Western Sonia Sea, Bansy Island.
It was afternoon when a thick fog suddenly rolled in around the island without warning, shrouding the entire landmass in a hazy blur. Only the peak at the island's center poked faintly through the white mist.
This island had always been known for its violent shifts in weather, frequently visited by dense fog, storms, rain, and snow, which had earned it the nickname the Weather Museum.
The islanders had long since grown accustomed to such shifts in climate, and following their long-held customs, they would retreat indoors and stop venturing outside.
It was said that anyone who stayed active outdoors during such times was likely to meet with misfortune, vanishing without a trace, only to turn up later as bleached bones on the mountainside or along the shore.
The islanders' native "Weather God" had long since been outlawed by the Loenian authorities, and even their descendants had forgotten the local language.
Only this one custom had survived, carried on down to the present day.
Tap, tap.
At the end of a fog-shrouded street, the sound of footsteps drifted closer.
Within the grey-white haze, a red silhouette gradually took shape. The outline grew clearer, the color more vivid, until it stood fully revealed.
Silas, clad in a blood-red robe, stood expressionless, looking left and right through the mist.
"Your descendants really haven't done well for themselves, have they."
He muttered to himself. "Solon and the Einhorns at least managed to rise to royalty, but this lot's been huddled on this little island, ground down by the Loenian authorities, and they've even lost their own culture."
"That's because what I needed was for them to survive, not to end up like the descendants of those two fools, turned into conspicuous targets."
Medici answered from within him, his laughter light, tinged with mockery.
Toward his own descendants, this Angel King held little in the way of spare affection.
To him, these people's only value lay in serving as a vessel for his own resurrection, kept alive across the generations for that purpose alone.
"No wonder they call you the Red Angel, sir. Shameless to the core, as always."
Silas praised him with exaggerated flair, glancing around. "So, where's your target?"
After parting ways with his fleet, he hadn't headed straight for Loen, but had come first to this island once known by the old name of "Bansy."
Back when he'd fought the "Black Saint" Leomaster at the Ruins of the Battle of Gods, in order to have Medici lend him strength, Silas had promised him he would make a trip to Bansy afterward.
Now that he was about to leave the sea behind, he figured he'd better make good on that promise before doing so.
"Hold on, let me get a sense of things..."
Medici's spiritual sense spread outward from within Silas's body, resonating with the thick fog around them.
A moment later, he spoke. "Head left from here. The person on this island with the closest tie to my bloodline is that way."
Silas moved off accordingly.
"Once you've found this person, what do you plan to do?"
He asked.
"Don't you already know?"
Medici gave a short laugh. "As a means of resurrection, of course."
At this point, his intentions had already become obvious enough that there was little sense in continuing to hide them. Better to just say it plainly.
"I still haven't agreed to hand over the Einhorn blood to you."
Silas said. "I suppose there's no harm in you making some preliminary preparations."
The Red Angel Spirit let out a light, easy laugh. "In that case, once my contributions are enough to buy my freedom back from you someday, I can go straight ahead with the ritual."
I'm not about to let you out that easily.
Silas thought privately to himself, though what he said aloud was, "Well then, I hope you get your wish soon."
Guided by Medici, he pressed on through the dense fog, continually adjusting his course, and at last came to a stop before a building.
Looking up, he saw, through the mist, a sign hanging on the building written in the Loenian script, reading:
Bansy Port Telegraph Office.
The heavy wooden doors were shut tight, and every pane of glass showed nothing but darkness, giving no hint of what lay inside.
Silas's brow furrowed slightly.
He caught a faint whiff of blood from within, and with a practiced sense, quickly identified it as human blood.
What were these descendants of Medici's up to?
Knock, knock.
He reached out and rapped on the door.
"Who's there?"
A woman's voice, smooth and unhurried, came from beyond the door.
"Open up."
Silas said, in a tone that brooked no argument.
"This kind. Of weather. On the island. Cannot. Open door."
The woman's voice behind the door sounded young, but the rhythm of her speech was deeply strange, nothing like the way a normal person would talk.
"Who are you?"
Silas asked again.
"I am. Melanie dimi. Of the telegraph office. Telegraph operator." The woman's voice said. "I am. A normal woman. With two eyes. One mouth."
I don't think a normal person would describe herself that way, Silas thought to himself.
Just then, he sensed the smell of blood behind the door suddenly grow stronger, as though something else had drawn near.
"I can. Vouch for this."
A man's voice rang out next, its rhythm just as bizarre as the woman's had been. "I am. Pavel Court. Her. Colleague. Here. Nothing is wrong. Cannot open door. Please. Leave."
As the man spoke, some manner of unseen force seemed to be gathering behind the door.
Silas let out a short, incredulous laugh.
"This is your bloodline?"
He demanded of Medici.
"Something must have gone slightly wrong in the transmission, I suppose."
Medici answered, offhand and unconcerned. "Doesn't matter either way, though. All I need is a body."
If even this ancestor of theirs didn't care, then Silas certainly wasn't about to either.
So he simply raised his hand, black shadow coalescing in his palm into a sharp, massive blade, and swung it down at an angle. The heavy wooden door was instantly cleaved in two.
Boom!
The wooden panels crashed down, and a thick stench of blood washed over him as the scene behind the door came into view at once.
Inside, the telegraph office lay in total darkness, and a man and a woman stood rigid at the center of the hall.
Both had fiery red hair and fine, delicate features. Handsome as they were, there was something eerily inhuman about them, as if they were strange creatures wearing suits of human skin.
On the floor at the back of the office lay half of a mutilated human body, along with a scattering of bones picked utterly clean.
The heavy stench of blood was coming from the two of them.
The man and woman regarded Silas with a cold, detached stare, the man appearing to be in his twenties, the woman somewhat younger still.
"I said. Cannot. Open door. Cannot. Come in."
The man said, each word clipped and deliberate, his mouth opening and closing as bright red blood and shreds of flesh spilled out from between his teeth.
The woman looked at Silas with the same dark, brooding expression. But before either of them could bring their power to bear, utter terror surged across their faces.
Within the dim telegraph office, every shadow suddenly came alive, pressing down with a crushing sense of corruption as it swallowed their bodies whole.
Woven through that darkness were the wails of countless despairing dead, frenzied and horrifying, threatening to grind their very minds to pieces!
The man and woman were swallowed by the shadow, their expressions going utterly blank, unable even to tremble.
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