Void.
That was the only word that could describe the sensation now engulfing Charles. Not darkness, because darkness still implied the existence of space.
This was absolute emptiness!
Just moments ago, he had felt the tearing pain from the slash of the Nameless King, then a flash of purple lightning from within himself, and finally, a warm, blinding golden light.
Now, all of that had vanished.
No up or down, no sound, no smell, no touch. Only his consciousness hurled across an endless blank canvas, his body feeling pulled and squeezed by incomprehensible forces.
He saw impossible flashes of images: mountain peaks floating in a sea of stars, a city made of singing crystal, and gigantic eyes staring at him from behind the veil of reality.
He briefly thought that it was just a dream, or perhaps he hoped it was indeed a dream. After all, it had nothing to do with Teyvat.
Voices whispered in his ears in thousands of dead languages, telling tales of creation and destruction. Sensations of freezing cold and burning heat alternated enveloping his soul.
Am I being transferred to another world again? Charles muttered.
However, he felt this wasn't a teleportation; rather, a process of tearing and stitching back the fabric of existence, and he was the thread being pulled through it!
Then, as suddenly as it began, everything stopped.
The void was replaced by a brutal impact. His body, which felt formless, suddenly became solid again and slammed into something hard with a sickening 'CRACK!', followed by the sound of splintering wood.
For a moment, he felt nothing but shock.
Then, a tidal wave of suffering so immense it nearly drowned his consciousness once more. The pain came suddenly!
Damn it!!! Can't I be transferred to a softer place?! Charles sighed.
Slowly, his senses began to return, bringing with them a confusing assault of information.
The first thing he felt was the rough and sharp texture of wood piercing his back.
Then, the smell. A strong and foreign aroma filled his lungs: the sharp scent of salt, the sticky smell of tar, the damp odor of wood, and most dominantly, the rotten stench of fish and unwashed human sweat.
Next, the sounds. The rhythmic creak of wood rubbing together, the crash of waves hitting something nearby, the shrill cries of seabirds, and what made his heart pound the most, the rough and heavy laughter of several men close by.
With great effort, Charles opened his eyes. His vision was blurry, the world spinning around him.
He saw a massive white sheet billowing above him, flapping in the wind. He saw wooden masts towering high into the cloudless blue sky. He felt a constant swaying beneath his body.
He was on a ship. In the middle of a vast ocean!
A cold panic began to creep inside him, freezing his blood. Where are Furina and Arthur!? Have I been separated from them after that golden light engulfed us? Could the light have transferred us randomly, to different places? he thought, his concussed brain still struggling to process this impossible reality.
He tried to get up, but the stinging pain from the wound on his back—the wound from the king's attack, which now felt open and wet—forced him back down with a groan of agony.
"Hey, did you hear that?" a hoarse voice came from the forward deck, heavy with a strange and foreign accent.
"Just a rat, maybe. Or cargo shifting."
"No, I'm sure I heard something."
At that moment, the sound of heavy footsteps began approaching.
Damn it. I knew that noise would alert them to my presence! Charles knew he only had a few seconds. Fueled by pure adrenaline, he ignored the screaming pain throughout his body.
He began crawling, dragging his battered body across the rough wooden deck, leaving a trail of dark red blood behind him.
Every movement felt like reopening his wounds, his breath coming in ragged gasps, and black spots danced before his eyes again.
He saw a square hatch in the deck floor, a way down to the ship's hold.
That was his only hope!
With his remaining strength, he grabbed the metal ring on the hatch, his injured muscles screaming in protest. With one last desperate pull, he managed to lift the heavy hatch door, revealing the gaping darkness below.
Without thinking, he dropped himself inside, landing with a dull thud on a pile of sacks smelling of mildew, just as the hatch door slammed shut again, swallowing all light and sound from the outside world.
…
Furina awoke with a start, as if pulled out from deep, dark water. She sat up immediately, her breathing ragged, her lungs working hard to pump oxygen. Her right hand reflexively rubbed her eyes slowly, wiping away the remnants of sleep fog and perhaps dried tears from when she was unconscious. Her heterochromatic eyes, initially blurry and unfocused, suddenly opened wide, her pupils contracting as they took in the details of the world around her.
