Deep Sea Embers Chapter 751: Amidst the Night

Chapter 751: Amidst the Night

In a dystopian future where the world had been consumed by fire, the planet lay in ruins, reduced to nothing but ashes. This cataclysmic event wasn’t perpetual; even the supply of firewood in the sanctuary had dwindled to its end. Beyond the drastically transformed landscape of land and seas, an omnipresent barrier continued to envelop the world. This barrier marked a threshold; when everything within its confines was incinerated, the world succumbed to a prolonged period of cooling.

This cooling phase spanned for four centuries, ultimately giving way to the era of embers. In this era, a blanket of cold ashes had smothered the world. No new fires were kindled, no life stirred, and the silence of extinction prevailed. The world was arrested in this state of desolation, where neither birth nor death occurred.

In this context, the sanctuary embraced a perpetual stillness after enduring an immense cataclysm. The embers of the past remained just that—embers. The apocalypse was indefinitely halted at this juncture, with no further calamities befalling the land.

Duncan, amidst this backdrop of desolation, casually took a seat on a large stone, indifferent to the omnipresent ashes. Gazing at the plains, where the remnants of cities continued their descent into dust, he reflected momentarily before concluding, “So, this path leads nowhere.”

Crete, who had approached Duncan, stood beside him, his thin, emaciated figure cutting a stark contrast against the cold breeze, reminiscent of a withered branch bending in the wind. “You can reshape everything,” he suggested, implying a possibility of change with one notable exception.

Understanding the implication, Duncan softly acknowledged, “I cannot redefine myself.”

After a moment of silence, Crete finally spoke again, “If there truly is no other way, embracing the future of fire may at least offer a semblance of continuity. However, I urge you to proceed with caution. Time is akin to a river; while many of its branches can be altered, the main current, once crossed, offers no return.”

With a gentle shake of his head, Duncan responded, “Don’t worry. The moment I declined Navigation One’s proposal, I had already come to terms with these realities. Your insights have merely helped refine my initial theories. More importantly, I’ve come to a crucial realization…”

As he spoke, Duncan extended his hand, closing it in the air. A spectral green flame spontaneously ignited between his fingers, dancing and flickering like a ghostly apparition.

This solitary flame had seemed to momentarily awaken the dormant world of ashes as the wind atop the mountain surged and the surrounding ashes appeared to stir. Yet, this was merely a fleeting illusion; in the next instant, both the wind and the ashes reverted to their previous state of inactivity.

In this concluded chapter of history, nothing remained that could propel it forward.

Duncan watched the flame in his hand for a moment longer before nonchalantly turning his palm over, extinguishing the flame.

The ephemeral green flame in Duncan’s hand had vanished as swiftly as it had appeared, breaking apart into countless tiny sparks that shimmered momentarily at his fingertips. For an instant, these sparks mimicked the ethereal glow of distant stars, casting a ghostly radiance.

Observing this fleeting spectacle, Duncan’s face was etched with a contemplative gravity. “These ‘fires’ are nothing more than illusions,” he remarked, acknowledging the transient nature of the flame.

He then shifted his gaze to Crete, who remained silently at his side. “Given that you can observe this timeline, can you perceive the outcomes of my other potential decisions?” Duncan inquired, seeking insight into alternatives beyond their current reality.

“I’m sorry, I cannot,” Crete responded, locking eyes with Duncan in a moment of frankness. “We are but specters caught within the temporal confines of the sanctuary, limited to witnessing events that unfold within this time loop. Your other possibilities exist beyond our reach, in what to us is akin to a vast, impenetrable void in the cosmos, beyond my ability to see.”

“Outside the loop… So, you’re saying they lie beyond the ‘known world’ of the sanctuary?” Duncan quickly grasped the implication. “Then, is the true challenge to transcend that omnipresent barrier?”

“…I’m sorry, I don’t know,” Crete admitted, unable to provide a definitive answer.

“Is that so,” Duncan responded, his voice tinged with a hint of longing. “At this moment, I find myself envying Duncan Abnomar from a century ago. Despite it being unintentional, you unveiled the future to him, giving him a direction.”CH𝒆Ck for 𝒏ew st𝒐ries on no/v/el/bin(.)c0m

“To wander in obscurity is a torment, yet to be aware of one’s destiny is equally torturous. At the end of everything, solace is elusive. I apologize, for we have never had uplifting news to share since our journey began,” Crete faintly bowed his head,

“That’s alright, I wasn’t anticipating any favorable tidings. Gaining some insight this time is satisfactory,” Duncan declared as he rose from the stone, remarkably unblemished by the ashes. “It’s time for us to depart from this place.”

He cast a final, sweeping glance over the surroundings—the dim sunlight struggling through the clouds and the cathedral spire amidst the ruins, a silent witness to their conversation. Duncan refrained from questioning Crete about the fates of others or their current locations, choosing instead to turn away without a backward glance.

Behind him, the timeline they had explored had disintegrated, much like the catastrophic blaze that once engulfed Pland.

