History

The handwriting on the paper was extremely messy, even somewhat distorted, a testament to the writer's extreme panic and haste when putting pen to paper:

【Captain: If you can still see this letter, it means the suppression in reality has failed. They could not be stopped.

Do not trust any unusual calm at the port; that is not the end. The real ritual has already begun behind this door.

Head to East Port immediately!!!

The Voyager must set sail again!

Otherwise, all of us will be left behind in this layer of Secret Histories forever, used as spare parts.

Furthermore, the power core has been frozen by extreme cold.

The Chief Engineer knows how to wake it with fire.】

There was no signature at the end of the letter, only a bloody palm print pressed hard into the paper. After thirty years, the bloodstains along the edges of the paper had turned into a sickening, blackish-brown color.

Ryan slowly put down the letter, the cold glow of The Glory flickering in his left eye behind his spectacles.

Simon and Alvin leaned in as well. After reading the contents of the letter, the three of them exchanged silent glances.

Alvin was the first to speak. Looking at his right hand, which had already lost some of its color and took on the dark, greenish-black sheen of pig iron, he said in a low voice, “The power core... The Chief Engineer mentioned in the letter must be referring to me.”

The moment the words left his mouth, a flood of memories was forcefully seared into his mind.

Scalding, overloaded steam; roaring steel pistons; massive brass flywheels spinning relentlessly like mountains... and a dark engine room located in the deepest depths of this colossal ship, almost fused with the flesh and blood of the vessel itself.

Alvin instinctively rubbed his throbbing temples, his voice deep. “I know the way. At least... the instincts of this body do.”

Ryan nodded, slipping the brass key into his coat. “Let's head over there first and get the core started.”

The three of them pushed open the heavy oak door of the captain's cabin.

The world outside remained as silent as death. A thick layer of lifeless ice and snow covered the deck, the rigging frozen as stiff as steel bars, and the massive sails hung rigidly.

There was no warmth in the towering smokestack. This place did not feel like a colossal flying ship ready to cut through the waves; it felt more like a steel tomb that had been dead for thirty years.

They walked all the way along the sloping deck toward the stern.

Along the way, they passed the officers' mess. The silver tableware on the table was still neatly arranged, the black liquid in the coffee cups frozen solid. In the kitchen's stove, the dark red embers remained eerily frozen in the final second before dying out, devoid of any heat.

They walked past the crew's quarters. Rows of hammocks and bunks were neatly made, yet entirely empty.

There were no signs of struggle, as if at that exact moment thirty years ago, everyone had evaporated from this ship into thin air in the very same second.

The further down they went, the colder it became. The extraordinary pollution of Winter turned into a fine white frost, creeping up their ankles.

Finally, they arrived at the engine room.

It was a labyrinth of brass and steel. A massive flywheel, dozens of feet high, stood quietly like a dead behemoth, and the thick steam pipes were completely sealed by inches of greyish-white ice.

Encasing the power core at the very center was a layer of extreme, freezing ice several meters thick.

Alvin only needed to glance at it before his inner nature instinctively drove him to walk over.

He reached out with his dark, greenish-black right hand and gently pressed it against the surface of the ice.

In an instant, wild, ancient memories poured into his consciousness like a bursting dam. He not only knew how to open the valve of every pipe, but also the exact location of every bolt and rivet on this extraordinary machine.

Alvin clenched his teeth tightly and took a deep breath. “Give me a moment.”

With that, he picked up a nearby heavy wrench and began adjusting the valves according to the occult knowledge in his mind.

Ryan and Simon did not idle either. Following the instructions in the letter, the two began to forcibly restore the order of "setting sail" upon this corpse-like vessel. Scattered nautical maps were laid out once more on the brass table, extinguished kerosene lamps were wiped and lit one by one, and the ice encrusting the frozen heavy helm was chipped away bit by bit with iron tools...

Throughout the entire process, no one spoke. Only the dull, grating sound of metal striking metal echoed continuously from the deepest depths of the ship.

Time trickled away in the freezing mist.

Suddenly.

From the deepest depths of the engine room, a metallic roar suddenly erupted, sounding like a waking behemoth!

Boom—!!

The massive brass hull shook violently.

Then came a second sound, and a third. The noises grew heavier and more powerful, accompanied by a dull, sucking sound!

Covered in black grease, Alvin poked his head out of the engine room's iron ladderway, panting as he shouted, “It's moving! The fire is lit!”

The moment the words left his mouth, the core, which had been frozen for thirty long years, finally began to turn slowly with a grating, teeth-gritting screech.

Crack. Crack—

The greyish-white ice covering the entire ship cracked and peeled away in massive sheets! Thick steam pipes hummed deeply, and a blinding, dark-red fire flared up once more in the depths of the dead smokestacks.

In the next second.

Boom————!!

Scalding, searing white steam shot into the sky like a sword, shattering the ice crystals clinging to the smokestacks and sending them flying in all directions. The Voyager opened its eyes once more amidst violent tremors.

And with the resurrection of the massive ship, blurry figures began to outline and solidify out of thin air on the previously empty deck.

One. Two. Ten. Dozens...

Sailors, first mates, and gunners appeared out of nowhere in every corner of the ship.

Yet, there was still no trace of living vitality on the entire vessel.

No one spoke, and no one greeted each other. Each person simply went about their tasks as if they had repeated the exact same actions countless times before.

Someone was mopping the deck with dull, lifeless eyes; someone else carried heavy barrels of tar with an expressionless face; another mechanically organized the ropes on the winch; and yet another stood on the highest crow's nest, gazing hollowly down at the sea.

They did not even realize they were dead. They had no physical bodies, nor any fluctuations of a soul. They still lived in that single day, like a phonograph playing on an infinite loop.

They were not ghosts.

They were that piece of history itself.

The steam whistle wailed.

The ship's bell began to chime the hours once more.

The frozen passage of history began to flow again at this very moment.

The Voyager was setting sail once more.

Simon and Alvin stared blankly at the absurd, deathly busy scene around them, momentarily unable to distinguish illusion from reality.

Ryan slowly adjusted his gold-rimmed spectacles. His fingers brushed against the edge of the frame, and the glow of The Glory deep within his left eye reflected the dense, tangled threads covering the entire colossal ship.