chilling aftermath.
And it'll only open again ...
When we make another offering.
18. To a Skylark
159 linesMáhtu?
Are you there?
...
What-What are you suggesting, Timekeeper?
...
...
Máhtu, what are they talking about?
What? No, Ms. Stranger! We—
You have to get through. You have to find Ms. Urd and stop the ritual. *cough*
My mission is to get you into the sanctuary by any means necessary.
No, I won't allow it.
No more sacrifices.
What?
It's an amphibious fish found in Africa. Its gills are so shrunken that it developed a second respiratory system—lungs.
It's an obligate air-breather, despite being a fish.
It's not a land-dwelling creature, but if it's kept from the air for too long, it'll drown in its own watery habitat.
A creature that doesn't belong to land or water ...
Exactly. The Foundation is no home to me, and I just used the last of my moths to create that storm. I'm useless to them. If I go back there, I'd drown, just like the lungfish.
Let me open the gate. Spare me from drowning like the lungfish. Let me fulfill my role.
...
It's a big world, Ms. Stranger. There will always be a place for you.
We'll find another way to enter the sanctuary.
Ms. Radio, could you get Mr. Ulrich on the line? Perhaps he has another lead.
Máhtu, do you hear them? What are they planning?
What should we do? Should we join them?
Máhtu?
I don't ... What's wrong? Why are you so quiet?
Sing to me, speak to me like you used to, hum another verse of the Mother Spirit for me. Why don't you guide me?
It's because ... You were never there for me in the first place, were you?
...?
Ms. Amundsen? How are you feeling?
Are you able to get up? Here, take these narwhal ivory candies. They might help calm your nerves.
Ms. Amundsen? Where are you going? Nautika?
Máhtu, do you know where Friele went?
Oh, she's gone to see the Mother Spirit, hasn't she?
...
But, that woman, she said that there is no "Mother Spirit."
Then, where is Friele now?
You forgot your pendant, Friele.
*sigh* How could you leave it behind? It's so important.
It's—
It's ambergris, Uncle Rolf!
Be careful, Friele! Gently! Look, there's something trapped inside.
A scalpel slides delicately over the ambergris, revealing a small stone that draws in the faces of an old man and a child.
Beneath the glow of the work light, the newly exposed milky pink stone shimmers with liquid radiance.
The reflection, the color ... What an interesting structure. This isn't like any rock sample we've studied before. How extraordinary.
It's not crystallized magma, nor any sediment I'm familiar with.
I believe this is a gift from Her, Nautika.
The great gift of the Mother Spirit.
The girl's fingers close around the pendant.
Grandpa said that it's a gift from the Mother Spirit, Friele.
I bet Antarctica is filled with all kinds of secrets about this little stone.
"The harvest's bounty mankind's blessing be. We children, blind, from mazes must be free."
I'll find the stratum Grandpa never found.
Entering the ice zone. Grab your telescopes, explorers.
I'll explore the eras Grandpa never explored.
The sextant was right. As long as we stick to this direction ...
I'll reveal the secrets Grandpa never revealed.
Here. It's a Neptune bar—my favorite. It'll keep you warm a little longer.
...
I've never shown you this little piece of rock, have I, Máhtu?
Koht, Aase, Friele, and I ... We studied it over and over. We know it like we know the back of our hands.
When-When you came to me, I thought that maybe I would finally understand this rock and the Blank Era behind it.
You gave me hope. You gave me purpose. And you gave me the courage to face every obstacle.
You were there every step of the way, whispering in my ear, like a friend, like you were the voice of the Mother Spirit Herself guiding me to where I needed to be.
...
But now, now we must part ways.
This expedition has been like nothing I've ever done before. It's tested me and you to our limits.
So, I understand. You have every right to go your own way.
Okay, time for a proper goodbye.
Thank you, Máhtu, my little ear worm. Thank you for coming to me in this beautiful, terrifying place.
Goodbye now!
...
Even if you were never real ...
Just like the Mother Spirit.
Ms. Amundsen? Ms. Amundsen!
What do we do? She's not responding. It's like she's in some kind of trance.
I already gave her all of our candies. Maybe a calming spell will snap her out of it.
*soft groan* What ... What's everybody doing here?
Nautika! Thank goodness.
You were caught in a trance. You weren't responding at all.
The gate's closed. We're trying to figure out how to get past it without ... resorting to that.
Ms. Radio is currently trying to reach Mr. Ulrich so we can come up with a plan of action.
...
Nautika's vision sharpens as clarity returns to her.
Her sight finds focus on the closed gate as thoughts trickle back to her mind.
Lava tubes. Every volcano has them. They're pathways made by flowing lava that lead to the heart of the volcano.
If we find one, we might be able to get to the sanctuary through it.
Not very likely.
No longer able to support herself, Ms. Stranger slumps against the face of the gate.
The entire volcano is under Manus Vindictae's control, and Animus has eyes on every possible route. Trust me. There's no way of getting in without her noticing.
Not even *cough* a squirrel could slip past her.
With a flick of her fan, she lets her vision rest on the gate once more.
...
Let's get moving up the mountain. We may still find a lava tube that they overlooked, or at least we'll have a better signal to get in contact with Mr. Ulrich.
Sonetto nods and steps forward, lifting the weakened woman to her feet.
Nautika, time to go.
Nautika gives a nod and fastens the pendant around her neck.
With a heavy thud, her backpack drops to the ground. After a short and purposeful rummaging, she produces a safety helmet and a pair of goggles.
A geological hammer and steel-pointed chisel now weigh in her grip too.
Alright. Let's do this.
She lifts her eyes and takes a step forward, then another, and another.
The others follow, heading out of the plaza.
Then she stops, casting one last look at her companions.
Nautika raises her hand. Her hammer shakes with pride.
Then, she kisses the pendant around her neck.
Just as abruptly, she turns back. Her snow boots grind into the snow, carving a deep footprint in the opposite direction.
Vertin, Sonetto, Ms. Radio! Goodbye!
She dashes away.
Straight toward the sanctuary gate.
Her sprinting strides grow faster and faster,
as she discovers a soaring power in her, one ready to erupt into action.
Ms. Amundsen! Where are you going?
Her friends swivel, moving to catch her.
Yet no one could hope to outrun this determined explorer.
I'm sorry. I lied. The lava tubes don't always lead to the heart of the volcano.
But you'll find a way in. You will, because you must.
And I, also, must find my own path, in my own way.
She's one step from the gate.
NAUTIKA!
No! Nautika! Come back!
The pendant swings forward with her movement, cutting a decisive arc through the air.
She leaps up, fixing her eyes ahead.
What's inside this ambergris, Grandpa?
A new area for research? A message from the Mother Spirit? Or just an ordinary mix of minerals?
The mountains and plains beneath the snow and ice ... They're so very large and old. We're just so tiny and young compared to them, you know?