Instantly, she froze in place. Her body became an ice statue amid a sea of snow.
Her eyes widened, absorbing the strange yet oddly familiar scene assaulting her vision. Her breath caught in short bursts, her chest rising and falling rapidly, pumping blood racing with the adrenaline of fear. Her head turned in all directions—to the right, to the left, behind.
But all she saw were broken marble pillars, frozen aqueduct arches mid-flow, and the remnants of Art Deco buildings now buried under thick snow.
In the distance, she could see the skeleton of a building towering like a giant ghost—a structure she once knew as her stage.
At that moment, her body stepped back, her foot tripping over a snow mound, her instinct screaming that this was an illusion!
Then, she extended her trembling finger forward. She grasped at empty air, her fingers clutching the cold wind, trying to confirm that the texture of this air was real, that this cold wasn't an illusion, that she wasn't dreaming in a nightmare.
The air was real.
The cold bit into her skin.
The faint scent of frozen Lakelight Lily and the metallic smell of broken clockwork mechanisms greeted her sense of smell, a home aroma long lost.
After that, she let out a long sigh, causing her shoulders to slump. She closed her eyes for a moment, letting reality seep into her bones.
She opened her eyes again, looking around, and a warm certainty began to spread in her chest, fighting the cold air. She was in a snowy place, yes.
This wasn't Snezhnaya. Nor was it the Dragonspine mountains.
"I am in Fontaine," she said, her voice trembling between hysterical laughter and tearful sobs.
There was immense relief in her voice, but also deep sorrow as she saw her nation asleep in the embrace of ice.
She had returned to her ruined home, to her frozen kingdom.
But at least, she was home.
…
In the dark and stuffy ship's hold, Charles lay motionless, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The only light was a thin beam piercing through the cracks in the planks of the deck above, illuminating dancing dust particles in the heavy air.
The aroma here was more intense: the musty smell of rotting ropes, the sharp scent of unfamiliar spices, and strongest of all, the metallic tang of his own blood now pooling beneath him.
He could feel his consciousness fading, pulled by the pain and severe blood loss. No… I can't die here, he thought, a final spark of resistance igniting within him.
I have to meet Ei… I want to meet the Raiden Shogun!!!
With slow and painful movements, he tore a portion of his already tattered cloak. His teeth gritted against the pain as he twisted the fabric into a thick pad. Then, with held breath, he pressed the pad as hard as he could onto the wound on his back.
A stinging, burning pain exploded throughout his body, so intense he nearly screamed. He bit his lip until it bled to muffle his voice, his body spasming for a moment. Cold sweat soaked his entire body, and for several seconds, he felt he would faint.
However, slowly, he could feel the warm flow of blood beginning to slow. He had succeeded, for now.
He leaned against a large wooden crate, his breath still gasping, each inhale feeling like breathing fire. Now, after the immediate danger from his wound had subsided a bit, he could hear the voices from the deck above more clearly.
"...that ship from Inazuma should have sunk by now. No one will know we took it," said a voice.
At the mention of Inazuma, Charles's eyes suddenly widened, and he couldn't help but curl the corners of his lips slightly. Inazuma… it seems I can use this ship to sneak in there.
"Good. And what about that valuable cargo? Is she still alive?" asked another voice.
"Still. The captain said we have to keep her alive until we arrive at Liyue Harbor. The pay will be much higher if the cargo is intact and undamaged."
A hoarse laugh sounded. "Too bad. I wanted to play with her a bit."
Ronin, Charles thought, his sharp mind immediately connecting the dots. Their accents, the mention of Inazuma and Liyue, and the way they talk about violence.
It seems… these are hired ronin, who appear to be pirates operating between the two nations, perhaps? Anyway, they're carrying something, or more precisely, someone, they call "valuable cargo". Charles muttered, nodding several times.
