After a simple supper, Silas and Ada spoke for a little while longer before retiring for the night.
Though Ada possessed considerable spiritual fortitude, three sleepless nights had taken their toll, and she was clearly exhausted.
Silas's bedroom wasn't large, perhaps twenty square meters. The furnishings were spartan: a double bed that had once belonged to Sotos's parents, a desk, a chair, and a wardrobe. That was all. The dressing table and a few other pieces Silas had since let Ada use.
Stripping off his clothes, Silas, utterly drained, didn't even bother to wash. He collapsed onto the bed and plunged into a deep, heavy sleep.
Whoosh… Awooooooo…
He wasn't sure if it was a dream or some trick of his exhausted mind, but as Silas slept, the sound of rushing wind and a mournful, piercing howl seemed to echo in his ears.
When Silas opened his eyes, he was startled to find himself standing on the deck of a ship.
It was colossal, at least fifty meters in length, its form reminiscent of the great seafaring vessels from the Age of Sail. But the entire ship was encased in an unnatural, ghostly white ice.
Through the translucent frost, Silas could see that the vessel beneath was ancient and dilapidated. Its wooden decks and hull were pockmarked with the ravages of time, riddled with holes. Its three towering masts stood bare, no sails to be seen. The rigging that connected masts to hull hung in tattered, chaotic disarray.
The scene was so precarious that Silas suspected if not for the binding ice, the ship might disintegrate at any moment.
"Where… where am I?" Silas frowned, his gaze sweeping his surroundings.
He found himself enveloped in a swirling, white blizzard of unimaginable cold.
The blizzard raged like a captive cyclone, engulfing the entire vessel, obscuring everything beyond its frozen railings.
Dong… Dong… Dong…
Suddenly, he heard the deep, resonant tolling of a heavy bell. The sound originated from behind him, from the midship area.
Turning, Silas discovered a temple rising from the center of the ship.
The structure was entirely black, as if forged from obsidian, exuding an aura of both unyielding strength and somber menace.
The profound, sonorous tolls continued to emanate from within.
The bell's call held an inexplicable allure for Silas. He felt his legs move as if of their own accord, carrying him towards the obsidian edifice.
The temple occupied a significant portion of the ship's deck. It took him only a few steps to reach its entrance.
Looking up, he saw the temple was structured in three tiers, like a stepped pyramid, each level smaller than the one below.
Atop the third and highest tier stood an ancient bell tower. Within it, Silas could vaguely discern the silhouette of a massive, jet-black bell.
The sound was coming from there.
At that moment, Silas felt as if ensnared by some enchantment. His eyes flickered with an eerie blue light as he moved, dazed, into the temple.
The interior was starkly simple. There were no altars, no statues of gods, no offerings, yet the atmosphere was heavy with a repressive, solemn grandeur.
This was because, at its heart, an imposing staircase of ice-blue crystal ascended towards the temple's summit.
The craftsmanship of the staircase was exquisite, its ice-blue surface etched with intricate and profound mystical runes.
The staircase was divided into three stages.
The first stage was the longest, comprising twenty-four steps.
Flanking the stairs at every fourth step was a pair of finely wrought statues.
These depicted figures clad in heavy armor, their heads covered by wolf-shaped helms and silver-grey masks. Each statue stood about two meters tall, their silver-grey forms so lifelike they seemed ready to spring into motion.
Above this rose a three-meter-long landing, followed by the second stage of the staircase.
This section consisted of sixteen steps, again with a pair of statues at every fourth step.
These statues were even more exquisitely detailed and imposing. They wore more ornate armor, with billowing capes at their backs, and were mounted upon variously posed, charging wolf steeds.
Notably, each of these eight knightly figures wielded a different weapon: a greatsword, a halberd, a greataxe, a bow and arrow, a heavy crossbow, a warhammer, a wicked-looking machete, and heavy gauntlets.
At the end of this flight was another three-meter landing, beyond which rose the third and final stage: eight steps in total.
Again, a pair of statues flanked every fourth step.
These, however, no longer resembled mere statues but seemed like living beings frozen in time.
The four figures were all mounted on skeletal warhorses clad in heavy barding. Each wore different attire and possessed a unique form.