I think some secrets will always stay that way—secrets. No matter how much we explore.
Nautika lowers her eyes.
She smiles in the frozen light.
She lifts her eyes again.
A deep and utter silence pulses in the air before her.
Grandpa, I see it now.
It was the unknown that I was chasing, not answers.
It was the beautiful, glorious unknown.
...!!!
...
One heartbeat.
The world stands renewed.
None among them even manages to catch the hem of her garment as it lifts in the wind.
Don't!
Silence returns, as if sound itself has drained away into a hidden funnel.
No wind. The lava lies still. The sun holds its place in the polar sky.
...
The gate.
...
Opens.
19. Same Road, Different Destinations
159 linesIn a place as silent as a tomb, even the slightest motion can feel like a crashing wave.
The gate has opened once again.
Then it's time you made good on your word, Preacher.
The Preacher withdraws her gaze from the distance. Fingers hang over the idol at her chest as she turns.
The stage is set. Apostle Animus is ready to preside over the ritual.
But the mist has only just begun to rise, Admiral.
The Foundation's fleet is still threatening our coastline. I'd expected you to be busying yourself with wartime affairs.
...
The admiral stands in the shadow, his eyes blazing.
I am exactly where I must be. You know the reason.
My men have fought from the tropics to the tundra in service of our pact. They have endured enough. It ends today.
That is a cost you should have anticipated when you entered the pact.
Anticipation is not the same as endurance.
He remains still.
Now the final piece has fallen into place, and we have done all THEY asked of us.
It's time that you fulfilled your promise—the "boon" for my army.
The Preacher studies him, as if weighing his contribution. After a moment, she nods.
Very well.
As we agreed—
—An army for a "boon."
...
Flamo Flicker.
The moment her fingers touch the box's surface, arcane energy vanishes into void, leaving not a single mark behind.
...
If only we had claimed it sooner ...
If only we had held it in our hands in 1999 ...
The Preacher shakes her head, then presses her hand against the box.
The fruit is not yet ripened, Admiral. To pluck it too soon is to bring ruin.
The "boon" will grant precisely what you asked, but not without a price. Take heed of my words: some doors are better left unopened.
She shifts her vision up to the admiral's chest, where his silver insignia glints under the cold sun. Awarded for surviving multiple "Storms," it remains polished, like new.
I trust you laid down your past when you chose to stand with us.
My path is set, Preacher.
Then do not stray, Admiral.
The admiral brushes her hand aside, tucking the "boon" into his coat. He leaves the frozen den without so much as a backward glance.
The communicator crackles to life.
Admiral.
The pact is concluded.
Understood. What are your orders?
Proceed to the next stage.
Yes, sir.
The one on the other end of the line breathes evenly.
But may I first request permission to attend to a personal matter?
A personal matter?
He lets out a soft chuckle.
*chuckle* Permission granted. Do as you see fit.
Thank you, Father.
The call ends.
The admiral looks down, rubbing his calloused palm—every bump and scab familiar.
As familiar as each of his children.
Moldir takes a deep breath, the icy air forcing every fiber of her body awake.
Standby is lifted. We are clear to proceed. Sergeant White Gloves?
Lieutenant! Did you just ...
The sergeant watches his superior. The gleam in her eyes holds the same unyielding resolve that once belonged to her father.
You heard me. Eliminate the Manus spies. Prepare for immediate evacuation.
Comms, block all intercepting Manus signals and get Ptolemy on the line.
Where is Captain Danilov?
Here, Lieutenant. And I have good news.
Your arcane skill did the trick. The helicopter is now fully operational.
Very good, Captain.
Returning the captain's salute, Moldir marches through the snow toward the helicopter.
This is the path we have chosen. There will be no straying from it.
Time to find out whether we're the "idiots" or the ones to leave victorious.
The black lava wall looms, its ancient terror undisguised.
The tunnel is as quiet as a tomb; even a dropping pin would send waves of echoes between the walls. The unwanted visitors lower their voices.
Timekeeper, Ms. Stranger and Ms. Radio have settled down in the suitcase.
Thank you, Sonetto. It's the safest place for them to stay now that we're getting deeper into the volcano.
She snaps the clasps shut and picks up the suitcase.
She forces herself forward, away from the terrifying gate at her back.
The sanctuary is just ahead. Manus Vindictae should be holding the ritual there.
Should the worst happen, you know what to do.
The crumpled hand-drawn map bears deep red markings, old records now interlaced with fresh annotations.
This map, soaked with Nautika's sweat and tears, has at last found the promised land.
But in a way no one had ever hoped.
...
She takes the map without a word, her unspoken feelings driving her every step.
The oppressive silence makes every scattered brush of boot on stone unbearably loud.
Someone's pace quickens until a loose stone trips her.
Urgh!
Careful, Sonetto. Are you alright?
Are you ... shaking?
She straightens her body, though her arm remains stiff and held at an unnatural angle.
Even the warming incantation is failing.
She pauses. A wavering hint of pain creeps into her voice.
Is this how Ms. Amundsen felt when she passed through the gate?
Sonetto ...
She was so brave. Braver than I could ever be. I wish I had the same courage to pursue what I want.
Sorry, Timekeeper. This isn't the time.
Let's move on. There's still much to be done.
...
With a deep breath, Sonetto suppresses the shaking in her words.
"We must turn our eyes to the supreme mission alone."
Muttering to herself, she takes another step forward.
The ritual must be stopped. Shall we go, Timekeeper?
Yes.
The sound of hurried footsteps rises again.
This time, it's met with an echo from the far end of the tunnel.
Footsteps come to a sudden stop, the ring of metallic ornaments lingering in the air.
...
Ms. Sophia!
The air hangs stagnant in the dark space, yet the Preacher's shadow dances wildly over the stone walls.
Sonetto.
Sonetto exchanges a glance with her, then nods, arcane energy coalescing at the tip of her glasfeder.
The Preacher tightens her grip on the idol, and radiance surges forth from it.
Διορθωθεί το σφάλμα!
Now, Sonetto.
*coughing* What's ...
A haze of pink and purple smoke billows out. When the dust settles, only a hat remains.
Run!
Sonetto springs into action, but another wave of dense mist rolls out from the tunnel, cutting her off.
This mist ... It's not from the Misty Bubble Ball.
Odorless, thin, yet oppressive and omnipresent, like the fog over the lake trying to turn the Spinning Wheel.
Stay where you are!
Through the mist, Sonetto jerks to an abrupt halt.
It looks just like the mist that hangs over the lake in the suitcase. You collapsed in it once, remember?
...!
You cannot escape!
The black mucus surges forward again, chasing after those attempting to flee.
Regna sereno intenso ed infinito!
The arcane skill intercepts the creeping black. Sonetto steps in front of the Preacher, her glasfeder gripped tight.
