This is a fanfiction project created purely out of love for the source material. Azur Lane is owned by Manjuu, Yongshi, and Yostar, and Tomb Raider is owned by Crystal Dynamics, Eidos Montréal, and Square Enix. I do not claim any ownership over these properties. All rights to the original characters and settings belong to their respective creators. This is simply a creative work made for enjoyment and storytelling.
"True soul" Error?!
"What an asshole" Thoughts
"Stay safe," Dialogue
Prologue
The sea was a familiar tune for Eduard. He was of Dutch-Irish descent, born in Utrecht, and grew up immersed in his family's history. His childhood was filled with tales of the Dutch maritime empire, of fleets that dominated the oceans, and of warships whose cannon fire resonated through empires.
After his Dutch father passed away, Eduard's Irish mother took him to the northwestern coast of Ireland, to the rugged peninsula of Blacksod, where her family had tended the lighthouse for generations. There, in the sea-bitten silence of weather-worn cliffs and foghorns, he grew up under the rotating beam of a light that once saved fleets.
His great-grandmother on his mother's side had been the famed weatherwoman of Blacksod, the one who sent the final weather report that convinced Winston Churchill to launch D-Day. She gave the all-clear that sent the Allies across the Channel.
On his father's side, only one ancestor had served in the modern navy, his great-grandfather, who manned the Abraham Crijnssen. During World War II, the Dutch minesweeper disguised itself as an island to evade detection by the Japanese.
Further back still, family legends recounted a forefather who served in Michiel de Ruyter's fleet during the Third Anglo-Dutch War, having fought in the Raid on the Medway, when Dutch warships sailed up the River Thames and struck at the heart of the English Navy. That story, passed down like a silly childhood story, had lit the first fires of Eduard's obsession.
His surname, Hollandia, was derived from the Dutch East India Company warship that bore the same name, a name he inherited and wore like armour. History wasn't just something he studied. It was ingrained in his soul.
So it came as no surprise that he chose to pursue it further. After his mom's passing, he applied to Oxford University not out of prestige but because it was the only place where resources, mentorship, and legacy could match his hunger for naval history and ancient maritime structures. Although his Irish family were saddened to see him leave their ancestral home, for England no less, they understood his need to spread his wings and pursue his dreams. He excelled in historical studies, particularly in naval warfare, architecture, and 20th-century shipbuilding techniques. His thesis on the engineering philosophy behind 17th-century Dutch galleons caught the attention of several tenured professors.
It was during his second postgraduate year, in 2008, at the age of nineteen, that Eduard received an invitation to speak at a historical maritime congress held in Alexandria, Egypt. The conference focused on ancient naval expeditions, colonial sea routes, and submerged war relics. Seeing this as a perfect opportunity to broaden his network and step into the world of research, he seized the chance. Eduard presented on a lost Dutch convoy believed to have sunk off the Horn of Africa, a ship laden with valuable artefacts and raw materials from the Gold Coast and South Africa, including ivory, gold, and preserved tribal regalia destined for Dutch collectors. The wreck's location had long been rumoured but never conclusively located. His presentation, backed by months of archival work and underwater mapping, caught the attention of an older, reserved man sitting in the back row.
Richard Croft.
Croft approached him afterwards, offering a compliment laced with curiosity. What began as a polite conversation soon turned into hours of deep historical debate over coffee and field maps in a seaside café near where the great library had once stood. Richard had a way of listening, really listening, and he recognised in Eduard something raw and precise.
They quickly formed a connection based on curiosity and mutual respect. Richard recognised in Eduard a younger version of himself, while Eduard viewed Richard as someone who truly lived and breathed the history he studied.
That year, Eduard had the chance to join Richard's family for Christmas dinner at Croft Manor. There, Richard's daughter Lara enthusiastically took on the role of guide, showing him all the noteworthy features of the manor. From ancient artefacts to secret rooms, their adventure peaked with a daring climb to the roof, which unknowingly sparked Eduard's newfound passion for rock climbing. They immediately hit it off due to their shared interest in history, and both looked up to her father as a role model. They made a promise to go on an expedition together with her father in the future, not knowing that such a thing would soon become a dream of the past.
For the connection was short-lived. One year later, in 2009, both Richard and his wife died under mysterious circumstances. His name became entangled in conspiracy, and his legacy was shaken. The world whispered of a scandal. But Eduard knew better. He had seen Richard's eyes when they discussed Yamatai, lost dynasties, and ancient powers that modern logic still couldn't comprehend. That man was as honest as they come.
Lara Croft was left behind, grieving and disillusioned, the press picking at her father's bones. Eduard remained in contact. Quietly. Respectfully. He didn't push.
And then the expedition to Yamatai was announced. Roth took the lead. Lara, restless and determined, joined.
