Deep Sea Embers

The telltale spherical joints that pieced the figure together and the unmistakably smooth, colorless complexion, as white as freshly fallen snow or pure porcelain, were evident. This had to be Alice! His concern was quickly replaced by a rush of relief. But as he observed further, Duncan’s eyes were drawn to the elaborate design of black thorns that encased Alice.

These thorns sprung from the surrounding flower bushes, wrapping and winding around Alice’s delicate, porcelain-like form, crafting an ornate yet somewhat eerie semblance of a skirt. It seemed as if Alice was cradled by the very flora of the garden, completely unaware of Duncan’s presence or his voice calling out to her.

Being wary of the sharp thorns, Duncan tenderly reached out to touch Alice’s face, whispering, “Alice, can you hear me?”

His fingers met a cold, unyielding surface, much like that of a dormant doll. There was no reaction from Alice; she remained undisturbed in her deep sleep. Duncan’s gaze then caught a peculiar detail – tightly grasped in Alice’s hand was what appeared to be a painter’s board. Although the same thorny vines snaked around her wrist, Duncan noticed gaps that indicated the board could be carefully removed.

After a moment of hesitation, Duncan gently gripped the edge of the board. He carefully extracted it, always casting a nervous glance towards Alice, fearing his actions might disturb her. Yet, she remained still, ensconced in her dreams.

Duncan breathed a sigh of relief and shifted his focus to the board he had freed. Before him was a canvas painted with wild bursts of colors and unpredictable lines, eerily reflecting the strange sky that dominated the garden overhead. The artwork had the raw touch of a child’s hand, capturing surreal and abstract scenes.

The canvas displayed a captivating vortex of colors, with a plethora of shades spiraling dynamically, occupying a vast portion of the painting. The remainder of the artwork was dotted with shimmering points and intersecting lines that gave the impression of a starry constellation. And right at the very epicenter of this colorful tumult, there was a deep, throbbing shade of red that seemed to demand attention.

Even though the artwork appeared childishly simple and naively executed, there was something about that deep red core that made Duncan feel uneasy. It emanated a potent aura of danger, and the more Duncan stared, the more familiar it felt. Rummaging through his memories, trying to locate a similar sensation, he finally pinpointed it.

It was in this very mansion, Alice’s Mansion, specifically on the elevated landing of the second floor near the ornate spiral staircase, where another artwork had once riveted his attention. This painting showed an immense ship engulfed in fierce flames cascading downwards from the vast skies.

And there it was, lurking behind the fiery descent of the ship – that same unsettling, hypnotic, deep red glow. With a deepening frown, Duncan pieced it together. This was not the first time he had come across this peculiar red hue in the mansion. Its repetition was no mere coincidence but rather a foreboding signal of events that were yet to unfold. But what did this red hue symbolize? Was there a hidden meaning behind its luminous gleam?

Perhaps it was an omen of a looming, inescapable calamity shadowing his every move. Or maybe it was a metaphorical representation, an ominous prelude to an apocalyptic event. He remembered a cryptic warning from a decapitated butler about the dangers of opening the mansion’s grand entrance door. What could be behind those doors? Was it the source of this hauntingly mysterious “dark red aura”? The thought gave Duncan pause, but he was not one to act impulsively. Although intrigued about what lay beyond the doors, he recognized the importance of restraint. He was determined to unravel this mystery, but not at the expense of plunging the mansion into turmoil or jeopardizing Alice’s well-being.

Taking a moment to steady himself, Duncan inhaled deeply, letting the cool air fill his lungs. He lifted his gaze to the sky overhead, which bizarrely mirrored the naive doodling that covered the canvas in his grasp. Beside him, amidst the blooms, the porcelain figure continued its undisturbed rest, holding onto the secrets of this conundrum. Was there a connection between the painting, the sky, and this lifeless doll? Was Alice, perhaps, the artist behind these enigmatic creations?

As Duncan sifted through the revelations shared by Ray Nora, a profound realization began to form. Initially, he had thought of Alice as a random fusion of “Ray Nora” and the “guillotine,” a theory also suggested by the Frost Queen. But the more he pondered, the more it seemed that Alice was much more than just an external representation of these elements. While the exterior, “Miss Doll,” might have been constructed from such components, the soul within was an enigma, housing profound mysteries that seemed to transcend Ray Nora’s own understanding.

An analytical thought crystallized in Duncan’s mind: In the realm of digital data, if a copied file contains more content than its original, it can only mean one thing – additional information was embedded during the duplication process.

Immersed in this sea of contemplation, Duncan felt the weight of the silence around him, pressing down like an invisible force. He lost track of time, lost within the labyrinths of his thoughts. Eventually, he let out a long, drawn-out sigh, signaling his intent to return to the present moment. With utmost care, he aimed to place the painting board back into the doll’s hands, wishing to restore everything to its original state – an effort to prevent any potential disturbances within this unpredictable mansion.

But just as he was about to position the board securely within the doll’s grip, he noticed something peculiar on its backside. Marks that he had previously overlooked now stood out prominently. His instincts immediately heightened, and he quickly inspected the back of the board more closely. These weren’t just random scratches; they were methodically inscribed lines of text. The engraved message read: “The messenger brings news from afar. The chosen clan raised the lost ancient stars and molded them into a sacred crown. The Third Long Night has drawn to a close!”