Driven by curiosity and the instinct that he needed to know more, Charles began to move, sneaking deeper into the darkness of the ship's hold.
He moved from one shadow to another, his movements slow and careful, trying not to make the slightest sound.
He passed stacks of crates marked with Inazuma characters, fragrant silk sacks, and wooden barrels smelling of sake.
When he reached the foremost part of the hold, he heard something that made his blood freeze. A stifled sob. The sound of a woman.
He peeked from behind a large pile of fishing nets. There, in the darkest corner, was a makeshift cell made of wood and rusted iron.
Inside, huddled three human figures. A middle-aged man in luxurious but now torn and dirty merchant clothes. A woman hugging a little girl tightly, their faces pale as sheets and wet with tears.
They were civilians!
Seeing that scene, something inside Charles stirred. His cynical side screamed that this wasn't his business, that he should focus on surviving and escaping.
However, another side of him—one he thought had long died—felt a blazing anger. Anger at seeing the strong oppressing the weak, at seeing senseless cruelty.
As he still warred with himself, a cold and familiar blue light suddenly appeared before him, illuminating his tense face in the darkness.
Quest's name: "Screams in the Ship's Hold"
Category: Special Quest
Region: Liyue
Description: A group of ruthless ronin has hijacked a ship and captured an innocent merchant family. Fate has brought you here. You cannot turn away. Slaughter all the ronin on the ship. Free the captives. There is no punishment if the quest is ignored. Only shame for being a coward.
Charles stared at the notification screen, then shifted to the frightened faces of the family in the cell.
It had been a long time since he last saw a system notification. So when he saw that blue screen at this second, for some reason, he felt a little nostalgic. How long had he been trapped in the Abyss? He didn't know.
The punishment I get if I fail… this damn developer keeps watching me, no wonder he knows exactly how to manipulate me into acting.
Anyway, with the appearance of the notification now, there's one thing I can confirm about my guess.
At that moment, a cold and determined grin slowly etched onto his lips.
…
The sky above was like a pale white canvas stretching endlessly, cold and unempathetic.
Below it, lay a plain shrouded in an eternal blanket of snow, a frozen desert where life seemed to have long decided to go to sleep and never wake again.
Arthur lay there, his body forming a shallow indentation on the thick snow surface, like a statue fallen from the sky. His face turned toward the gray horizon, his eyes tightly shut, his brows furrowed as if battling a nightmare unwilling to release him.
The muscles around his eyes trembled violently. It felt easier to remain adrift in the darkness, where pain and memories of battle couldn't reach him. However, the instinct for life was a cruel and demanding master.
His eyelids cracked open slightly, just a thin slit, before closing quickly again as the weight of gravity and light hit him.
The white light reflected by the snow pierced his retinas like ice needles. He blinked slowly, his eyelashes heavy with ice crystals forming from his own breath vapor. His movements were stiff, his joints creaking like rusty old door hinges forced open after thousands of years.
Then, with one sharp and painful inhale, he managed to open his eyes fully.
His hand spontaneously rose, his trembling palm covering his forehead, trying to create a small shadow to protect his vision from the blinding white light assault.
"Where… is this?" he whispered, his voice hoarse and broken, as if his throat had been filled with sand and dust of time.
He looked left, then right. His brows immediately furrowed thinly, a map of confusion printed on his forehead.
The world around him had changed places in the blink of an eye!
One realization slowly crept into his frozen mind:
He had escaped. He had exited the Abyss!
Now, he was in a plain dominated by white and gray. The cold wind blew, carrying sharp snowflakes, slapping his cheeks mercilessly.
With stiff and slow movements, Arthur forced his body to rise. He sat, then stood unsteadily like a newborn deer.
He brushed off the snow piled on his dirty and torn shoulders, causing ice flakes to fall to the ground like sparkling glass dust under the cold sunlight.
"Wherever this is…," he muttered, white vapor escaping his mouth and vanishing in the wind.