Duncan found himself once again in the dimly lit, enclosed space of the cabin, the entrance to subspace quietly present at its base as if their journey through potential timelines had never occurred.

Crete remained by the doorway, his hand paused from its previous motion of touching the door frame.

Withdrawing his hand, Crete faced Duncan and offered a respectful bow. “I hope this experience hasn’t troubled you overly.”

“No problem, I’m already beset with enough concerns; this doesn’t add to them,” Duncan replied with casual dismissiveness. “At least now we’re certain that one path leads nowhere good.”

“The structure we’ve been calling a sanctuary is now beyond salvage; attempting to repair it would be futile, although I perhaps shouldn’t say this,” Crete sighed heavily, a hint of resignation in his voice. “Its ruin was inevitable. Ever since the cataclysmic event that devastated our worlds, the apocalypse has been relentlessly pursuing us through the corridors of time, and it seems it has finally overtaken us.”

“This notion of an impending doomsday, it’s the same prophecy those Enders obsessed with the apocalypse have been preaching all this time. Everyone assumed it was nothing more than the ramblings of minds broken by despair.”

Crete’s face remained impassive, his voice steady. “Madness and sanity are merely two sides of the same coin, and ‘truth’ remains indifferent to which side is facing up. Maybe in a different light, my peers weren’t insane; they were merely exhausted, opting to accept every facet of reality, thus being deemed mad by the rest of the world.”

Intrigued by this perspective, Duncan inquired, “Could you end up like them? Either in some alternate timeline or perhaps soon…”

“I can’t say for certain,” Crete hesitated briefly before shaking his head. “The twilight of this world is upon us, yet its light will not be snuffed out abruptly. My journey is not yet over, and to have this conversation with you, I had to bring forth the most coherent aspect of myself. Therefore, the ‘me’ standing before you now is unaware of what the future holds, or what the me at the end of my path has witnessed. Perhaps…”

He trailed off for a moment, gathering his thoughts, then added, “Maybe one day, our paths will cross again. The figure that greets you then might be a confused madman, or perhaps something even more unrecognizable, a being twisted by its journey through the abyss. If that happens, it would mean I’ve explored the darkness for too long and possibly…”

Crete stopped abruptly, his gaze drifting as if he had caught a glimpse of a beacon in the vast expanse of night, a sudden insight. The lines on his face seemed to soften, and he looked directly at Duncan, “Indeed… I will make every effort to see you once more, be it as a clear-minded individual or a figure consumed by madness. Though the chance for direct communication might be slim, and you may not even recognize my presence… I will find a way to leave a mark, a message for you…”

In the dimly lit expanse of the cabin, Duncan stood alone near the entrance to subspace, his silhouette etched against the doorway.

He remained motionless for a long stretch of time before finally turning to pick up a brass lantern hanging nearby. With slow, measured steps, he began making his way towards the exit at the bottom of the deck.

…

Twelve hours had passed since the expected time of night’s end, yet the darkness persisted.

This vision aligned with the dire predictions of scholars: the sun had failed to emerge, and no hint of dawn graced the horizon.

For those who had clung to the hope that the preceding seventy-two hours of unending darkness were merely a supernatural anomaly, anticipating the return of the morning sun, such hopes had now been thoroughly dashed.

The perpetual night had ceased to be a mere possibility and had become their stark reality.

Near the coast of Wind Harbor, four massive Ark ships remained anchored, a testament to humanity’s resilience. On the east coast, the glowing object, a marvel of engineering, continued to emanate a soft, pale golden light reminiscent of sunlight, warding off total darkness from engulfing the city-state.

Within the Academy Ark, all was aglow, a beacon of light and learning in these dark times.

Lune, a figure of short stature and robust build, was entrenched within the “Temple of Knowledge” located at the Ark’s summit. He stood before a statue of Lahem, the deity of wisdom, offering prayers with fervent devotion. His prayers, composed of a digital liturgy of “0”s and “1”s, carried a distinct rhythm and pronunciation, now nearing their conclusion.

Incense burned within the temple, its smoke swirling around the statue of Lahem, which was not depicted in human form but rather as a black rectangular monolith. This monolith, adorned at its peak with the “Eye of Wisdom” rune and covered in a dense array of symbols and complex patterns, seemed to briefly stir with life under the cadence of Lune’s prayers.

However, as the prayer concluded, the fleeting semblance of life within the monolith faded away.

Turning to a truth priest who had been at his side from the start, Lune inquired, “How do things stand now?”

“The unfortunate news is that the sun remains absent, and it appears this extended night will persist for a considerable duration. On a brighter note, data from various city-states indicate that the rate of temperature decline is beginning to decelerate. According to our current projections, it’s unlikely that temperatures will plummet below the historical record lows during this prolonged night. This suggests that the feared total freezing of the world may not come to pass,” the priest reported.

Hearing this, a brief moment of relief crossed Lune’s face, but his brow soon furrowed once more, prompting him to ponder, “…But is that truly reassuring news?”