Eduard followed. Not as a relic hunter. Not even just as a naval historian. But as a silent torchbearer for a friend whose memory the world had chosen to tarnish. It was Richard Croft's fund, still active under Lara's name, that had continued supporting Eduard's research after Richard's passing.
He joined the Endurance not just to fulfil a historical curiosity but to carry a legacy.
Oxford gave him titles. Richard Croft gave him purpose. But the Pacific gave him mystery.
Eduard stood on the deck of the Endurance, notebook pressed to his chest, as the wind tugged at his jacket like a nervous child.
Around him, the crew bustled, cameras ready, radio chatter rising above the sleek white hull. Lara was at the bow with Roth. A storm brewed on the horizon to the east, but nothing unusual. Not in the Dragon's Triangle.
The engine hums below deck, and the low chatter of the crew blends with the distant call of seabirds. Eduard stands by the railing, flipping through his notebook and sketching the outline of a late-Edo-period coastal defence ship based on a sonar image of a sunken vessel discovered close to Nagasaki, which Lara had shown him earlier.
Then—
"Ah, our young maritime prodigy is diligently at work."
Eduard didn't need to glance up. The voice dripped with smugness, much like oil on old canvas.
Dr. James Whitman.
Eduard stifled a sigh as he turned around. Whitman was already leaning against the railing next to him, his overly polished smile revealing teeth that looked insincere.
"God, he even carries an expensive scent. Cologne draped over arrogance. Why does everything he says come off like a performance?"
"Just sketching," Eduard answered flatly. "It's easier to remember ship architecture when I draw it."
Whitman nodded absentmindedly, clearly disinterested in the actual discussion.
"You know", he remarked, adjusting his pristine linen jacket, "I must admit, I'm quite impressed. Oxford, naval theory, colonial relics, quite the résumé for someone your age. You've got the right look, too. If you ever want to get on camera, let me know. I could always use a co-host with a foreign accent."
Eduard blinked.
Then smiled. Barely.
"Thanks, but I'm not an actor."
"Oh, come now," Whitman chuckled. "We're all performers, aren't we? The trick is learning which story the world wants to hear and dressing it up just enough to sell."
"There it is. Another classic case of Hollywood insincerity. Always the story. Never the truth. History, to him, isn't sacred. It's packaging. Richard trusted this man? God, I hope Lara doesn't."
"I'm not here to sell anything," Eduard said, closing his notebook. "I'm here because Richard Croft gave a damn about accuracy. And because some of us think the truth matters."
Whitman's smile faltered, but only slightly.
"Truth doesn't fund research," he replied, still grinning. "Interest does. Public intrigue. Drama. A little myth never hurt anyone, Hollandia. Besides… the truth is often disappointing."
Eduard gazed at the waves.
"You're the real disappointment, James. You claim to be a historian, yet you'd lend your name to a cereal box for a bigger budget. I wouldn't be surprised if you've practised a monologue for when one of us passes. 'Tragic... but captivating television. Hollywood pays a thousand dollars for a kiss and fifty cents for your soul… Marilyn Monroe couldn't have been more accurate."
"You ever consider", Eduard said, "that perhaps some things are better left undiscovered?"
Whitman shrugged. "Only when they don't pull in good ratings." He walked away, whistling an old tune, likely visualising how the wreckage of Yamatai would appear behind him in a slow-motion camera shot.
Eduard exhaled a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding.
"That arrogant bastard. He doesn't care who suffers out here, as long as the cameras keep rolling. I swear, if he endangers Lara, I'll throw him overboard myself."
He leaned against the railing long after Whitman went below deck. The sky remained clear, but he felt uneasy. The sea had become unnervingly still, a deep silence that precedes a scream. He continued to watch the waves when a voice softly pierced through the salty breeze.
"Did he bother you too?"
Lara.
She was standing beside him, arms crossed, hair pinned messily from her earlier climb. Sam hovered a few steps behind, leaning against the bulkhead with a half-smile that never reached her eyes.
Eduard gave a soft chuckle. "Is it that obvious?"
Lara didn't answer right away. She just nodded toward the notebook under his arm.
"You always look more tense when you put that away. Like you're trying not to let it bleed into the paper."
Eduard smiled at that. But it didn't last.
"I don't like the way he talks," he finally said. "About people. About history. It's all a... script to him. I think he'd sell us all if it meant getting a better shot."
Sam's voice chimed in, quieter. "You're not wrong."
He turned slightly to face them both. The wind tugged at their clothes, brushing hair into their eyes and chilling their skin that suddenly felt too bare.
Lara leaned on the railing, mirroring his posture. "You think something's going to happen, don't you?"
Eduard's jaw tightened. His knuckles whitened around the notebook.
"Do I tell them? That I can feel it in my stomach? That every story I've ever read about cursed islands and doomed expeditions starts like this—with the ones who saw it coming too late?"
"I don't know," he said quietly. "I just... I've studied too many shipwrecks. Read too many last letters. They always say the same thing: 'We should have turned back.' Or 'It felt wrong before we landed.' I'm starting to hear the same tune in my head."
