Xyrin Empire-Chapter 1455: A Lonely Journey

The ghost ship exudes an oddity everywhere: a ship without an "identity," a starship structure defying logic, a core area outfitted specifically for carbon-based life forms, the highly silent starship system, and the scattered diary entries left behind by a starship member who might have died long ago. These fragments of information are growing, gradually leading us to an answer, yet before the final mystery is revealed, it’s hard to fathom who built this ship and what happened during its thousands of years of drifting.

Warren Field’s diary entries continue to surface, but since they are etched on walls or other surfaces, it’s challenging to organize them sequentially. We can only piece together his experiences from those scattered texts after he awoke solo on this exile ship as a commander of the Old Empire’s Vassal Army.

It’s now certain the ship indeed malfunctioned — although the concept of a Xyrin Apostle’s creation malfunctioning might sound incredible, its awakening device indeed had an accident. Originally designed to activate after encountering other survivors from the Imperial District, the awakening system inexplicably activated early, awakening only one person. This commander, named Warren Field, recorded most occurrences post-awakening: In the first few days, he maintained an optimistic attitude, but after a dozen days, complaints and negative emotions arose. These negative emotions seemingly didn’t last long, as his diary reveals he promptly adjusted his mindset.

The next diary entry is etched on a pillar in the hall, with more disjointed texts following it:

"Warren Field’s diary, day thirty-two, completed routine work and chores, attempted once more to audit the ship’s awakening procedure. This has become a daily task. The audit results are unchanged, failing to ascertain the cause of premature awakening. Perhaps, during the attack, some systems left vulnerabilities. To prevent other early awakenings, I transferred the main release terminal of the awakening process to two backup systems, which the onboard mainframe accepted, seemingly aware of its potential fault. Today warrants a celebration; the stubborn mainframe finally compromised with a carbon-based life form. But maybe it’s unrelated to compromise; perhaps it made a logical judgment on its own. Regardless, I should find a way to rejoice."

"Warren Field’s diary, day twenty-eight, the mood isn’t great, but upon examining my prior actions and mental state, previous training proved useful. I promptly identified my emotional issues. It seems I need to adjust my mood. Loneliness isn’t as fatal, as long as sufficient activities are found. A busy daily life dispels loneliness. I added two tasks: cleaning my main activity area and backing up radar reports to another data terminal. Cleaning was originally automatic, but I convinced the responsible device, claiming carbon-based organisms need frequent physical activity to remain healthy. It’s much more amenable than the onboard mainframe. Planning to research food pairing in a few days; the material generator should be able to create even more bizarre things." 𝓯𝓻𝓮𝙚𝙬𝓮𝙗𝒏𝙤𝒗𝙚𝙡.𝒄𝒐𝓶

"Warren Field’s diary, day forty-four, I realized it’s been quite some time since my last entry. It’s inevitable: daily life remains unchanged. Without variation, there’s no need for records, so future entries may be sporadic too, only noting what’s deemed worthy. This is a good idea; I needn’t worry about running out of wall space — hopefully, others won’t complain about my engravings turning the ship into a primitive cave."

"Warren Field’s diary, sixtieth day, monotonous days are hard to endure, so I did something risky: took an onboard shuttle to visit the starship city twenty kilometers away. As expected, everything’s destroyed. The ship’s damage is severe; those in the starship city and outer deployment zones must’ve died instantaneously during the attack. Mortals’ bodies are so fragile. Had the ship’s occupants been Xyrin Apostles, circumstances might’ve differed. Xyrin Apostles would survive, repair the ship swiftly, and restart anew upon landing somewhere — but what’s the point of thinking about that? Mortals are aboard this ship. Upon returning to the core area, I reset the ship’s energy network, reduced energy supply to peripheral zones, and set the mainframe to autonomously abandon these areas in case of further damage, a plan the mainframe agreed upon. I begin to find that stubborn AI quite endearing."

"Warren Field’s diary, sixty-first day, peripheral zones fully depressurized, artificial gravity deactivated, leaving this the only living section of the ship. Following the mainframe’s suggestion, interference devices were concentrated in the core area, greatly enhancing the ship’s silence level. It should be harder to detect signs of life or thought from outside, even if a Mind Assault Soldier stood on the ship’s hull; detecting my thoughts is impossible, providing some peace of mind."

That’s the extent of the pillar’s diary. We searched around the hall afterward but found no more inscriptions. It seems the main records aren’t here.

