act17side

It thirsts for my mind. It tells me to liberate you, to talk to you, to listen to your thoughts.

Get off my ship before I kill the lot of you. Only by killing you can I maintain my sanity as a human—begone!

—We've paid an immense price just to get here. If you truly still are that Iberian hero, then you should join us!

...Think carefully, little Inquisitor.

I've been in a bitter struggle for my life on this ship for longer than my homeland has been at war. What could you possibly understand?

A single year of confinement can break a person's will. Do you have any idea how many years we've spent here, flirting with the waves?

Um...

Seven or eight years ago, I personally executed the last crew member and threw him into the sea. He died as a human. He was the last to.

We were Iberia's best sailors, warriors, and scientists, stalwart in our faith. The most common way to die aboard this ship... was suicide.

You can't imagine what I've been through. The left side of my body snatched away even my dreams. I no longer needed sleep. That itself was a form of torture.

And during this prolonged torture, I've had naught to do but hunt those monsters, large and small, and while away the remaining hours polishing my ship.

Leave me and my chief mate be, and return to where you came from.

I don't belong to you, or to the sea. I belong only to my Iberia. To the Stultifera Navis.

Gladiia stops walking.

While she contemplates why this place is so clean, she notices a change in the scent.

Seaborn. Of course there are Seaborn here.

But, what is the cause of this impure odor? And where did this vague premonition she is starting to feel come from?

She can only continue walking, following the path etched in the back of her mind, and attempt to reach the depths of the ship.

Suddenly, she comes to a stop.

...Don't you think you're being a bit too obtuse, appearing on this primitive transport vessel that hasn't docked in over sixty years?

Bishop of the Deep.

You saw through me immediately. Do you suppose that means I chose the wrong place to appear?

You followed us here.

Hardly. Strictly speaking, I was the one who arrived first.

The ocean communicates with me. It accepts me. It aids me. From the very beginning, coming to this ship was a trivial task.

That you've been able to suppress your urge to rush forward and slay me is already quite impressive.

Is it because you feel this ship is vital to your grand plans?

What are you after?

...You killed Quintus.

I should've known better. So even you test-tube watching bottomfeeders—pardon my language—will pursue vengeance?

No, you misunderstand.

Quintus was a bit too eager to attain results, and that temperament of his not only led to his demise, but also demonstrated conclusively that he was born human.

Not that that's something to be ashamed of. Under our doctrine, we will never become what we seek to be by thought alone.

'Only changes to nerve and sinew can be considered real.' Wouldn't you agree, Abyssal Hunter?

We don't need to be enemies. I have no plans to do anything to you.

One's end is decided at the moment of one's birth. Nothing can change this immutable fact.

You went through all the effort to follow us out to sea, just to spew this nonsense?

Ah, about that...

That's not something you need to know.

Those lowly creatures won't be able to hold me back.

Amaia smiles sweetly but does not answer. A blue light emerges from under her feet, and it soon envelops the entire corridor.

The 'nethersea brand.'

...The nethersea brand at Gran Faro. So those traps were your handiwork.

Hardly. You're all so quick to blame your every misfortune on the Church of the Deep, but never stop to consider the truth behind these phenomena.

These children have always existed in Gran Faro. I simply... found them.

Hmph, cut the crap.

We're out in the middle of the ocean. Our touch, invisible to the naked eye, is everywhere. This ship may not be of much use in your quest to return to Ægir.

But, must you really insist on returning? Have you never had the slightest inclination to... listen to what the Heralds have to say?

Seems you aren't too different from that stupid bishop after all. You've never even been in a real fight. Otherwise, you'd never say such an idiotic thing to a Hunter.

No. But not all Hunters take such pride in their arrogance.

We will meet again, Gladiia. You've disappointed me, but that's fine. Perhaps it's for the better that you have something to break out of.

Meaning?

But whether you come or go, or whether Ægir comes and goes, is not for me to decide.

You won't be leaving this conversation alive though?

Oh really?

(Earsplitting screech) —!!

Quintus should've had a Herald by his side. You've fought with that Herald. You've spoken with that Herald.

While you stagnate in place, the ocean is ever in motion.

Ægir is far from smart enough to curb evolution itself.

Hold it!

Gla-dia...

Such weak, pitiful prey that cannot even speak. More like a beast.

Hurry up and die. I still have a score to settle with that bishop. I need answers from her.

—Did you hear that, Chief Mate? Our quarry brays. It calls out to us.

The monster known as the chief mate nods slightly, and uses its claws to straighten the crown that's started to slip from its head.

It brays, it calls out to us— You brought yet more rabble with you?!

It must be Swordfish...

She must've discovered something. There's something unusual about the smell here, the sea breeze is confusing us.

Good thing these filthy Ægir haven't scared it away. We've already been romping around for months, and I'd hate to see my ship even more beat up.

By hunt... Do you mean you're hunting the Seaborn?

Seaborn? ... (Laughs huskily) Sure am.

Hunting to live off the bounty of the land—hasn't humanity done so since the dawn of time?

But if you still haven't left by the clock's next chime, you WILL die.

It's here.

(He led me here, and then covered his scent. Seems he's learned a handful of tricks from his time on land.)

Gladiia looks all around her.

She knows that someone once considered a friend is watching her closely.

But she does not hesitate, nor does she have the luxury to hesitate. She must retrieve the secrets of this ship as quickly as possible, and... return them to Ægir.

She wishes to return to her home. She wishes to offer it her aid, to avert calamity.

She looks at the key in her hands.

She swings open the door to the treasury.

Burning away all the nethersea brand is no small feat. I really ought to thank Kal'tsit and that jet-black creature of hers.

The nethersea brand was unable to devour this reef. How unfortunate.

Yet this is but one of myriad forms. You have not heard the prophecy, so you would not understand.

Prophecy? Do you think yourselves more than a band of refugees clinging to unknown lifeforms? What sort of future did you expect?

Our prophet is nothing like you. She never paints images of a false future, nor does she make promises she cannot fulfill.

She spoke thusly: that countless massive scales shall merge into one and fly into the vast expanse. That the ocean will be smeared with light, forever growing, never drying up.

That life and death will disappear and merge into a single entity. And at that time, even the false cosmos will be unable to eclipse the light of life.

We shall all live in that ecosystem. We are all part of its magnificent Cycle. Life is born, is given purpose, seeks worth, and disappears. Only for the cycle to begin anew.

Sounds a whole lot like the sort of elaborate hallucination that can be cooked up by Originium Arts.

Is pushing Iberia to its current precipice, and slaughtering millions of lives, also part of your magnificent Cycle?

What do you possibly know?! Our kind does not consider the death of an individual to be an 'end.' Even when a life ends, it remains part of the Cycle!

You are angry, you are restless, and above all you are only human, heretic.

...You won't take me alive, Inquisitor. I know all about your heinous Originium Arts. We're all prepared to make the greater sacrifice.

Our prophet will remain as out of reach to you as time itself slipping through your fingertips.

High Inquisitor! Everyone in Gran Faro has long held a grudge against you people! The Penal Battalion cannot approach this place, and you are alone!

There's nowhere for you to run!

...Run?

Did you think we came here to entertain your sophistry about good and evil?

*pant*... *pant*...