A final glance is exchanged before she disappears into the thickening mist.
If you want to stop the Timekeeper, Ms. Sophia, you'll have to get past me first.
You once said that you'd draw steel the next we meet. Well, now's your chance.
Make your move.
The glow of arcane skills collides and flickers out in midair, over and over.
Ms. Sophia ...
To this day, I struggle to understand why you chose to stand against us.
Why did you turn your back on everything? On everyone you loved and who loved you?
You've changed.
Grown too fond of your own voice and paid too little attention to what's happening around you.
Are you sure this is where you want to be?
What do you mean?
The Preacher fixes her gaze on the tunnel's far end.
As we speak, the Timekeeper is leaving your watch. Would the Foundation agree to this course of action?
Shouldn't you be keeping your eyes on her, rather than wasting your words on me?
Every attacking gleam is caught and devoured by the viscous liquid surrounding the Preacher. Yet Sonetto keeps scribbling with her glasfeder in midair.
I have the same question for you, Ms. Sophia.
Is this where you want to be?
I saw how you fought on the island. Your arcane skills aren't at all like the ones you used back then.
You've changed, too. Something new has taken root and choked your old faith out from you.
...
A single streak of light finally breaks through, severing crimson strands at the Preacher's temple.
We must be close to the ritual site for you to show up.
Which means Dr. Dores is close by, doesn't it?
...
Sophia steps forward to meet those silent, resolute, unyielding eyes, as the surging black mucus solidifies into an impenetrable wall again.
Ms. Dores came to us led by nothing but her own purpose.
But what of you, Sonetto?
The Preacher raises a hand; the little idol sways gently against her chest.
What's your purpose in all this?
...
Her grip tightens around her glasfeder. Just as she has done countless times before, she raises it into the air.
20. The Weaving of Our Pasts
147 lines*panting*
The mist begins to rise.
Yes, I've definitely seen it before. This is the same mist from the lake in my suitcase.
The deeper she ventures into the sanctuary, the thicker the mist grows, until each step feels meaningless and indistinct.
Which way did I come from?
Amidst the endlessness, a single golden thread drifts down.
A thread ...
I can't seem to grasp it. It's like a wisp of smoke.
… ♪
Who's there?
Investigating the source of the sound. At the far edge of the hazy mist, the faint outline of a rotating golden ring emerges.
A familiar sight. Just as it was millennia ago. Just as it was decades past. Just as it appeared yesterday.
A spinner at the Wheel. I've seen this before, but where?
Yet nothing comes to mind.
A soft song tugs at the thread, guiding the way forward—the answers lie just ahead.
Come. Move forward. Step closer.
Until the memories deep within the mist are within reach.
What have I forgotten?
Where do things go when we forget them?
Are you looking for this?
A hat. A deep indigo hat tied with a soft teal ribbon.
Oh, yes, my hat. Thank you.
I didn't even realize it was gone.
It's ever so important to me. Where did you find it?
Along the path you took.
She points into the distance. The fierce summer light blurs her view of the SPDM.
Must've been another one of Joseph's pranks. Thank you for bringing it back to me.
Are you a new staff member in the school? I don't believe I've seen you before.
Though, strangely, I feel as though we've met before, a long time ago.
Heh-heh ...
A breeze sweeps by, carrying the trailing notes of a laugh.
We will see more of one another in the time to come.
The wind rustles through her hair, then nothing.
She looks down at her empty hands.
When did that happen?
The golden thread urges her onward, while the song at the other end lingers.
Sail, sail free,
my heart and light.
Wave your home a last goodbye.
Unnoticed, the Wheel spins out a length of thread.
Wave your home a last goodbye.
What's that song you're singing, Vertin?
It's a song I heard in a dream.
I dream about songs too—about my mom and dad singing them to me. They sing and say all kinds of stuff, but when I wake up, I can't seem to remember any of it.
It's nice that you remember, though. What was your dream about?
I'm not sure. I don't think I really dream at all.
But sometimes, just before I fall asleep, I feel someone sit beside me. She strokes my hair and sings this song.
But when I wake up, there's nobody there.
That doesn't seem like a dream to me. Maybe one of the instructors comes to check on you at night?
I don't think so. Even though I don't remember her face, I know she isn't one of the instructors because I feel like I know her.
It sounds like a fairy tale. A lady singing by your bed at night.
Do you remember anything else?
Hmm ...
Not really. I'm not even sure if she's real.
But when she looks at me, it feels warm, like being in the sun, like we are now.
She turns, reaching out as if to grasp the sun.
At the edge of her vision, she catches a glimpse of that familiar silhouette.
...!
Vertin?
But when she looks, there are only fallen leaves drifting away from the forest's edge.
So sleep my baby, grow bright, grow firm.
The Wheel completes another rotation. And the song falls silent.
That voice ... Vertin?
Vertin ...
...
The same dream again. No, is it even a dream?
It feels different today. The familiar warmth of song is absent, replaced by a chilled silence.
...
Cool fingertips trace across brows, nose, cheeks, lips, mapping every contour.
At last, that hand comes to rest over her eyes.
My child ...
Tread the path you must tread, turn the page you must turn,
and seek the answer you must seek.
A kiss falls on her forehead, cold liquid trailing after it like rain.
This is the final farewell.
The hand lifts from her eyes. The figure at her bedside rises and leaves without even a word.
No! She can't leave like this!
Wake up. Shake off this warm, alluring slumber. Rise up to meet reality, harsh, but true. Try to catch that scattering wisp of wind.
Wake up!
No ...
Stay with me—
...!
The scene in her memory dissolves.
And overlapping with that figure she's been chasing is a face filled with concern.
Are you alright, child?
...
Dr. Dores?
No. That isn't right.
Who are you? Marta, Bessmert, Urd?
I'm Dr. Dores. My pen name is indeed "Urd."
I might have published a few stories under that name, but I've never spoken of it to anyone. How did you come to know it was me?
I ... I've been looking for you for a long time. I've followed your trail across the world.
Ah. I can only imagine how hard such a journey must have been for you, dear child.
Dores's hand rests upon her head, stirring a warmth thick with nostalgia.
But I'm afraid the other names you mentioned don't belong to me.
...
You're Vertin, aren't you? I believe we met briefly in São Paulo.
But tell me, how did you come to be here?
I'm ... I'm here for you, and to stop Manus Vindictae's ritual.
Manus Vindictae? Forgive me, child. I'm afraid I'm not sure what you mean.
*steadying breath* Allow me to explain.
I'm an arcanist of the St. Pavlov Foundation. We have intel that a dangerously powerful ritual is soon to be performed here.
In the interest of your own safety, I must ask you to come with me to the Foundation headquarters.
I see.
I will go with you, but not just yet.
There is something I must finish—these threads I'm spinning.
Threads?
Yes. Others don't seem to see them, but I do.
