Setting Sail

It was a boundless, endless gloom.

Ryan had no idea how long he had been falling through this conceptual abyss.

There was no wind, no sound. The extraordinary pull had even stripped away his perception of his physical body and time.

He was like a smudge of ink on a black canvas, gradually dissolving.

Until—

Thump.

A heavy, coarse, and incredibly resilient heartbeat suddenly echoed deep within the void.

Thump—

A second beat. Then a third.

The sound was filled with the most tenacious rhythm of life from the mortal world, unyielding and relentless, carving a gap right through the freezing void. It was the first beat of a war drum, struck as the entire ruin of history began to turn once more.

Accompanying this thunderous heartbeat, pale cracks spread through the darkness like a spiderweb.

...

“Haaah—!!”

Simon snapped his eyes open, his chest heaving violently.

His heart was beating at an unprecedented, frantic speed. With every pump of blood, it felt as though a heavy hammer was violently striking an invisible leather drum.

Thump, thump, thump.

The residual power of the 【Heart】 aspect rippled through the air. With every beat of his heart, the surrounding air began to slowly flow. The frozen snowflakes on the deck rustled and drifted down once more, and the dense fog in the distance, which had been stagnant for years, began to roll again.

This dead relic of history was forcibly injected with the pulse of reality by this stubborn heart.

Simon pushed himself up, his body cold and wet.

An unfamiliar, musty atmosphere rushed over him. Beneath his feet was a layer of wooden deck that felt mushy and sticky when stepped on.

Thick hemp ropes wound around a rough mast, and countless rusted brass rivets covered the entire hull. In the air, the choking stench of coal smoke, the bitterness of rust, and the smell of rotting seawater clung tightly to one another.

This was not the East Port pier.

This was a ship. A brass and steel colossus so massive it practically blocked out the sky, resembling a floating city.

Just as Simon was about to stand up, he suddenly noticed two people lying in the shadows by his feet.

“Ryan! Alvin!”

He practically scrambled over on all fours, shaking their shoulders violently.

Alvin was the first to let out a painful groan. Rubbing his temples, he slowly opened his eyes.

“This is...” Alvin stared blankly up at the colossal smokestack towering into the clouds, spewing illusory black smoke. He instinctively sensed the terror of this mechanical behemoth, and for a moment, he was entirely lost for words.

Simon had no time to explain. He turned and slapped Ryan's cheeks repeatedly. “Wake up! Ryan!”

A few seconds later, Ryan slowly opened his eyes.

However, the instant the glow in his left eye lit up, countless unbidden, cold, and blind images rushed frantically into the depths of his consciousness like a bursting dam.

It was a thirty-year-old past that did not belong to him.

Deafening steam whistles, towering pale waves, frantically grinding brass gears, and giant engines roaring in the shadows...

And the name of this ship.

【The Voyager】.

A vast amount of historical detail seared into his mind like a red-hot iron. Ryan closed his eyes in pain, and it took him a full dozen seconds to forcibly suppress the chaotic flood of memories.

He slowly stood up.

When he looked down to inspect himself, his pupils suddenly contracted—the casual clothes from the Black Archive he had been wearing were completely gone.

In its place was an exquisitely crafted, almost old-fashioned deep blue woolen captain's uniform.

Dull gold trim lined his epaulets, a brass badge engraved with a lantern was pinned to his chest, and a brass ceremonial sword hung heavily at his waist.

Even his originally plain glasses had been replaced by a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles with a more delicate frame, reflecting a cold, intellectual light.

History had completed its stitching.

Alvin looked up at him, his voice dry. “Ryan...?”

Ryan didn't answer immediately. He gently pressed his forehead with a white-gloved hand.

The Voyager. Captain.

At this moment, he even had the illusion that he hadn't transmigrated at all—that he had always been the master of this massive ship that had died thirty years ago.

Simon keenly sensed the change in Ryan and couldn't help but take a step forward. “What's wrong?”

Ryan remained silent for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was raspy and deep. “I... think I know where we are.”

“We are inside the gate. This is the Secret Histories, another layer of history.”

He slowly raised his head, the glow in his left eye sweeping across the shadows of the colossal ship.

“This is the Voyager, which failed its ascension thirty years ago.”

“And I... am the captain of this ship.”

Simon and Alvin froze simultaneously.

Before they could even process this, a steam whistle suddenly echoed from deep within the fog-shrouded vessel.

Woooo—

The sound was low and deathly quiet, carrying an unearthly metallic vibration. Crossing thirty years of dust, it announced its return to the living of the present world.

Ryan instinctively looked toward the locked captain's cabin on the upper deck.

There, a dim kerosene lamp burned quietly behind the dusty glass.

The door, half-open in the sea breeze, creaked heavily, as if waiting for the helmsman who had departed years ago.

Ryan tightly gripped the hilt of the sword at his waist and took a deep breath.

“Let's go inside first. Since 'it' has put us in our places, there must be a clue to break this situation inside.”

Stepping onto the thick wooden deck that creaked beneath their feet, the three of them walked step by step toward that fated captain's cabin amidst a silent flurry of white moths.

Pushing the door open, a pungent scent of old parchment mixed with cedarwood preservative rushed out at them.

The furnishings in the room were perfectly neat. A yellowed nautical map was held down by a brass paperweight, the needle of a brass compass spun erratically, and a marine clock on the wall let out a monotonous ticking sound.

And right in the center of the desk lay a thick ledger bound in deep blue leather.

It was the only thing untouched by dust. In the center of the leather, dark gold, recessed lettering shimmered under the oil lamp:

《The Log of the Voyager》

Beside the logbook's cover, two other items were laid out—an ancient, twisted brass key with wave-like patterns.

And an unopened letter from a dead man, sealed with wax.

The envelope was scorched yellow, with only a single line written in pitch-black ink:

—To be opened by the Captain.

Ryan stood before the desk, his gaze falling upon the unopened letter.

The envelope was slightly yellowed, its edges even somewhat brittle, but the crimson wax seal remained perfectly intact.

In the center of the seal was an unfamiliar emblem—a brass lantern surrounded by countless moths.

Ryan did not hesitate. Applying a slight pressure with his fingers, he broke the seal.

Inside was only a single sheet of rough parchment.