Chapter 90: Winds of Change
Nearly half a month passed after their last conversation.
Life aboard the Midsummer settled into a steady routine. Charles rose early each day, washed up, and ate breakfast, then spent his mornings reading the books available on the ship while quietly studying his status panel and newly acquired abilities.
If the weather was pleasant, he would head out in the afternoon to bask in the sun and gaze at the sea. Otherwise, he would take a book on marine life into the galley and compare its descriptions with the day's catch.
Boredom eventually drove him to learn fishing from an old sailor aboard the ship. The results were surprisingly good—two days ago he even reeled in a purple-eyed striped fish unique to the Poison Dragon Sea.
The fish tasted vaguely like mango. Not particularly delicious, but novel.
He cooked it himself. After one bite, the entire fish went straight into the trash.
Too much salt.
…
During these leisurely days, Charles would occasionally chat with Connie. She didn't appear every day—more like once every few days—but each conversation benefited him greatly, helping stabilize his still-unsteady foundations.
Whether she was genuinely naïve or simply felt that certain knowledge wasn't worth hiding, she answered almost every question he asked, save for a few sensitive ones.
Unfortunately, there was only so much she knew. After being questioned repeatedly, she had nearly been "emptied out" of useful information.
Compared to Connie, Zachary appeared even less frequently. Aside from the moments when he plucked a few strands of Charles's hair, he was almost never seen on deck.
According to Connie, he was preparing some powerful divine ritual.
What kind of miracle required nearly a month of preparation?
Charles didn't know—but he was eager to find out. It would give him a glimpse into the upper tiers of power in this world.
…
At first, the repetitive days felt relaxing. Over time, however, boredom crept in.
Charles had considered entering the Traversal Gate, but since he couldn't fully grasp Zachary's methods, he didn't dare act rashly. Using hair to track a target across vast distances already felt uncanny—who knew what might happen if the Gate appeared mid-ritual?
Still, there was no urgent matter pressing him forward.
In the ASOIAF world, another long journey phase had begun. In the main world, his household required no attention either.
With the master away, the servants had been given an extended leave. Annie had been entrusted to a kind-hearted nun from the church, someone who genuinely loved children—a fact Charles could clearly see with his Eye of Reality.
The little angel hovering above Annie's forehead had yet to dissipate. For now, her condition required no concern.
This only deepened Charles's curiosity. What exactly were church spells? Creating legendary beings with a casual gesture was already astonishing—yet there seemed to be no visible cost at all.
Sadly, while Connie was open about many things, she would only shake her head when it came to magic.
"The church is very strict about that. I'm sorry," she had said.
Charles understood.
At times, the Thorn Church was gentle toward its own people—but that gentleness existed within a rigid hierarchy.
Back in Pita City, Priest Worsie had always appeared warm and approachable, yet his instructions allowed no refusal.
The church valued order above all else. Though the boundaries between ranks seemed loose, the discipline beneath was uncompromising.
And in matters of hierarchy, every level was clearly defined.
"The only problem is how long it takes to climb upward…"
Days on the open sea passed one after another. Finally, two full months after their departure, they found their target.
…
New Calendar Year 1835, July 1st.
Still half-asleep, Charles was jolted awake by an excited shout, followed by a rising clamor.
He sprang out of bed, listened carefully for a moment, then hurriedly dressed and stepped outside.
Once on deck, the muffled sounds became clear.
"We caught up—caught up!"
"Finally! Hahaha!"
"Two whole months…"
Peering out from the cabin entrance, Charles saw sailors leaping and cheering under the lamplight.
Inside the captain's cabin, the Midsummer's captain laughed loudly as he steered. Beside him stood Zachary, silently gazing toward the distant horizon.
There, beneath the moonlight, a dark speck—an island-shaped silhouette—could just be made out.
"Closer," Zachary said calmly.
The captain ordered the helmsman and crew to push the engines harder. Sails that were rarely used were hauled tight, billowing as black smoke poured from the stacks. The steamship surged forward, and the tiny black speck on the horizon gradually became clearer.
What came into view was an island blanketed in dense rainforest. In the predawn darkness it appeared almost entirely black, faintly mottled with strange flecks of green light.
At first glance, the island seemed perfectly ordinary—silent, lifeless except for vegetation. Yet Zachary stared at it with unmistakable certainty. One by one, arcane sigil-chains lit up across his body, white radiance piercing through his clothing and standing out starkly against the night.
