Chapter 148: But respect did not mean approval
The sun remained high in the sky as time passed. Little by little, its light faded, sinking below the horizon, while the sky slowly began to darken. The clouds, distorted into strange shapes, moved along, carried by the wind.
The birds that had been flying through the air scattered in flocks. One after another, they returned to their nests, hiding deep in the trees, knowing that darkness brought with it nocturnal predators. Those creatures eagerly awaited the arrival of night, with the cruel patience of hunters who never know rest.
Under the changing sky, the River of Blood stretched out like an endless scar. Its waters, stained a deep red, flowed in furious currents that carried logs, palisades, and bitten corpses, the remains of animals.
Occasionally, bony fish would emerge from the depths, stalking and hunting unsuspecting birds that ventured too close to the surface.
On either side of the river stretched a thick, suffocating jungle full of hidden dangers. There, wild beasts reigned supreme, absolute rulers of those unexplored lands.
The air was saturated with a cacophony of strange sounds: distant roars, high-pitched screeches, the crunching of branches under invisible footsteps. Every sound that echoed through the thicket made the survivors of the pirate attack shudder with fear.
Everyone could feel it. Night was falling. And with it, the dangers that had gone unnoticed during the day now unfolded without mercy. It was then, when faced with the harshness of their surroundings, that the men remembered why the River of Blood was the most feared of the three rivers.
After two hours, darkness fell completely.
The sun, which had previously dominated the sky with pride, was replaced by a solitary moon, whose pale light was constantly obscured by the clouds moving across the sky.
Amidst this scene, the half-destroyed ship continued on its course. The turbulent waters of blood pushed it violently, as if they wanted to swallow it up at any moment.
On the deck, the survivors lit several torches, small flames flickering in the darkness, insignificant in the face of the vast and voracious danger of the night.
"Everyone, go to your rooms," Martha ordered with a serious expression. Her gaze swept over each of those present, observing how in recent days they had all regained, even if only a little, their spark of life.
She had witnessed extremes. Some had taken their own lives, while others, though tormented by despair, did not. Because deep down, they all feared death.
No one is born with the courage to surrender to it willingly. The survival instinct is the deepest root in the human heart: even the weakest, even the most miserable, cling to existence even if it is suffering.
Suicide, despite seeming like the easiest way out, was actually the most painful.
Poisons that tore at the insides with unbearable burning; ropes that tightened around the neck while the body fought desperately for one last breath; throwing oneself into the sea and feeling the water fill the lungs with relentless weight; or falling from a great height, with the certainty that every bone would be shattered.
They all shared one thing in common: horrible deaths, deaths without dignity, deaths that left pain as their last companion.
That’s why Martha, although she would never say it out loud, felt a certain respect for those who had had the determination to do it. It took a strong will, even a kind of twisted courage, to go against the most primitive instinct of every living being.
But respect did not mean approval.
In her eyes, those who killed themselves were simply people who gave up too soon.
Life, however miserable it might be, could always be transformed. A moment of suffering, however unbearable it might seem, could never compare to the possibility of living one more day, even if it was in chains. At least in life, there was still room to fight, to twist fate, to take advantage of any crack in the walls of the world.
Death, on the other hand, was the absolute end—the most cowardly of paths, disguised as bravery.
Martha thought:
As long as I breathe, I have one more card to play. Only a fool would bet his entire destiny on the very nothingness of death.
...
After a few minutes, the deck was completely deserted. Only four figures remained standing: Michel, Kael, Audrey, and Martha, the maid.
"My lady did everything she ordered me to do," said Martha, bowing slightly. Her eyes, however, moved discreetly toward Michel and Kael, watching them silently.
During those days, she had been watching them, looking for any clue, any hint that would reveal more than they appeared to be. She knew enough about Michel: he was the young heir to the Abraham family, a well-known name. But the one with black hair... he was a complete enigma. Not a rumor, not a clue, nothing. His silence and composure made him even more unfathomable.
Kael felt the maid’s inquisitive gaze, but he didn’t react. To him, that attention was nothing more than a distant murmur. His concentration was focused on his surroundings, where he sensed several presences approaching the ship. His voice cut through the silence like a sharp blade.
"Get ready."
He immediately drew the long sword his mother had given him for the Great Spring Tournament. In a cold, natural movement, he threw Michel another weapon: the sword of coins.
Michel took it with a hint of confusion and asked with some urgency:
"What’s happening now?"
Kael did not look away from the horizon. His tone was neutral, without the slightest fluctuation, but his words were full of weight.
"Do you remember the words of the captain of the sailboat?"
He added nothing more. Giving too many details was a risk he couldn’t afford to take; revealing too much could jeopardize his identity. And in this world, mismanaged information was a blade more deadly than any sword.
"..." Michel remained silent for a few seconds, until he remembered and spoke in a deep voice:
"The story of this river is not like the others. It is said that it was formed with the blood of a defeated god, slain by the Ancient Sun God in times that no one remembers anymore."
His words hung heavy in the air.
"That is why, when night falls, that blood still pulses," he continued. "The fallen, those who died in the name of that lost god, rise from the shadows. Their broken bodies wander through the mist, crawling aimlessly, murmuring forgotten prayers... still calling out to their lord."
After finishing speaking, Michel opened his eyes slightly and asked incredulously:
"Are you saying they’re real? I thought it was just a story to scare children."
"Yes," Kael replied simply, his voice firm and unadorned. His eyes fixed on the river, now shrouded in an unnatural silence, as if all life had been stifled in a single instant.
Audrey, who had remained silent all this time, drew a shiny rapier. The blade reflected the dim light while her red eyes flashed coldly. She did not doubt Kael. She did not need to. Her instincts screamed that his words were not mere warnings, but certainties.
Then it happened.
A thick, viscous black fog descended upon the ship like a funeral shroud, engulfing the deck in a matter of seconds. The air became heavy, difficult to breathe, as if the darkness itself were alive.
A blow resounded on the hull, dull and forceful. Then another, and another. The sound multiplied from both sides, as if countless deformed hands were striking in unison, demanding entry. Each impact made the ship’s planks vibrate, and it seemed to groan under the pressure.
Each of them circulated their mana essence, transforming this energy into an aura that covered their bodies and weapons, preparing themselves for what was to come.
Then they saw a hand clinging to the deck, slowly climbing up. The flesh was rotten, hanging in wet shreds, exposing the yellowish bone where hundreds of white worms writhed in a nauseating dance.
Soon, the rest of the body revealed itself: a moving corpse, an undead... to be more precise, a necrophage. Its black robe, worn and stained as if it had absorbed centuries of decay, fluttered in an invisible wind. On its chest, engraved in dead flesh and glowing with an unhealthy glow, was the symbol of a crescent moon.
Then...
A murmur arose from the fog, first as a muffled sound, then as a solemn, multiple chant. The necrophaluses began to advance, dragging broken limbs and open torsos, and from their throats sprang a single prayer, a litany that did not belong to the world of the living:
"Oh, Lord of the Eternal Night!
Make us your servants.
Make us your army.
Devour the light.
Raise your shadow."
The chant repeated itself, filling the fog with an unbearable weight. One by one, the necrophalcons began to climb onto the half-destroyed ship. Their bony fingers dug into the broken wood, their empty eyes shining with an unnatural glow.
The deck creaked under his rotten weight, while the ship, desecrated, seemed to become a floating altar of darkness.
The prayer did not cease, growing like an unbreakable sound that mingled with the roar of the river, as if the god of Eternal Night himself were listening from the depths of hell.