Rothschild Islands were transformed into a nearly independent little world by external forces.
As the barrier rose, the dark blue-black fog obscured the sky, and the surging waves gradually subsided.
An armored ship moved slowly across an unprecedentedly calm sea. In the center of the bridge, the captain, adorned with gold and silver star-shaped ornaments, looked up behind him, where towering, empty walls made him appear extremely small.
Emilius Levitt could not comprehend how he had watched helplessly as the reorganized Zunya naval fleet he had brought was split in two by this sudden barrier.
Even worse, some unlucky escort ships, just as the barrier appeared, happened to be right in front of him on the boundary line separating the inside from the outside, and disappeared without a sound, leaving no trace of proof that they had ever existed.
"Your Excellency Mosen, I'm afraid we need to reconsider our next course of action."
Behind Emilius, the elderly archbishop did not, like most of the others on deck, sigh and lament over the mysterious, veil-like barrier.
The old man, with his gray hair, thin limbs, and slow movements, knelt before a depression, gently stroking the cold water accumulated in the tin with his wrinkled hands, and praying silently in a voice that was inaudible to others.
"General, you shouldn't be asking me this question."
The old man's voice was unlike the long robe he wore, embroidered with waves and lightning, which would have given people the stereotypical impression of him being irritable and reckless.
Like many other old men in the coastal region of Ruen who have lived their entire lives in fishing villages and made their living from the sea, he spoke slowly, like a broken bellows, or a snail.
"I am about to die. Since the Holy See has entrusted me with the task of expelling the fallen believers of the Creator from the Rothschild Islands, I must repay the trust that the Lord and the Holy See have placed in me with my life."
Emilius looked at the old man in front of him, who was said to have joined the Church of Storms at the end of the Roselle era and served as an archbishop for nearly a hundred years, and couldn't help but feel helpless.
Along the way, although the two shared the same faith, they did not have much communication due to differences in their living environments and upbringing, which led to ideological differences.
Every conversation was a difficult undertaking for Emilius.
Archbishop Mosen of the Church of Storms held stubbornly outdated ideas that were too antiquated even to conservatives like Emilius.
"Your Excellency, as we have both seen, neither artillery fire nor our own capabilities can shake this barrier in the slightest. I have reason to suspect that the angels of the cultists have secretly descended upon Rosde."
"That's why the natives and cultists above are so emboldened to commit all sorts of atrocities and attract more power from the kingdoms and churches."
Despite his reluctance, as the head of the Sonia Navy in Rune, Emilius had to consider his subordinates and his political standing to continue this futile and difficult conversation.
The Rothschild Islands are the kingdom's maritime lifeline. For this operation, the kingdom's government entrusted him with almost the entire fleet stationed in Central Sonia. If anything unexpected happens, the newly formed ironclad fleet will be defeated without cause, rather than sinking on the battlefield with Trensust.
He couldn't imagine what kind of accountability he would face.
Faced with an absolute disparity in strength and a conspiracy that no one could have foreseen, failure is permissible, but incompetence is not.
At least, at least we must preserve the fleet… Emilius glanced out of the corner of his eye at the dark blue that separated the sky.
The existence of the barrier speaks volumes. Even if Rothschild falls, the main problem will still fall on the governor and "Sea King" who are guarding Rothschild.
After pondering for a long time without receiving a reply, Emilius frowned slightly and had no choice but to select the most moderate sentence from his prepared draft.
"Your Excellency Mosen, whatever your thoughts, a fleet without supply support can no longer break through the blockade established by the rebellious natives and cultists around Blue Mountain Island."
"Even if we move towards Bayam, it's hard to say whether the island's reserves will still be sufficient to supply the fleet after such a long period of fighting the rioters."
"I think that if we want to send support to Bayam in a timely manner as you envision, as planned, we will need to rely on some external forces."
The ordinary-looking admiral breathed a sigh of relief, his azure eyes suddenly piercing the bag that Archbishop Mosen had slung across his shoulder, bulging and full.
"For example, the sealed artifact you are carrying."
The general's blunt remarks were even more explicit than the seductive flattery of the libertine Intis, making the elderly archbishop very uncomfortable.