Sandora lightly traced over the inscriptions weathered by millennia, brow slightly furrowed, "It seems this ship indeed was designed for escape. It must’ve been built post-catastrophe, under time constraints, explaining its non-conformity with starship regulations. Fortunately, those specific designs allowed it to escape even when nearly destroyed."

Lilina, having abandoned finding signs of life, joined our discussion under the influence of some advanced interference device, invalidating even the Divine Race’s life-sensing ability, much less hers: "So why are the ship’s crew mere mortals? Wouldn’t Xyrin Apostles have a stronger life force? If they could build such a ship, why not escape themselves?"

"Perhaps they were all infected, leaving the uninfected vassals to flee quickly," Sandora answered without much thought, "We’ve seen many such examples. The Xyrin Apostles of the Old Empire, while still conscious, handed the last ship to the uninfected. In urgent circumstances, it doesn’t matter if it’s the Vassal Army or Imperial Soldiers."

I stood aside, eyebrows knitted in contemplation, sensing something amiss, when the sight of the Little Crows stumbling along behind Medivh hit me: the fleet!

"This is a solitary vessel," I said, lifting my gaze to Sandora, "Neither the ghost ship we found nor any records here reveal additional exile ships. Isn’t this scale a bit small for an exodus fleet?"

If any Sky Zone of the Old Empire had the capacity to produce this exile ship, technically it should’ve had time to produce more. For the Empire, almost running out time entirely, to manufacture only one ship is virtually implausible. Furthermore, none of the exodus fleets we found have ever been as small-scaled as this ghost ship. Even the Tree Elves used an entire Planet Fortress, carrying billions of civilians — and this ghost ship? A solitary ship, a mere dozen kilometers long. Though monumental for starships built by other civilizations, within the great fleets that escaped during the Old Empire’s collapse, it was but a mere vessel.

Sandora quickly realized the issue, nodding, "That’s true, Warren Field’s diary never mentions other ships nor considers searching for them, suggesting this ship indeed departed alone in the past... Even though the calamity back then was large-scale, most Sky Zones endured for decades or centuries before perishing, ample time to launch more Arks unless..."

I promptly asked, "Unless what?"

"Unless the fleet had already dispersed upon departure, with each ship taking different routes," Sandora spread her hands, "That’s possible, though dispersed ships face population and resource limits, making future reconstruction challenging. Yet this greatly increases the escape success rate, making such a decision by some Sky Zone Emperors justifiable."

I nodded, accepting this explanation, and then looked around the hall, "Let’s continue searching for more diaries. Warren couldn’t have only written a few entries. Most records must be elsewhere, perhaps in the workspaces."

The Little Crows promptly dispersed once more, chattering away in quest of the workspaces, which weren’t as concealed as hibernation centers. We soon discovered a passage leading to the work area on the hall’s opposite side.

As soon as we entered the passage, we saw new diary entries; evidently Warren Field had carved them here:

"Warren Field Diary, Day Ten. I’ve been pondering why I was the one awakened and not others, and eventually realized it was simply luck. Fate played a cruel joke on me, and if everything happens as predicted, the future I face is likely not optimistic. I felt slightly depressed today, about this very matter, but as I prepared to start work, my mood improved: at least I can still walk around the ship with ease, breathe, eat, do my own things. Yes, I’m alive, better off than those who were killed. Thinking like this, what I face isn’t the worst. I suppose I can keep comforting myself for a long time until I get used to this life someday, if such a life can indeed be gotten used to."

We continued along the corridor illuminated by lights indicating the direction of the work area, finally arriving at a hallway with many rooms. Every ten meters or so on both sides of the hallway there was a gate marked with words like "Observation Room," "Communication Control Point," and "Food Manufacturing Space." The structure of this hallway clearly differs from a regular Imperial Starship; it looks like an old-style Deep Space Spaceship, with various functional facilities crammed into a small space (to a spaceship several kilometers long, this hallway is indeed a small place), evidently specially designed. I suspect there are many small compartments like this with complete functionalities on the ship, designed such that even if the ship is severely damaged, it can protect its personnel internally under partial normalcy. Looking at the desolate and tragic state of the Ghost Ship’s exterior, these specially designed modular small worlds indeed played their role.

"This is prepared for ordinary races," Sandora observed the functional rooms, noting many rooms that held no significance for Xyrin Apostles, such as the lounge and gym. The purpose of these rooms was obvious. "It seems when designing this spaceship, the infection had already spread, and the Builders never intended for Xyrin Apostles to board this ship."