One wore cloth armor and wielded a staff; another was draped in eerie robes, holding a scythe; a third was bare-chested, clutching a skull; and the last was a humanoid figure wreathed in flames.
At the very apex, beyond the final step, stood a colossal throne.
Its back soared to the temple's roof, flanked by twelve immense, jet-black wings that unfurled on either side.
The throne itself was intricately carved with myriad figures: legions of the undead, charging wolf packs, knights in full regalia, galloping skeletal warhorses, and at the very forefront, a masked king wielding a long spear, mounted upon a colossal wolf.
Silas stared blankly at this bizarre and awe-inspiring structure, then, still compelled, he began to ascend the crystalline steps.
When he reached the edge of the mighty throne, he hesitated for a moment but did not sit. Instead, he followed the line of one of the giant, outstretched wings, which led him towards the temple's roof, to the bell tower from which the resonant call originated.
DONG!
The great bell continued its profound toll, yet nothing appeared to be striking it.
Embedded deep within the black metal of the bell itself was a silver spear.
The spear was approximately two meters long. It had pierced the bell from the upper left side, angling downwards to emerge from the lower right, as if whoever had hurled it had intended to silence the bell by impaling its very heart.
Silas stood beside it in silence for a moment, then moved to the left side of the bell and reached out, his hand closing around the silver spear's shaft.
Crack… Crackle…
The instant he gripped it, a terrifying frost spread like wildfire from Silas's hand, encasing the silver spear in shimmering ice.
Silas pulled with sudden, immense force. With a grating screech of metal and ice, the two-meter-long spear was wrenched free.
Whoosh…
The wind outside howled with renewed ferocity. The sky above the ship roiled with lightning and thunder, as if a tempest was about to break.
The next second, rain began to fall, yet as the drops descended into Silas's vision, they transformed into snowflakes.
DONG! DONG! DONG!
The bell's toll now became even deeper, more resonant, a sound so profound it felt as if it could reverberate across the entire world and never fade.
Silas leaped down from the bell tower, landing with perfect precision upon the seat of the great throne, the silver spear held firmly in his grip.
He shifted slightly, settling his body, and then, slowly, he sat.
The tolling of the bell intensified. Countless streams of cerulean cold energy, like an ethereal mist, surged into the temple, burying everything in its icy embrace.
Within the frozen sanctum, only a pair of ice-blue eyes glinted momentarily before the scene dissolved into stillness.
Gasp!
Silas sat bolt upright in his bed, his body drenched in sweat, as if he'd just been dragged from a furnace.
Dong… Dong… Dong… Dong… Dong… Dong!
From the city center, the bells of the Holy Blood Cathedral tolled six times, heralding the dawn and the start of a new day.
"What a bizarre dream… and so incredibly real." Silas found he could recall every single detail of the vision with perfect clarity.
"My body… it feels somewhat recovered." Silas thought, flexing his limbs.
But his left arm felt strangely heavy.
"Must have slept on it wrong, it's gone numb," he muttered, looking down.
"This is-!" The moment he saw it, Silas's eyes constricted.
For clutched tightly in his left hand, impossibly, was the silver spear from his dream.
"That… that wasn't a dream! And this spear… it looks so familiar." Having already weathered the storm of transmigration, Silas's ability to cope with the unbelievable had markedly improved.
He pondered for a moment, and then it struck him with the force of a physical blow. In his previous life, on his way home from work, it was this very spear that had killed him.
He turned his head slightly, examining the spear's tip. There, intricately etched into the metal, were beautiful, delicate patterns of whirlwinds and lightning.
Silas would never forget those markings for the rest of his life-or this one-for they were the last thing he had seen before death claimed him.
Awoof. The Husky, which had been curled up nearby, got to its feet. It pranced excitedly, tail wagging furiously at Silas.
Silas hefted the spear. It wasn't overly heavy; his current physique could handle it with ease.
"This thing is far too conspicuous. If only it could turn into a cane or something," Silas mused aloud, preparing to get out of bed.
The words had barely left his lips when the silver spear shimmered and rapidly shrank. In the blink of an eye, it transformed into a silver-grey, spiraled walking cane, about one and a quarter meters in length.