Fortunately, he had aged, and the long years had eventually smoothed out the Storm Cultists' usual bad temper, turning the once sharp-edged Mosen into a kind-hearted gentleman like Lurmi, only lacking a bit of pedantry.
So when Mosen spoke, his speech was still slow and his tone was soft.
"I have no right to decide what to do next, Levitt."
"I am only responsible for using the sealed artifact and handing it over to Arn when the time is right, and then I will fight my last battle to bring my life to a perfect end."
"You are even more rigid than I expected, hardly like a servant of the Lord of Storms."
Emilius said coldly after his bottom line was rejected.
He tore off the mask of pretense, relying on the confidence in his royal decree, thinking that at worst he would just linger on the very edge of the battlefield, determined to ignore the annoying old man before him.
"Kid, you can say whatever you want to say that might annoy people."
After repeatedly avoiding the issue, the restless Mossen was finally provoked by the general's words.
He got up from the ground, still holding the water in his hands, his murky green eyes seeming to hold a storm brewing.
"I do not agree with your proposal because you do not have the same courage as me, nor are you loyal enough, whether to the Augustan royal family or to the Lord you profess faith in."
The still water in his hand rippled, and the eddy current expanded little by little, dancing in the old man's palm, transforming into the image of a castrato choir, unique to the old era, seeking the spirituality of the sea and wind in the moist air.
"You spineless, worthless bastard, all you can think about is how to keep your position and shift the blame onto your colleagues..."
"That's why Bayam has ended up in this situation today."
The water spirits found a clue. Archbishop Mosen moved his feet, using one hand to maintain the water flow that served as a compass, and the other hand to untie the package on his shoulder, revealing a secret box made of black iron inside.
He placed the box on the deck and chanted incantations woven in ancient Hermes to break the seal.
As a heavy click came from inside the black box, one side of the box suddenly opened, and dappled moonlight spilled across the entire deck.
It was a miniature moon, a moon that looked remarkably like a heart.
Archbishop Mosen held the heart in his hand and cast a disdainful glance at Emilius, who instinctively assumed a defensive stance.
"If you're right, and an angel of a fallen creator has indeed descended upon Bayam, what makes you think that one more level-one sealed artifact will help you and your fleet leave safely?"
The old man's withered fingers clawed at the moon-shaped heart until it bled.
The crimson liquid flowed over the deep wrinkles, washing away the traces of time. In Emilius's astonished gaze, the white-haired Mosen transformed from a frail old man into a middle-aged man who was just beginning to show signs of aging.
He had returned to his restless years, his muscles bulging beneath his robes brimming with seemingly inexhaustible power.
"1-056, spoils of the Battle of Tarachin," Mosen said in a deep, powerful voice. "Its sole purpose is to fill the user with spirituality."
"And its only side effect is to hasten the user's death, calculated in terms of the spiritual energy consumed and the time spent using it."
The water flow that Mosen was guiding with in his palm suddenly collapsed, like a baby antelope startled by a lion.
The people on the deck, along with the crew of the surrounding frigates, all screamed in unison, pointing fearfully into the distance, speechless.
Even Emilius, the demigod known as the "Weaver of Laws" and the admiral of this fleet, couldn't help but show fear and a more determined intention to retreat when that thing erupted in the distance.
Between the jungles along the coast of Bayam and Blue Mountain Island, a storm carrying the scenery of the spirit world is raging across the land.
The blood-soaked thicket of thorns clashed with the silvery-white thorns that stretched up to the sky, thunder clashing against desire.
Pure natural energy slays the dense purplish-black beasts in the air. The tree trunks, already corrupted by the decay, have become as soft as flesh and blood, intertwined and tangled together. Their outer layers, stained with blood-red brown, throb and vibrate rhythmically like drumbeats. With each beat, a large amount of viscous fluid is squeezed out of the tree trunks.
These purplish-black semi-solids rapidly coalesced, transforming into demons of various shapes, and then joined the swarm of insect-like beasts in the sky at top speed.
The instigators of all this, "Blood Admiral" Señor and his crew and servants, had long since become the initial nourishment for the "Demon Womb," and their remaining body structures were stitched together indistinguishably under the distortion of pollution.