"Boss! There’s a new diary here!" Lilina, running around with a group of Little Crows, suddenly discovered something not far away on the door frame of the Food Manufacturing Space; words were scrawled messily:

"Warren Field Diary. This is terrible! The food synthesis device refuses to provide more subacid hormone drinks! That stupid machine thinks a couple of drinks after a meal would affect a soldier’s judgment. Is there anything more foolish? Well, I’ve indeed been drinking quite a bit, but I need this stuff to keep my energy up! I haven’t exercised in a long time; looking in the mirror, I realized I look just like a savage. If I don’t get some refreshing drink soon, I might degrade to the point where I can’t even continue working — though who knows if that so-called work has any meaning; there’s absolutely nothing in this damned place, who are those reports I’m writing meant for?"

We exchanged glances: this diary entry lacked a date, and it was apparent the person leaving the diary was already in a state of anxiety and restlessness. For someone who emerged from civilization, his degradation and abandonment of habits cultivated by civilized society was a troubling sign.

Lilina, an expert in this area, frowned, her voice low: "He begins to abandon maintaining his image, indicating he’s detaching from the behavioral norms left by civilized society for himself. This is a slope; once you slide down, there’s no returning."

Subsequent records confirmed Lilina’s fears; within the Food Manufacturing Space, more records were found. There were some early diary entries with dates and daily work and mood records, but mixed among them were lots of incoherent ramblings, some were even single, incomplete sentences, clearly the result of a disturbed mental state:

"Warren Field, you’re the ruler of this small kingdom, you ought to be happy! Go announce your sovereignty to those chairs in the activity hall!"

"Running naked from one end of the hallway to the other, hundreds of meters long, with no one stopping me; this kind of thing is simply a great stress relief. Maybe I should have tried earlier — those idiots lying around would surely be surprised seeing their Commander so wild."

"I surprisingly continue to record these meaningless things. Alright, today I’ll carve one more sentence."

"I find myself somewhat rancid, yesterday suffered from a fever, with the medical monitoring drones forcefully dragging me to the medical room. After bathing, they cut off several pounds of my hair, yet those stupid machines have no clue what they should really do, they ought to send me back to the Hibernation Chamber! That thing’s stuck; hasn’t the ship system noticed? Oh, right, it hasn’t; the hibernation system broke down long ago."

"Look what I found, a spot of blood. Oh God, a murder occurred on this spaceship! Haha, Sheriff Warren, this is your own blood... Damn it, looks like I need to go to the medical room. Why did I carve such things on the wall?"

Normal diary entries increasingly featured this kind of incoherent muttering; because most records lacked dates, we had no way of arranging the text in chronological order. The only certainty: with time passing, this lone Starship Commander slowly lost his sanity.

We searched through several rooms for the records left by the Starship Commander, hoping to learn his final outcome, but finding clues among the deranged graffiti and date-confused regular diary entries proved challenging. The last seemingly logical record we found was from his twelfth year after awakening:

"Warren Field Diary, Day Four Thousand Three-Hundred Twenty-Five. Everything’s chaotic; I woke from an empty cabin, my attire disheveled, hair over a foot long. After bathing, I walked naked into the workroom, then remembered I should change clothes first. Such an occurrence never happened before — although it might have, possibly. Anyway, I’m still working, observing... whatever I’m observing. My mind’s a mess all day today, like before, unclear how many days the mind’s been messy. It seems months, or a year, passed without diary entries; today I recorded this in a strong impulse, meaningless. Perhaps this is just a dream? I’m still lying in the hibernation chamber, awaiting the spaceship’s safe arrival at some world or encountering other survivors from the Sky Zone, then waking, walking decently out of the spaceship, greeting other Starship Commanders — oh, yes, that’s right, should be a dream. The hibernation system, to prevent long-term sleep from damaging my brain, arranged such a dream. But evidently, Xyrin Apostles don’t quite understand the physiological characteristics of carbon-based life forms; their designed dream is abysmal, I could do without... well, since it’s a dream, I’ll continue working. Warren, Field Diary, Day Four Thousand Three-Hundred Twenty-Five..."

Afterwards, there were some indistinct and hard-to-decipher scribbles, seemingly cryptographic, but completely meaningless once decoded. This was the last logical, dated record we found in the work area; all else was chaotic and senseless mumblings.

Evidently, these deranged mutterings were written after this record.

The Starship Commander Warren Field, by the twelfth year after being awakened alone, completely lost his sanity. (To be continued. If you like this work, please visit Qidian (qidian.com) to vote for recommendations and monthly votes; your support is my greatest motivation. Mobile users, please go to m.qidian.com to read.)