This planet is named Yasha.
At least, where I grew up – in Libélin – there are twelve months and four seasons: the Ardent Beginning, the Shifting Winds, the Sleeping Frost, and the Deep Waters.
We are currently in the year 487 of the Era of the Ashen Wheel, during the period of the Shifting Winds.
5 AM.
The Marshall Dock dispatcher's office was as stuffy as a windowless tin can.
My boss, Cyclops, confidently placed a briefcase on the table, opened it, and pushed it towards a portly, brutish-faced military officer at the other end of the furniture.
"We don't want to attract attention, and above all, we want to avoid any trouble with the army," Cyclops declared in Felagnian, with a strong Libélin accent.
"No risk. No one dares touch my ship." The officer pulled the briefcase towards him with one hand, took out a wad of cash, selected a few bills which he examined against the light to check the watermark, then flashed a satisfied smile that revealed large gold teeth.
"As for your equipment... I don't understand any of it, so I'll pretend I don't see it."
"And if anything were to happen, your men could intervene, couldn't they?" Cyclops insisted.
"Of course, everything is already registered." The officer abruptly pulled a pile of documents from a drawer, stamping them with a quick, forceful gesture. He then frantically typed on his computer. "No one will bother you during your activities in this maritime zone. You can signal me if needed."
With that, he grabbed his phone and began to rapidly give instructions in a language I didn't understand.
Cyclops, meanwhile, was carefully examining the pile of documents stamped with the red seal.
Marshall had been a Felagnian colony. Although its independence dated back several decades, those who truly controlled this port were neither the so-called government of the republic nor the patrols and coast guards mentioned in international conventions. Here, the law belonged to whoever had the most money, the sturdiest ship, the fastest gun.
Control of the port theoretically belonged to the local government, but in reality, it had long been in the hands of a few warlords and shipowners who took turns sharing it.
For a "documentary film crew" like ours, as long as one greased the right palms, not only could we set sail without a hitch, but we could even, if necessary, request a "security escort" – for an additional fee, of course.
The entire country maintained a facade of civilization: customs officers wore uniforms, police officers wore badges, documents were stamped, and every procedure had its counter. But behind these counters hid layers of structures that normal people would never wish to see with their own eyes.
Leaning against the doorframe, I yawned with boredom.
Outside, the day was just beginning to dawn.
A sea breeze carrying a pungent, salty smell blew from the loading area. I turned and saw that big oaf Cobra, half-sitting on an oil drum, fiddling with his necklace pendant. His other foot was drawing circles on the ground, his too-short pants revealing an avocado-patterned sock.
He was only nineteen. Only a few years had passed since a refugee ship had brought him from Tebiktai to Libélin. Seeing boats and the sea now couldn't be much fun for him.
"Cobra, why are you hiding over there? Aren't you coming?" I approached.
I was about to ask him "Are you okay?" when he suddenly looked up and gave me a wide smile: "Sphinx! On the boat later, I'm going to watch One Piece. Want to watch with me?"
"No."
"What about playing video games?"
"The network is terrible at sea, what do you want to play? You need to leave me the bandwidth so I can consult documents and do my analysis."
"Oh, then I'll play single-player games."
...Okay, fine, I had worried for nothing. This guy was probably a genuinely simple soul.
"Do you know what the island we're going to was called in ancient times?" I asked.
"If you tell me the Solomon Islands, I'll have a good laugh."
I took the tablet out of my bag, opened the digitized version of a 14th-century nautical chart, and pointed to a blurred area: "Les Champs Élysées - The Elysian Fields."
He looked surprised for a moment: "The luxury market in Libélin?"
I smiled: "You think you need to take a boat to get there?"
I tapped the screen and brought up a note: "In ancient mythology, it is the blessed land of the Underworld, which is called Les Champs Élysées in Libélin – only heroes and those chosen by the gods are allowed to enter."
"So why did it become a market now?" He frowned.
"It's just a name, I imagine. The original meaning was indeed 'the place of wandering souls.' Or, if you prefer, the haven of immortals."
He was silent for a moment: "So... a lot of people would want to die there?"
I murmured: "Yes. If they are followers of certain religions, they would probably be willing to bet their entire lives, just to go there after death."
"But I've never heard of this island," he said with a smile. "I guess these 'heroes' have also been forgotten by history."
I closed the tablet: "This time, we're not here to plunder their tombs."
"Not plundering tombs? So what are we plundering?" He raised an eyebrow.
"Cyclops found a hand-drawn treasure map in a prayer book. The place indicated is this island."
He whistled: "Alright, when the time comes, we'll all listen to the boss." Then he frowned again: "We're not going to turn the whole island into a sieve, are we?"
"That won't be necessary." I looked at the darkening sea horizon. "What is there, perhaps, is precisely because it cannot be taken away. We don't know why. We'll find out when we get there."
Cyclops came out of the dispatcher's office, handed me the stack of freshly approved documents, loaded a case of photographic equipment onto his own shoulder, and boarded the yacht without a backward glance.
Standing on the quay, I flipped through the documents.
My fingers instinctively turned to the personnel list page.
Anubis was also listed.
I stared at this name, silent for a moment, wanting to turn around and ask Cyclops where he was, but the old man had already disappeared onto the deck.
I sighed, had no choice but to stuff the file into my bag and call Cobra to follow me aboard.
Suddenly, the glow of my phone screen caught my attention.
It was a message from Aunt Charlotte: "My dear Sylvie, will you come spend your vacation at my place? The grapes are beautiful this year." She had attached a photo of herself, standing in front of her small village house, holding a huge bouquet of hydrangeas.
I replied quickly: "I'm not sure yet, I still have work right now. If I come back, it will probably be towards the end of the season. These hydrangeas are beautiful, I miss you very much."