Chapter Fifteen - Departure, Landfall
Reynard left the ship soon after he learned of Delvane's destruction.
Before he departed, he offered Nemo and Lews a faint smile, though his eyes carried the weight of centuries.
"My thanks for the ride," he said, bowing his head. "Forgive my abrupt departure. If the Dao wills it… we shall meet again."
Without another word, he vaulted over the railing.
For a moment it seemed he would vanish into the depths below—but before his feet touched the waves, a surge of crimson essence shimmered beneath him. The sea rippled and froze into footing, and Reynard strode across it with effortless grace.
Each step left behind a faint glow of BloodWater Essence, a trail of red and frost that marked his passage until the night swallowed him whole.
The ship sailed on toward port, but both Nemo and Lews knew their journey had already changed.
…
The ocean stretched endless and cold beneath the stars, yet Reynard moved across it as though it were paved stone. Each step pressed ripples into the surface, his BloodWater Essence weaving faint patterns of frost and crimson in his wake.
He did not hurry. His stride was calm, steady—like a man walking toward fate.
By the time dawn broke, the horizon ahead was touched with gold. A thin line of land rose out of the sea, cliffs and forests crowned by the first light of day. Reynard paused only briefly, gazing toward it, and a shadow of emotion flickered in his amber eyes.
Closer to shore, a small fishing boat bobbed on the waves. A boy no older than fifteen tugged at a net while his father steadied the lines. They were weary from the long night, but when the boy looked up, his eyes went wide.
"Father—look!" he cried, pointing.
For an instant, they both saw him: a lone figure striding across the water, his robe fluttering, each step scattering frost that melted as soon as it touched the tide.
But in the blink of an eye, he was gone. The waves rolled empty once more.
The boy rubbed his eyes. "Did… did you see him?"
His father's weathered face tightened. He stared at the water, uncertain. "Perhaps it was the sea playing tricks."
Neither spoke again of it, but both carried the image in silence as the fishing boat turned back toward shore.
Meanwhile, Reynard's figure had already vanished into the mist, approaching land with the steady rhythm of destiny.
….
Reynard's feet touched solid ground with the calm certainty of one returning home. He inhaled deeply, filling his chest with the scent of the earth. It had been more than a century since he had last walked these lands, yet the rhythm of the soil and wind was still familiar.
He set his course toward Delvane.
The journey was long. Months passed as he traveled across kingdoms and wild frontiers, his pace steady, unhurried. He kept to the old roads when he could, though most had fallen into ruin. Now and then he passed villages where rumor still spoke of the BloodWater Martial King. He never lingered.
At last, the horizon darkened.
The terrain ahead stretched out in a wasteland of ash and ruin. Forests were nothing but blackened husks, their trunks twisted and brittle. Rivers ran sluggish and dark, carrying a bitter stench. Poison miasma rose from the soil like smoke, curling through the air and stinging the eyes.
Yet amidst the corruption, Reynard noticed something strange—patches of untouched land. Green valleys that seemed almost defiant, standing against the tide of death. He stopped, watching them from afar. Something in the pattern felt… deliberate.
To see more clearly, Reynard ascended the tallest mountain in the region. His steps left frost along the stones, his breath steady even in the thinning air. From the summit, he looked down upon Delvane.
The devastation stretched endlessly. Yet still, he could not fully grasp it. There was something about the scale, the shape of it, that eluded even his Emperor's perception.
"You won't see it from here," came a voice, rough but calm.
Reynard turned sharply. A man sat cross-legged beneath a crooked pine, his hair white and tangled, his robe little more than rags. A hermit, weathered as the mountain itself. His eyes, however, burned with clarity.
"The land itself remembers," the hermit said. He gestured toward the poisoned plain below. "The Blood Rain fell for seven days and seven nights. Each drop burned through earth and flesh alike. And when it ceased… the Lotus Bloom appeared. A scar carved into the soil, shaped by the poison storm."
Reynard's gaze sharpened. "A lotus… burned into the land?"
The hermit nodded. "Black petals across the fields, a root that runs deep into the veins of the earth. The bloom does not fade. It drinks the world dry, and in return, it spreads miasma across Delvane."
The old man's voice dropped to a whisper. "That is the mark of the Black Lotus. Not rumor. Truth."