It's strange. I don't know what they are, but I know how to spin them. Does that sound ridiculous to you?
Not at all. In fact, I can see them too.
But perhaps we should do it together, later, when the danger has subsided.
Slowly, firmly, Dores shakes her head.
There may not be a "later." I must finish this now.
Why?
Is this worth more than your life?
I believe it is.
These threads must be spun so the all-ruling law may be woven.
That is my purpose—my calling. That is why I was led here.
That's why you're here too, is it not? To answer your calling?
My calling? You mean—
My child. I may be blind of sight, but my senses are clear.
This is a path you must tread, a page you must turn.
This is the answer you must seek.
...!
The words sound familiar.
No more is said. Dores turns away, hands returning to the spindle.
And in that instant, her figure merges with memories of the past.
No ...
She hears herself cry out in desperation. But the Spinning Wheel has already begun to turn.
No, stay with me—
Mum!
This is ...?
Vertin?
The water rises.
More and more water rises.
How can this be?
No. This can't be my calling.
Tides run in blind by their ever-be routine,
Staining that Heaven with obscene calamity.
The breaker of death's shackles shall rule us all,
From this day forth, and evermore.
The blessing of the coming age is near. And, humbly, we kneel to receive such grace.
O Glorious One, walk the Earth again—
Shape this land with your mighty, vengeful hands!
Heh. Ms. Urd. We owe you our thanks for starting the ritual.
At last, we are no longer lost.
For the Guiding One is risen!
21. The Way I Came
194 linesA lump of dark flesh pulsates like a heart, its flowing black fluid spilling into the well, mixed with rain with neither weight nor wetness.
That lump of flesh is Arcana?
The threads ... They were drawn away somewhere deep below me. This—this isn't right.
She reaches to steady the spindle, only for golden wounds to bloom across her fingertips.
And the Wheel ... I can't seem to stop it.
Vertin, you must leave.
Spare me the theatrics.
Animus swings her longbow. Black, viscous liquid twists into bonds that pin them both in place.
The ritual has begun. The Mother will return! Such a moment is not to be disturbed!
...!
Step by step, Animus approaches. Through the chanting, she plucks a white bone from the water.
These bones are relics of a sacred age—primal, elegant, powerful, just like the era to which they belong.
They are but a fraction of the creatures from a time erased from history, from the Blank Era.
The moment is nigh. From the embryo, the Great Mother shall rise once more to restore what was lost!
And break the shackles that were forced upon us eons ago!
A Blank Era? Restore what was lost? No. Time should move forwards, not backwards!
It seems your blindness is not just of the eyes, but of the mind. Still, I shall forgive your blasphemies. You were the one to start the ritual, after all.
In fact, your contribution should be commemorated with a title. "The Unseeing Saint," perhaps? It is rather fitting, don't you think?
No, I ...
I must stop the Spinning Wheel.
Dores's hand shakes with pain as she reaches out once more, desperate to stop the turning.
Please! Stop!
Not while I still draw breath!
Animus's longbow strikes the ground with a resounding crash, sending a quake through the entire sanctuary. Responding to her command, threads coil out and around Dores's body, pulling taut around her weakened frame.
Ugh!
The ritual's glow intensifies, while her face grows paler still. As the golden light fades, she collapses into the swirling mist.
*sigh of relief* Heh ... For a moment, I thought you might've succeeded as you did in 1999.
But it seems your prime has passed.
The Mother of Resurrection will soon grace us with THEIR presence. Your fate is inevitable.
With a swing of the longbow, Animus encases Dores in black mucus, dragging both her and the Spinning Wheel down into darkness.
Dr. Dores!
Oh, there's no need for haste, girl. The Mother shall welcome you both into THEIR embrace.
It is a great honor to become one with THEM. You ought to be grateful.
Animus turns to her weeping believers, still chanting hymns as the rising liquid engulfs them.
A liquid devoid of weight or wetness.
...
Behind them, an arcane item about to activate is violently struck down.
Well, that was amusing. But that's quite enough folly for one day.
You think too highly of yourself, just like that bullheaded fool who threw herself to the gate.
But she realized her error, paid the price in her blood, and thus has been forgiven.
If it is redemption you seek, then you must first make an offering of yourselves. The Mother, in THEIR great mercy, shall alleviate you of your suffering.
Nonsense. Nautika didn't enter the gate to gain forgiveness. She died for her beliefs.
My, how ignorant of me. Do send her my apologies. After all, you'll be seeing her very soon.
The ropes tighten in a sharp heave.
Surrender unto THEM your flesh and blood, and pave the path to the Mother's return!
Through her obscured vision, the viscous hands from beyond the gate surge through the endless tube, grasping out over the mountain's heart with terrifying speed.
...!
Suffocation strikes instantly.
Woooo—wooooo—
The distant howl of wind escapes the sanctuary's gaping maw.
Enter into the Mother's embrace, and THEY shall reward you with THEIR great might!
*coughing*
Vision tinged with red.
*coughing*
...
It's a warm place, like a mother's embrace.
Open your eyes, that the dream may go on.
Relax, Vertin. The best is yet to come!
Wait till we take a breath of the real air, till we stuffed ourselves with delicious food, and till we get back to our country.
There's so much more for us to be shivering at, but in excitement!
That voice ... It's ...
She moves toward the source of the sound, straining to hear.
"The Ring"? Is that you?
Let's open it together.
Three, two, one—
May the freedom be with us!
Isabella, "Penny" ... Are they all here?
Let's goooo!
Vertin! Come outside!
Wait!
Let's hear everyone's wishes. How about that?
Schneider?
My lord, you're actually lying here defenseless. Heh Heh.
We have been with you for a long time. No reward? No way.
A soft, raspy voice drifts away like a feather.
I find myself uncertain of which way to go. Would you kindly give me some guidance?
Ms. Marta? No, but ...
The guidance I can offer you is limited, Ms. Marta.
I think fate knows its own fate better than anyone.
Thank you for your advice.
I think I understand.
No, don't go!
Why?
Why must I endure this time and time again?
For what was lost need not remain so.
Step forward. Return to us. Our arms are open. Come into the warmth of our embrace.
...
Her feet carry her toward the sound, then stop.
No. This isn't right.
This is the way I came.
There are so many things to be done, so many questions to be answered.
My calling lies elsewhere.
She turns. Faint murmurs beckon from another direction.
Ver ...
And so she strides forward.
Vertin ...
Vertin!
...!
Where am I?
The dreamlike haze evaporates into an endless darkness.
The walls pulse like living tissue; each step slides over bones slick with gore, submerged in a mix of blood and bile.
The space throbs, each throe spewing another wave of nauseating stench into the abyss.
Am I inside the gate?
Are these the offerings? Ugh!
Be careful. One wrong move, and you'll end up like them.