Suddenly, his stomach contracted gently, his internal organs seeming to squeeze each other, emitting a soft rumbling sound that made him hold his breath in odd embarrassment, even though no one was there to hear it.
He swallowed empty saliva, his throat moving up and down with difficulty, hoping for any taste left in his mouth besides metal and bile.
"I need to find food," he decided, his voice sounding foreign to his own ears.
Arthur tightened his thin cloak, trying to protect himself from the increasingly strong wind. He then stepped forward, leaving that place, leaving a single footprint that would soon be covered again by the storm, walking toward the direction where the sun—or at least the light resembling it—seemed brightest.
…
Henri opened his eyelids that felt sticky, as if glued together for centuries while he slept in another dimension.
As soon as a small gap opened, the light that entered wasn't cold white light, but yellow, neon, and scorching sun mixed with pollution.
That light immediately struck his retinas mercilessly.
Henri's eyes widened instantly. His heart leaped in his chest cavity, slamming against his ribs hard. He blinked hard immediately, his vision shaking violently, trying to balance the painful contrast.
"Seriously?"
His voice sounded foreign to his own ears.
He blinked one last time, forcing lubricating tears to clean his eye lenses.
His eyes opened slowly, and the shadows began to take coherent shapes.
Shadows of people passing by appeared blurry before him, silhouettes in colorful clothes, moving at a dizzying speed. His breath caught in his throat.
Then, suddenly, the city's sounds assaulted him.
Not one sound, but millions. The roar of vehicle engines rumbling on asphalt roads, honks blaring with angry and impatient tones, the hum of electricity from billboards, conversations of thousands of people overlapping into one constant wave of noise, and faint music coming from roadside shops.
It was a symphony of unrhythmic chaos, a cacophony that should make one's head ache.
But at this moment, for Henri, it sounded like the most beautiful music ever created.
Henri looked around with jerky movements, his neck feeling stiff.
Skyscrapers towered high, their glass reflecting the scorching sunlight. The concrete sidewalk beneath his feet felt hard, solid, and flat. The choking smell of exhaust fumes, the aroma of burnt coffee from a nearby cafe, the stench of rotting garbage in narrow alleys, and the scent of cheap perfume from passing pedestrians—all assaulted his nose at once, flooding his brain with long-forgotten sensory information.
He stood in the middle of a busy sidewalk.
People walked past him, a flow of uncaring humanity. They were busy with their phones, their work bags, their precious little lives.
However, some of them noticed his presence.
Their gazes lingered on Henri a few seconds too long. Their eyes narrowed, their brows raised.
Why? Was it because of his strange, tattered clothes?
Was it because of the wounds that might still mark his face?
Or was it because of the foreign aura now clinging to him, the smell of death not yet fully gone from his skin?
Several heads turned simultaneously as Henri passed with dragging steps. A mother pulled her child closer, as if Henri were a contagious disease. A man in a suit glanced at him with disgust and suspicion, tightening his grip on his work bag.
Small whispers emerged among them, like hisses of snakes in concrete bushes. "Look at that guy…", "Why is he…", "Crazy person…".
Those whispers quickly vanished when Henri looked back.
When his weary eyes met theirs, those people immediately turned away, frightened by the depth and emptiness there.
But Henri didn't care about their judgments. He didn't care about the strange stares.
His trembling hand slowly rose to his face. His fingertips touched the frame of the glasses perched on his nose, an object that miraculously was still with him.
"I have..."
His voice broke. The dam in his eyes collapsed, no longer able to hold the bursting emotional weight.
Henri cried.
He removed his glasses with violently trembling hands, letting his vision blur with tears. He wiped his tears with his dirty sleeve, rough, and real.
"Home..."
He had returned to this boring and beautiful hell.
He had come home.
…
A/N: Finally, I can continue this trash story again. I will keep my promise and finish this story!
Btw, I'm still expecting comments!
If you want to read the 7 advanced chapters with a faster update frequency than the webnovel, you can read it on my patreon whose link is below:
https://www.pâtreon.com/Junxt
Replace "â" with "a" and search for it in your browser.