A giant corpse puppet with the face of Señor staggered through the jungle, each roar enough to tear the souls of ordinary people apart.
The "Disaster Priest" trait grants Mosen powerful visual abilities, allowing him to see the disaster unfolding on the edge of the island, while Emilius can also make out the general outline.
The "weaver," whose expression usually held an air of unyielding authority that brooked no refusal or argument, now showed a rare display of panic, her cheeks twitching.
"It seems we are facing more than just one evil god."
Emilius admired Morson, admiring that this devout believer could speak calmly and composed even in such a situation.
He knew what the barrier behind him was meant to block, and he also knew that the possibility of retreating was almost zero.
The best course of action right now is undoubtedly to remain in this still safe sea area, behind the barrier, and wait for the situation in the central battlefield to become clear.
At that time, whether it was a victory at Trensost, the "Rose School" dragging most of Blue Mountain Island down with them, or the least likely scenario where "Sea King" Arne Coltman and a group of mortals maintained the situation, the Central Sonia Fleet was able to avoid the vast majority of losses and face the final outcome in the most intact form.
"Let's gamble on whether the angel who lowered the barrier will die in the chaos..." Emilius's slightly drooping lips twisted into an awkward smile.
He felt helpless about his delusional fantasies.
"Bishop, do you wish to continue?"
Now that things have come to this, Emilius has no choice but to consult with more experienced seniors around him.
Mosen glanced at him, then answered with his actions.
The sea surface suddenly became completely still, lasting only two seconds. The natural phenomenon, which had been stagnant due to the barrier separating the inside from the outside, returned to normal in this relatively small area of sea around the fleet, which was much smaller than the entire coastline of Rothschild.
A giant, symbolizing the winds of nature, blows his horn, and with a deafening roar, the sails of the ships billow once more.
While other ships lost power due to the disappearance of wind, the remaining ships of the Middle Sonia fleet regained speed and headed towards Bayam at full speed.
The exhausted Morson floats in mid-air, remaining relatively still with respect to the deck below.
He knew that the appearance of another evil god and a strange barrier had terrified the majority of ordinary sailors on board.
But this is not the reason why he could allow the fleet to evade battle.
Does the mere display of terror by evil gods force them to retreat and relinquish the land that bears the banner of God and is ruled in God's name?
There wasn't enough time left for him to give a pre-battle pep talk, so he had to push the soldiers toward death. Only in the face of death would they muster the courage to fight for survival.
Fortunately, Emilius did not object; he gave his final opinion through silence…
Thinking of this, Mosen couldn't help but sigh.
Even though the idea was blasphemous, even though it was based on the pain he had personally experienced, he still couldn't find a suitable reason to refute it.
If, if the kingdom's soldiers could possess the courage to charge towards angels like the cultists of Trensost who worshipped a fallen creator, perhaps many defeats would not have occurred.
Thump.
As he pondered, the moon-shaped heart trembled violently, and more blood overflowed from his flesh, pouring onto the palm holding it and flowing down through Mosen's fingers.
The Archbishop of Storms has grown even younger.
...
The pain was excruciating, almost indescribable.
Klein, dressed in an emperor's robe and wielding a long, bone-white scepter, stepped out of the spirit world.
For reasons unknown, the moment he raised the "Cataclysmic" scepter, his physical body and spirit merged in the depths of the archipelago.
He is now complete in body and spirit, yet possesses two different characteristics simultaneously.
He can continue to travel through the spirit world, but he will also bleed from injuries. His body is moving closer to the original form of the "Sea God" worshipped by the Rosd people and the sea spirits, and the old illusions projected by the "Catastrophe". Cracks caused by the overload fill every part of his skin.
With his face hidden in the shadows, Klein, wearing a crown, returned to reality, looked around, and found himself standing in an alley near the Black Harbor docks.
He subconsciously looked at the puddles on the ground, and in the pool of water that vibrated in sync with the distant cannon fire, a face pierced by deep blue cracks could not be steadily displayed.
Klein knew that he probably didn't have much time left.
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