Then, a child's voice, shrunk and rasped with tears, pierces through. The only faint glow in the dark.
That's the only reality in this place.
Who's speaking?
I wish I could tell you, but I don't know either. I can't seem to remember my name, or anything, really.
I've just been waiting here because I wasn't ready to join them.
You seem to still remember a few things. How did you get here?
I was thrown to the gate as an offering.
I have to get out of here. Do you know a way out?
A way out? I-I really have no idea.
Maybe I can help you find a way. But where do you want to go? Why do you want to go?
I need to exit through the gate.
I'm searching for an answer, and I won't find it here.
An "answer"?
Is that why you were thrown in here?
You could say that.
And you're still looking for it? Even after everything that's happened to you?
I'm not sure.
What if, what if the "answer" doesn't exist? What if you finish your journey and find out there's nothing out there?
I've asked myself that question more times than I can remember.
Sometimes, it feels like I'm doing all this in the pursuit of a mirage.
But I've come to be at peace with that possibility.
Really? But what about all the time and energy you put into it?
How do you keep going, knowing that it all could be for nothing?
But it isn't for nothing.
Memories flash before her eyes.
Those sacrifices, those struggles, those who gave meaning to her path.
I carry everything, everyone, with me.
They were real.
So, even if in the end, the path I walk leads me nowhere, I know that ...
"I will pursue the unknown, no matter where it takes me."
The light trembles, uttering these words in a soft yet resolute voice.
Ah, that's it.
That's the answer I was looking for.
The faint light flickers again, brighter this time.
I remember now. I used to have the same belief.
That's why I'm still here, why I wasn't gobbled up by this place.
Because I died content. I died knowing I had chased the answer with all I had.
The light—no, it should now be called a "mass of light." It pulses closer, radiating warmth.
Come, take my hand!
Your hand?
Yes. Here, reach into my heart. There's something there, something I need you to find.
She reaches into its core, and a comforting softness settles in her palm.
It feels like fabric?
No, not that. It's somewhere deeper.
Yes! There!
Uncurling her fingers, she reveals a pendant resting there, its tiny crystal reflecting light that shouldn't exist.
That's it. That's what I needed you to find.
My purpose.
A faint warmth seeps through the pendant, its surface etched with that familiar name.
"Amundsen."
Nautika? Is that you?
Oh, that's it! "Nautika"! That's my name!
Thank you, thank you, Vertin. I found it. I found my name!
Flesh begins regenerating from the glowing mass.
Then, invisible hands grasp her.
"The path to home, held fast in night's tight grip. Unloosed by breath, a name spoke on the lip."
As she speaks each word, the surrounding scene again begins to warp and dissolve.
The Mother Spirit may not be here, but in my dream, She came to me and showed me the way out.
Come, Vertin. Come. Let's get out of here.
She clutches Nautika's hands. Even in hell, those slender fingers remain strong.
Her body is dissolving, her vision darkening, as if the world itself were rejecting her.
Yet even in annihilation, their hands stay locked together.
Take my eyes, and I will walk blind. Take my feet, and I will crawl on my hands and knees. Take my body ...
And I will grow another.
Because nothing will keep me from my purpose. Nothing will keep me from finding the great gift!
Oh ...
Vertin, we did it!
And the world's rebirth stirs within the wind.
Are we in the air?
Nautika, look at you!
Black mucus extends out from her body, forming bones, while white fabric weaves itself into wings.
A drum seems to beat from afar. She stretches her wings wide, catching the wind beneath them.
Chin lifted in pride, she shatters the boulders that line the sanctuary. She leaps, and the wind follows.
Then, she rides that wind upward, breaking free from the countless grasping hands.
And—Vertin, look! I have wings! I can fly! I can take us home!
Watch out!
...!
She flaps her wings, dodging the flying debris, and turns toward the source of danger.
Deep within the sanctuary, tremors pulse outward.
Wh-What is that?
Arcana.
Throbbing black flesh stretches over countless hands, fusing snugly with the stone walls. The entire sanctuary breathes like a living thing.
If the gate is the mouth, and inside it is the stomach ...
The wind courses through and around, carrying soft whispers with it. Until, all at once, it dives into the flesh.
Then, it seems the ruins themselves are alive.
And Arcana is its very heart.
I fear it's only a matter of time before she's fully resurrected.
22. By Their Untainted Blood
69 linesWords fall alongside the arcane skill's radiance. Sonetto and the Preacher's pupils each reflect the other's form.
It seems you've already made up your mind.
I have. My duty is clear, and I'll honor it no matter what.
After a brief silence, another violent tremor rocks the sanctuary.
Timekeeper!
So, this is how it ends.
Ends? What are you talking about?
The Preacher doesn't respond. Setting down the idol, she walks toward her.
Sonetto tenses, but the Preacher merely brushes past.
Remember your words today, Ms. Sonetto.
...
The Preacher leaves. Sonetto steps forward, then freezes at a glint from the shadows.
This is ...
Hmph. You've proven yourselves to be quite resistant to death. I should've known you'd have yet another shared quality with a cockroach.
No matter. You have blasphemed in the face of the Great Mother. There is naught for you but damnation now.
Vertin, watch out!
Nautika swings her tail, scattering Animus's intense arcane energy.
Wh-What do we do now?
...
The flesh pulsates again, swelling more, now swollen to its limit.
Sorry, Nautika. I'm afraid we'll have to postpone your plans to head home.
We have to stop the ritual before Arcana is fully revived.
Arcana? Is that what those Snow Monsters were trying to do? Bring someone back from the dead?
Nautika stamps her talons into the ground, bracing for a counterattack, or more accurately, vengeance.
Nautika, at one o'clock!
Oh. Okay!
She swings her bone-whip toward the flesh, but before impact, a rising surge of black mucus walls off each side.
Ugh!
Strike from above!
Hmph! Child's play.
The black liquid weaves a filament-thin net, straining to trap the soaring prey. Still fumbling with her unfamiliar flesh, Nautika loses balance.
Ah! My tail! I-I can't fly!
<speed=0.06>I know the moon, and this is an alien city.
A transparent shield forms in the air, blocking off the sizzling liquid.
Sonetto!
Another one? Filthy little wretch. How did you slip past the mist?
She trails off upon seeing the little bottle clutched in Sonetto's hand.
Ragh! That damnable "Preacher"!
How utterly feckless must one be to be bested by a child?
That worthless, shameless, thankless imbecile! She was always unworthy of her role!
Sonetto, take my hand.
She dives, splitting the air into a shriek. As her massive, hard tail knocks aside attacks, Sonetto seizes her chance, jumping up to grab Nautika's talons.
Get up here.
Urgh!
The once separated companions now meet again in midair, hands clasped tight.
Haha! The team's back together again. And we can stop them together.
You have well and truly reached the boundaries of my patience.