Duncan remained motionless, fixated on this cryptic proclamation. It resonated with an age-old wisdom and significance. After what felt like ages, he gently released a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding and delicately returned the painting board to the doll’s grasp with a careful maneuver to avoid the surrounding thorns. The message, however, remained with him, echoing endlessly in the chambers of his mind, hinting at ancient prophecies and forgotten tales.

“The chosen lineage… the celestial relics of yore… the conclusion of the Third Long Night…” Duncan straightened up, his brow furrowed in thought. Piecing together the scattered bits of related information that flashed through his memory, a conceptual tapestry began to take shape. The central thread weaving through this mental construct was the mention of the Third Long Night, as detailed in the revered and forbidden text, the “Blasphemous Book,” which was safeguarded by the formidable Annihilators. According to lore, it was right after the serene cessation of this Third Long Night that the Epoch of the Deep Sea was inaugurated, a monumental period that greatly reshaped the topography and dynamics of the world. The sole “chosen lineage” synonymous with the “Third Long Night” narrative, Duncan surmised, had to be the illustrious forebears of the Crete Kingdom, often referred to in whispers as the “Primordial Forefathers.”

Regarding the resurrection of the once-lost celestial relics, might this enigmatic verse hint towards the renowned episode where the Crete Kingdom ingeniously forged the Vision 001 Sun, a symbol of their divine authority?

However, the puzzle pieces were still too scant and cloaked in ambiguity. It felt like a tantalizingly opaque riddle, shedding minimal light and spawning more speculative interpretations than verifiable truths. Duncan sighed, momentarily letting go of the bittersweet sting of unfulfillment. He methodically surveyed the garden’s hauntingly quiet and lush expanse, searching for any overlooked clues. Though bathed in an eerie stillness, the setting showcased nothing but a vibrant greenery mesh punctuated by artistically crafted pathways. He inevitably gravitated back towards the resting “doll.”

Circling the inert entity labeled as “Alice,” Duncan was suddenly stopped in his tracks by an intriguing find. A tiny keyhole was etched onto the doll! But it wasn’t discretely tucked behind her dress as one might expect; instead, it was conspicuously situated right on the nape of her porcelain neck. This specific detail captured Duncan’s interest. He found himself inexplicably drawn, almost magnetically, closer to inspect this minute aperture.

Indeed, the presence of a keyhole on this garden’s doll was intriguing, but why was its location distinct from that on the Alice he knew? Could the keyhole’s unique positioning be indicative of a deeper, metaphorical message? Given the array of mystifying events he’d experienced in this surreal realm, Duncan naturally started to contemplate such symbolic interpretations. But he quickly reeled in these ruminations, realizing they might be rabbit holes leading to mere speculation without definite conclusions. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, Duncan cautiously retrieved a petite brass key from his pocket. This key had mysteriously manifested in his hand upon his arrival in Alice’s enigmatic mansion. Was this key specifically designed for this very keyhole?

With this hypothesis dancing at the forefront of his thoughts, Duncan made a decisive move. He delicately aligned the key with the keyhole on the doll’s nape and tenderly inserted it, awaiting the outcomes of his action.

With a faint, delicate click, the key seamlessly engaged with the intricate internal mechanism of the doll. Without any prompt, it began to rotate autonomously, mirroring its behavior from a prior experience. As it did, a familiar, almost nostalgic sensation enveloped Duncan. The world around him seemed to pulse, alternating between darkness and illumination. His senses momentarily disoriented, giving way to a brief sensation of floating in the void, only to be followed by the reassuring feeling of firm ground beneath his shoes. In a disorientingly swift transition, Duncan found himself ensconced in the familiar, warmly lit ambiance of the captain’s quarters aboard the Vanished.

Directly in his line of sight emerged the gleaming, porcelain-white curvature of a spine. Alice sat there, gracefully poised on an ornate stool, patiently awaiting the ritualistic winding that would give her movement. The abrupt shift in environment left Duncan momentarily stunned, rendering him lost for words. As he processed the rapid change, a whimsical, almost playful thought danced across his mind, “Imagine the amusement of fastening some firecrackers to this pristine back.”

With her heightened sense of hearing, Alice caught a hint of the captain’s murmur. Delicately and with great care, she rotated her head, making sure not to displace her dress. A note of curiosity marked her voice, “Captain? What was it that you uttered?”

Realizing his musings might have been audible, Duncan was quick to recover. He cleared his throat, attempting to shrug off his initial shock, and replied with a nonchalant, “Oh, merely thinking out loud,” while deftly retracting the key from its resting place.

“Is our session concluded? Are you feeling okay?” Alice’s query took Duncan by surprise. She reached behind, feeling for the latch on her back, her eyes widening in astonishment. “But we’ve just started.”

Duncan’s motion of removing the key halted momentarily, the implications dawning upon him. The myriad adventures and the seemingly interminable span he had endured within the enigma of “Alice’s Mansion” had, in this reality, transpired within the merest fraction of a second.