As the ship drew closer, the island visibly grew in size. Connie, still looking drowsy, emerged from below deck. Seeing Zachary in that state, she didn't dare disturb him, instead walking over to Charles with curiosity.
"Did we catch up to the target?" she asked.
"Looks like it," Charles replied, leaning against the railing and gazing toward the island.
The priest seemed absolutely certain, though Charles couldn't tell what made the island special. Why was Zachary going to such lengths to pursue a royal-born necromancer?
Charles didn't know—and Connie didn't either.
---
The Midsummer did not approach too closely. At Zachary's glowing signal, the ship slowed to a halt. He removed his gray coat, revealing a white shirt and black trousers beneath, wrapped in brilliant light as he strode to the bow.
"He's about to cast a spell," Charles murmured, eyes locked on him.
Everyone still on deck was transfixed. Moments later, many were forced to shield their eyes.
Facing the island, Zachary closed his eyes and clasped his hands in prayer. The soft glow surrounding him suddenly exploded outward, erupting into blinding white light with no warning or buildup. Those watching instinctively turned away.
Within the glare, Charles could just make out the countless sigil-chains peeling away from Zachary's body, spiraling around him. A muffled boom followed—and then the light detonated, blasting straight into the sky.
The sea and deck were flooded with brilliance, every face illuminated as if under a spotlight.
A violent wind swept across the ship. One scrawny sailor clung desperately to the railing; others scrambled to anchor themselves. Even so, no one looked away.
Zachary had become a figure of pure light, encased in a towering beam. Such a sight was beyond rare.
Charles hooked his arms through the railing, hair whipped back by the gale, eyes stinging—but he refused to look away.
The column of light pierced the clouds above, illuminating the sea. The gray cloud cover churned violently, and then something impossible happened.
The clouds were forced apart. A majestic, sacred sound echoed from above. Golden light spilled forth as the vague outline of a cathedral emerged in the sky.
"That's… Heaven?" someone whispered.
No one answered. All stood frozen.
Sailors who worshipped the Lord of Thorns began murmuring prayers—only to fall silent as the wind tore their words away.
Charles didn't pray. He watched, anticipation burning in his eyes.
The cathedral image solidified—and then, from within it, a stone angel statue came to life, beating its wings as it descended.
The angel was tall and beautiful, clad in white robes, three wings unfurling behind its back. The holy resonance intensified.
Majestic. Solemn. Overwhelmingly sacred.
The distant island could not possibly ignore this. It immediately began moving across the sea. Yet neither the angel nor Zachary appeared concerned.
What happens next? Charles wondered.
A devastating beam? A colossal sword from the heavens?
The truth was just as spectacular—yet entirely different.
The giant angel calmly reached behind itself and pulled out… a camera.
An old-fashioned, boxy camera.
Before anyone could react, the angel adjusted its aim, tracking the fleeing island, and pressed the shutter.
Click.
The world was drowned in white.
The brightness eclipsed even midday sun. Ship and island alike were revealed as if under daylight.
Charles instinctively shut his eyes. When he opened them again, Heaven and the angel were gone.
The light faded. Clouds closed overhead. Zachary's glow dimmed.
The island had vanished.
Sea water rushed inward, forming a massive whirlpool.
Only a single black-and-white photograph drifted down like a feather, landing gently in Zachary's hand.
"…That's it?" Charles muttered.
"Yes," Connie replied beside him, tidying her wind-tossed hair. "Impressive, right?"
"I thought angels smote things," Charles said dryly. "With swords. Or divine annihilation."
"Heaven keeps up with the times," Connie said, trying to sound worldly—though her expression betrayed equal surprise.
---
Zachary studied the photograph, then snapped his fingers. Pale white fire ignited at his fingertips and spread across the photo.
It burned from the edges inward—curling, warping—until ash remained.
Then, impossibly, a human figure fell from the remnants.
A blood-soaked man slammed onto the deck.
Zachary smiled gently. "Phoenix. I knew you wouldn't die so easily."
"You church bastard!" Phoenix snarled. "You just killed nearly five hundred of my people!"
Zachary sighed, raising a hand—
But Phoenix suddenly grinned.
His body expanded grotesquely, then exploded into thick gray mist, spraying viscera and bone fragments across the deck. The corrosive fog engulfed everything, sailors screaming as wood hissed and rotted beneath it.
"You opened the Twisted Rift?!" Zachary roared. "Damn you—how dare the royal family!"
White light erupted once more, sweeping the fog away in seconds.
But two figures were gone.
Connie.
And Charles.