To think that you believe you can alter the path designated by the great Mother of Resurrection! Hah!
Though forced back, Animus raises her longbow and lets out an ominous laugh.
Utter futility! The final reckoning has come!
And when you lay your eyes upon THEM, I shall delight in the melody of your screams!
Animus is the first to kneel before the throbbing, swollen flesh. At her lead, every believer drops to the ground.
The mucus surges around them, forming a protective barrier for the ritual.
What are they—Wait! Are they offering themselves as the final sacrifice?
Their eyes see not one light of Bright Star.
Men's past ways are shaded by their shame.
Paeans are but flattery's mirror half.
When blood soothes frantic threads ...
The robes shrivel until only empty fabric remains, carried away by the formless liquid.
The once-red blood darkens, becoming veins, pulsing with the rhythmic throbbing of the black heart at their center.
These fluctuations are powerful. This is bad.
At last, the moment has come!
The Sufferer is returned! For through flesh and blood a vessel is forged, and so SHE walks among us once more!
SHE shall right the wrongs of this world and lead us to our former glory!
SHE shall restore the promised land! Let the great "Flood" wash away all falsehood!
Let the ages begin anew! Return us to the Blank Era, where arcanists reign as masters of all!
Return us to paradise! Restore the true utopia!
23. And Then Came the Savior
173 linesAah. What an honor it is to bear witness to Her return with my own eyes! Great Mother of Arcanum—
Guide us! Protect us, in your infinite might! Let the "Flood" come! Let all be reshaped! Bring forth the primordial garden!
Arcana ...
...
The resurrected deity lifts one of her endless hands and taps the air.
Liquid erupts from the well, swallowing everything it touches.
Look.
Stay away from that liquid! It's no ordinary water.
It's spilling out from that well. Are you attempting another "Storm"?
"Storm"? AHAHAHAHA!
Oh, to be so blissfully ignorant of Her true power.
This is no mere "Storm."
This is a gift from the Inculcator of Arcanum.
A great "Flood" that will return this world to primal chaos!
...!
Captain! Sir! We're sinking.
The water is rising fast. It's flooding over the deck.
Stay calm! Find the breach and seal it immediately.
But, it's not seawater, sir.
Captain! Report on the enemy's status!
What is it?
Manus Vindictae have halted their attack! They're chanting on the deck.
Chanting?
Faint chanting echoes from the frozen coast.
Tides run in blind by their ever-be routine,
Staining that Heaven with obscene calamity.
The breaker of death's shackles shall rule us all,
From this day forth, and evermore.
All units, stay at your posts! Wait for my order!
The captain steps toward the flood pouring from the inner cabin.
Captain, something isn't right with this water.
His boots are already submerged.
What the hell?
My feet ... I can't ... They're gone!
Everything below the waterline dissolves, vanishing into the flood without a trace. His body is severed cleanly—no blood, no pain, as if it was never there.
The water reflects no present image, only ruins from ten years, a hundred years, millions of years ago.
Numberless waterbirds gather in flocks, dive, and melt into the "Flood" like flames joining a fire, turning from the many into one.
Arghhhhhhh!
The first scream erupts from a young soldier. He clutches his head and scrambles for higher ground.
But before his second cry for help can escape, the flood swallows him whole.
The blessing of the coming age is near. And, humbly, we kneel to receive such grace.
O Glorious One, walk the Earth again—
Shape this land with your mighty, vengeful hands!
Captain!
This flood ... Creius warned me about this.
Equilibrium Umbrellas open, everyone! Get Admiral Somme on the line!
Umbrella handles are lifted, the canopies blazing with light.
This is just another "Storm." The umbrella's will—
Yet before the words are spoken, the flood devours them whole, and soon after, the Equilibrium Umbrellas too.
One by one, umbrellas and their bearers dissolve into the water.
The soldiers' screams and the Manus seabeasts' roars clash. Then silence. Absolute silence.
It is happening again. Just like in 1999.
The admiral watches the distant fleet sink beneath the waves.
To a commander, troops are just numbers on the sand table, pieces on a chessboard.
But in the face of a calamity, what can a foot soldier do? Many men and women have been marched to their deaths, cannon fodder for the cause—a "necessary sacrifice" ...
And their loyalty and passion turned to dust in an instant.
The sea climbs faster now, the coastal ice shelves already gone. Only a pristine flood remains, like a veil of translucent gauze wiping away all impurities.
Father, Moldir's men have arrived.
Good. Has the team been mustered?
Yes, including the wounded from the Manus Vindictae attack. Everyone's here except Captain Danilov ...
... and Moldir. She wasn't with the team when they arrived.
I see.
Prepare to move. We are breaking camp.
Yes, sir. Where to?
Somewhere safe. Somewhere the "Flood" cannot reach us.
From his coat, the admiral draws the black box. It rotates in slow motion over his palm, emitting faint golden light.
Is that what we got from the Manus deal?
He nods.
It is. From this day on, we are taking a different path. One without fruitless sacrifice.
But Moldir is still ...
She is walking her own path.
Igor looks out toward the distant snowy peaks, seeing instead the long road that brought him to this moment.
I have faith in her decision.
Restless critters, rising sea level, abnormal avalanches ...
It's the Manus ritual. It's already begun. We need to do something before it's too late!
You've got to be kidding me. Boss, this isn't exactly the time for chit-chat!
Avalanche incomin'! All units, change course! Follow me, now!
The guard hoists up the still-analyzing researcher and charges uphill at full speed.
Heads up! Snow's comin' down! Anchor yourselves!
Ergh!
In the collapsing snowfield, the guard struggles to steady herself, but the sheer force of the avalanche overwhelms them both.
A massive snow chunk slams into them, sending Ulrich's tank spinning into the void.
Ah! For Flux's—
BOSS!
The glass tank's arc ends in a pair of steady hands.
Phew. We made it just in time.
In the howling wind, black hair escapes from under her hat.
Yet despite the roaring gale, her voice rings out clear and strong.
Lieutenant Moldir!
My apologies. We should've come sooner.
The guard shoves Ulrich's body into the cabin. With help from Moldir, the two groups finally merge.
Miraculously, aside from some surface damage to Ulrich's glass container, no arcanists or penguins are harmed.
Hooey, Lieutenant! You got here just in the nick o' time.
That's quite enough.
The sea level is rising, but not with any ordinary water. This is something far worse than we have ever seen. Something even more destructive than the "Storm."
At this rate, it will soon wipe this era from the face of the Earth.
I figured as much. An event of this scale and severity could only be the result of the Manus ritual. We must act now.
Ulrich reattaches his head, then pulls out the apparatus for "asymmetrical nuclide R." The ferrofluid churns in his tank, unfazed by the shifting gale.
The apparatus fills with golden liquid in the blink of an eye.
This "Flood" looks different from the "Storm," yes, but the sudden surge in the level of asymmetrical nuclide R in the air suggests they come from the same source.
Or, to take a leap, they are one and the same. The "Flood" is the "Storm."
So, the "Regulus" record might still work?
You're a quick learner, Lieutenant.
If the record can slow the progression of the Storm Syndrome, then it stands to reason that it might do the same for the ritual.
Time is against us. We need to place the record and generate the immunity zone as soon as possible.
Which means we need to reach the mountaintop. It's the only location where we can be sure the ritual site will fall within its radius.
Captain Danilov!
I heard him, ma'am! Hold tight, everyone!
No orders are needed between seasoned soldiers. The Canis Minor tilts upward, propellers screaming.
The sea level is rising fast. Do you think we still stand a chance once we get there?
I can't say for certain, but I have faith. I'm sure the Timekeeper is doing everything she can to hold off the ritual for us.
Despite the chaotic wind, Ulrich's voice holds steady.
If there's one thing I've learned from all my years of research, Lieutenant,
it's that you give it your all and trust your collaborators to do the same.
The water's rising quickly. At this rate, we'll all be underwater in a matter of minutes.
We must disrupt the ritual before the "Flood" drowns us all.
Rituals, mist, the "Flood"—all twist around the grotesque colossus.
Attack Arcana. Maybe we can find a weakness!
G-Got it!
A lead arrow splits the thick air, embedding itself beside Nautika's twitching talons.
Hah! What a farce.
A few squirming little insects think they can defy fate's design!
This world you so desperately cling to is naught but the poisonous fruits of a corrupted tree—rotten to the very core.
Watch as it falls to pieces. Watch as the "Flood" washes away all the impurities of this world and returns us to what should have been!
...
"Arcana" shifts, her blurred face showing a familiar smile.
The Mother has awakened! O Great Lady, I kneel before You. Enlighten us with Your divine knowledge!
Grant us Your benevolent might! Bring down Your mighty hand of vengeance!
Goshdarnit! These birds 're meaner 'n a two-headed snake and twice as tenacious!
Uragh!
Captain Danilov's spiraling. I can't hold on much longer. Come on, Captain, let go! That's my chocolate MRE!
Ulrich. Hurry it up.
Materials, check. Location, check. Environmental factors, check.
Flux! It's just not working. I must've got the magnetic poles wrong again.
Experiment number 22. Last chance.
Oh, but, just forget it, boss. We have to go before Danilov crashes us all to the ground.
Moldir hurls the squirrel and penguins all into the cabin in a heap before making the jump herself.
Give me your hand, Ulrich. That's an order.
Program set. Parameters confirmed. Initiating.
With a yank on Ulrich's collar, Moldir hauls him skyward, just as he presses the needle onto the record for the twenty-second time.
Look. The water's stopped rising.
Nautika, this is our chance.
With the pounding beat of the song, the last pillar crumbles under Nautika's strike.
I-I did it.
Well done, Nautika.
But stay sharp. The sanctuary's coming apart. Watch out for falling debris.
Nautika weaves through crashing boulders. With a final quake, the altar collapses into ruin.
Rubble buries all life below, only the edges of the believers' black robes still visible beneath the crush of stone.
Urgh ...
Blasphemous little ...
Another stone falls. A gasp, a spurt of blood, then silence.
We should be safe here.
Nautika extends her wings, careful of the narrow space, sheltering the pair from both the "Flood" and falling rocks.
The body dissolves, reshaping into a familiar human silhouette.
She stands on the surface of the "Flood" on her toes, watching the sanctuary collapse.
A dirge to mark the end of this world. How fitting.
Shh ...
Only her voice remains, echoing through the void.
When the final note falls, the "Flood" shall rise once more.
An ancient era shall be reclaimed, and a new order forged.
Arcana stands in the water, smiling all the same.
The end is nigh. But do take solace in thine achievement, my little savior, that this world should draw its final breath on a tune and not a scream. But alas, this is no true end for you.
We shall meet again, Vertin.
In a world that is rightfully ours.
Then she disappears into the rising tide.
24. The Other Bank of the River
116 linesShe's gone? Just like that?
...
As Arcana vanishes, the sanctuary rocks once again. Yet more boulders fall, their tumbling cacophony heralding death.
"The end is nigh" ...
Timekeeper, we may have slowed down the "Flood," but the water is still rising.
There are very few options left for us now.
This place could collapse any minute. W-We should go. We should go right now.
You're right. Go find the Foundation troops. They'll get you to safety.
Wh-What about you?
I cannot allow Manus Vindictae to wipe this world clean.
The sanctuary should hold a little longer. I have to try again to stop this "Flood."
Mr. Ulrich risked his life to buy us this time. We mustn't squander it.
Sonetto nods, still lost in thought.
But, neither attacking Animus nor destroying the sanctuary stopped the ritual.
What else can we do?
Even though Arcana is gone, the ritual is still ongoing. She must have left the source of its power here in the sanctuary.
They needed Dr. Dores to start the ritual. Perhaps the power source is tied to her somehow.
I need to check the altar again.
But ... But it's under the "Flood." You can't touch the water, or you'll disappear. Let me take you. I can fly you over the top, and you can take a look from there, ugh!
Nautika raises her forepaws, but her wings fail to spread. Blackened, bruised, and wounded.
I'll be fine, Nautika. The water can't harm me.
The "Flood" is a mix of glacier water and "Storm" water, which doesn't affect me.
So, to me, it's just ordinary water.
Look.
...!
Water slips through her fingertips, and the hand submerged in it remains unscathed—time has left no trace.
See? I'm fine. It's a little chilly, but nothing more.
Sonetto, please take my suitcase and go with Nautika. I'll catch up to you later.
She turns around, searching for a suitable spot to enter the water. The icy water sending shivers up her thigh all the way to her neck.
Timekeeper.
Behind her, Sonetto clutches the suitcase, holding off her desire to speak.
Sonetto, it's dangerous here.
I'm your assistant. It's my duty to stay by your side, no matter how great the danger.
I'm staying. I'll wait here for your return, Timekeeper.
Leaping in, ancient bones and debris glide past.
The path forward is already decided.
If I remember correctly, the ritual began right after Dr. Dores spun the Wheel.
The threads ... They were drawn away somewhere deep below me. This—this isn't right.
And the Wheel ... I can't seem to stop it.
Vertin, you must leave.
The ritual began when Dr. Dores turned the Spinning Wheel, and once it started, it kept turning as if it were sustaining the ritual.
So the Wheel must be the key to all this. That's what I should be looking for.
Just like before, with eyes closed, instinct takes over.
Upon reopening them, the golden thread flickers into view once more.
A thread?
Is Dr. Dores guiding me?
It's leading me deeper.
Yet it stretches without end.
Ugh!
A strong current pulls a dense thicket of obscuring debris into her path; the guiding thread vanishes from just beyond her grasp.
The current is growing stronger. Regulus's song must be coming to an end.
Time's running out. I need to find the Wheel as soon as—Huh? Where did the thread go?
… ♪
...!
A familiar hum drifts from above. Clinging to the rocks, she lifts her head, and there stands the one she sought.
...!
Dr. Dores!
Vertin. You came. My instincts were correct. I knew you'd find your way here.
The threads are no longer under my control. It's as if they're flowing down into some sort of well. I believe it is the source of the "Flood," too.
If we're to have any hope of stopping this, I think we'll have to halt the Spinning Wheel first.
Agreed. Stay where you are, Dr. Dores. I'll—
A singular fixed detail catches her eye.
Dores's feet are gone, as though they never existed in the first place. She now maintains her balance by gripping the sides of the Spinning Wheel.
What happened to your feet?
Ah. They were gone when I woke up. They must've touched the water when I was unconscious.
My apologies. I would bring the Spinning Wheel to you, but my body will dissolve in the water.
No problem. I'll come to you.
Be careful. The current is strong here. I tried several times to escape, but the conditions are too unpredictable.
I think it's because this is ...
A shriek cuts her off. The "Flood" churns below them.
White waves spiral, coalescing into a fathomless vortex.
Eye of the "Storm."
Careful, Vertin. The Spinning Wheel is resuming its pace.
Dores cradles the Wheel. Its rotations seem to match the trembles of the current's pulse.
Stay right there, Dr. Dores. I'm com—Urgh!
She lets go of the rock wall and tries to move forward, but the raging waves grab her and sweep her away. Despite a moment of panic, she manages to steady herself on another rock.
A sharp slice coats her palm in red. Fortunately, the water's icy chill numbs the pain.
*coughing*
Her blood dissolves quickly in the water. Next to them, the whirlpool is growing ever larger.
*panting*
It's alright. Just try again.
Another attempt. Then three. Four ... Each time, the waves slam her back against the rock.
And the current grows fiercer.
Vertin!
Resolute, she tears her dress's hem, lashing the Spinning Wheel to her body.
Wait there. I'm bringing the Wheel to you.
Dr. Dores, no!
Propped against the rocks, Dores drags herself into the torrent. The cold wracks her with shivers, but she moves undeterred.
Ugh!
Soon, half-submerged, only her arms cling to the shore as the flood devours her lower half.
The raging pool batters her slender frame, yet she and the Spinning Wheel keep bobbing up amid the waves.
Just a little closer.
That's far enough. Just stop right there, please. Don't—
...
Lazo Lock!
An unusually successful arcane skill anchors her to the rock, defying the pull of the rushing water.
She leans, stretches—yet those final meters feel insurmountable.
The Wheel shudders ever more violently now.
The roar of water fills her ears.
Vertin.
Don't worry about me.
Dores's voice cuts through the roaring waves—calm, gentle.
I'm glad to have seen you again, child.
I wish you my very best on the journey ahead.
...!
Dores releases the rock. The current seizes her, pulling her forward.
The Spinning Wheel bobs on the surface while what's left of her dissolves piece by piece.
Okay. I got the Wheel.
Now take my hand, please.
Goodbye.
DR. DORES!
And the Spinning Wheel stills, and the furious waters grow quiet.
One raindrop rises from the "Flood."
Then two, three ...
The "Flood" recedes.
And the "Storm" begins.
25. Apocalypsis cum figuris
72 linesThis is ...
Moldir steps down from the helicopter, watching drops float upward.
Butter my backside and call me a biscuit! Rain pullin' itself right off the ground and risin' up into the sky! I ain't never seen nuttin' like it!
Moldir yanks Sergeant Buddy Fairchild back by his coat before he can dash into the rain.
Careful, Sergeant. Stay clear of those raindrops.
She scans the horizon. The flood no longer pours out across the land; instead, it ascends back into the sky.
The sea level is dropping.
I can hardly believe it. The plan actually worked.
I guess you're less of a fool than I thought, Mr. Ulrich.
I was only one part of the plan.
I wonder how Vertin's doing down there. She's the one you should be thanking.
I'll make sure I do.
The "Storm" is growing heavy.
I wonder have my people in São Paulo found shelter?
I knew I wasn't mad for bringing a few extra Equilibrium Umbrellas. Boss, get under here!
Ulrich nods and looks at the collapsed mountain.
Every trace has been erased by the "Storm." The ferrofluid flows through his tank without any trace of emotion.
The ritual has been disrupted, and the "Flood" is turning into a "Storm."
Then, does that mean ...
All the "Storms" were the result of a failed "Flood"?
On distant ships, Equilibrium Umbrellas snap open one by one.
Admiral Somme looks out over Antarctica.
The ritual has been halted, just as it was in 1999.
And now comes another "Storm." History has a way of repeating itself, it seems.
Behind him, crisp boots step forward.
Where will it take us this time? Back to the past? Or into the future?
Perhaps this is the best outcome we could have hoped for.
We might have suffered many more casualties.
Agreed, sir.
The Timekeeper has certainly exceeded her reputation—quite remarkable indeed.
Regardless, the battle is over.
But our respite will be brief.
After all, the "Storm" won't last for long.
In the "Storm," firearms and artillery rise one after another.
Urhm ...
Timekeeper!
Sonetto? Nautika?
You're awake! We were searching and searching, and we couldn't find you anywhere, and we were so worried and ... and ...
We found you in the sanctuary ruins after the "Flood" subsided. I don't see any issues with your physical condition, but ...
How are you feeling? Any discomfort?
The Spinning Wheel ...
...
The only piece of it we found was the one that you were holding in your hand when we found you.
It looks almost identical to the one we have in the suitcase. I assumed it was important, so I put it in the suitcase for safekeeping.
Probably best to keep it in there for now.
Wait. Is that rain I hear?
Yes. It's the "Storm." The "Flood" transformed into it.
But don't worry. We're safe within the sanctuary walls.
...
Pushing upright, she looks out.
The "Storm" purges all things.
Yet at the edge of vision, a familiar silhouette appears like a haze within the rising rain.
That's ...
Dr. Dores?
Her feet move on their own, chasing the distant image.
Dr. Dores, wait!
I-I still have things I need to ask you!
The figure stops. This time, she turns.
Vertin.
The "Storm" blurs her face.
We all walk our own paths, seeking our own answers.
But our paths will surely cross again.
The rain dissolves the figure, carrying it away—impossible to tell whether anything truly stood there or if it was just a waking dream.
Except for the song, familiar and bright drifting down from beyond the sky.
Sail, sail free, my heart and light.
Wave your home a last goodbye.
Go and seek the Golden Fleece.
In the land of endless peace.
Sail, sail free, my heart and light.
Find your home beneath your feet.
Winter, spring, the years they turn.
Let your heart grow brave and strong.