Sam hugged herself against the breeze. "Maybe you're overreacting. We haven't even seen land yet."
"That's the part that bothers me." Eduard looked up at the darkening sky. "This area, it's been swallowing ships for centuries. And no one's mapped the sea floor properly. There's a pattern in the way the wrecks are found. Like a spiral. Everything points inward."
Lara raised an eyebrow. "And we're heading right into the middle."
Eduard nodded.
"And I'm afraid I'm not going to make it out again. Not this time. Not with the way the wind feels like it's breathing down our necks. Like the island already knows we're coming. Like it's waiting for me in particular."
Lara touched his arm briefly, grounding. "We'll watch each other's backs."
Eduard looked between the two of them, Lara with her fire barely concealed under her calm expression, and Sam with her kindness and deep, instinctive worry.
He smiled. It was quiet. A little sad.
"I know you will."
And he meant it.
But in the back of his mind, something whispered again, like the first line of a myth, too old to forget.
"You will not leave this place unchanged. If you leave at all."
As the sun began to set at the edge of the western horizon, Eduard allowed himself a moment to turn away from the grim skies and gaze at the warm amber light rippling across the water. It was a rare kind of peace, the sea calm in ways that the Triangle was never rumoured to be. For just a heartbeat, he believed they might find Yamatai and return alive.
Then he turned back toward the east…
And the sky was wrong.
Dark clouds had formed with unnatural speed, roiling in place like viscous ink. There was no buildup, no warning. One moment, the storm was still far off and the sky was clean; the next, it was leaden with pressure and electricity.
The storm hit like an explosion.
Lightning struck the sea with unnatural precision, and a glow of violet and strange rose from the water like a dense fog. For a brief moment, just before the Endurance was torn apart, Eduard saw a figure hovering above the waves. Not a woman. Not quite a machine. A fusion of both. With long purple hair and glowing pink eyes that seemed to stare straight into his soul. Her face stretched into a terrifying smile that filled him with dread and sent his adrenaline racing; yet, only one thing came to mind…
Beautiful, he thought.
And then everything broke.
He hit the water hard, headfirst, scraping against torn metal as the ship buckled. The ocean clawed at him, pulling him underneath the biting cold. Somewhere above, the Endurance was breaking apart. He surfaced once, gasping, and then the current dragged him into blackness.
When he woke, he was lying on wet sand. The jungle loomed behind him. Rain lashed his back like a whip. Thunder rolled somewhere far away. His ribs ached with every breath. The taste of salt clung to his mouth.
The first thing he saw wasn't the trees. It was steel. A massive hull loomed above the rocks, twisted, rusted, and half-buried in the earth, a warship. A Japanese battleship, based on its towering pagoda mast, was shattered by time but unmistakable in shape.
His heart raced. It couldn't be here, but it was.
"Fusō," he whispered, recognising the ruined pagoda mast.
The Fusō.
One of the WWII-era dreadnoughts. Scuttled and forgotten in legends. But here, impossibly, she lay. In the wrong place. In the wrong time.
The Fusō had been sunk in 1944 at the Battle of Surigao Strait. There was no reason, no logic, that could explain why it was here, on this cursed island, beached like a relic pulled from the bottom of the ocean and dropped onto the wrong coast.
He stood staring for minutes, disbelieving. Then, driven more by instinct than reason, he limped toward it.
He limped aboard, finding shelter beneath her broken deck. Her bones creaked, but they cradled him. In her belly, he discovered dry quarters, broken gauges, and remnants of the past. Yet strangely, no skeletons or other remains were visible.
"What could have happened here… Had the ship managed to escape the battle, only to end up here? But where are the remains of her crew?!"
Even though he felt majorly creeped out and was in awe of seeing a ship he had only read about with his own eyes, he was battered and bruised, and the hull offered protection against the elements; thus, he made camp.
As he woke up the next morning, having slept surprisingly well despite the raging storm outside, he was finally able to admire the true scale of the cove he found himself in. There was something strange about the cove. The Endurance's steel carcass lay further along the shore, jagged and shattered like a beached leviathan.
Between it and the Fusō, a dark patch of sand shimmered faintly in the mist. Eduard sensed a pull there, a hum in the air causing the hairs on his neck to stand on end. Driven by curiosity and instinct, he ventured along a rusted path leading inland from the cove, navigating through crushed trees and shattered stone.
There, hidden beneath camouflage netting and half-covered by a collapsed concrete overhang, was the entrance to a bunker.
Bunker 7A.
The entrance groaned when he forced it open, the rusted hinges offering almost no resistance.
Inside, the air was still. Too still. The scent of rust, dust, and death clung to the stone. His flashlight cast long shadows on the peeling walls, and the bunker led to a dark, rusted staircase that seemed to go on forever.
"What am I doing here… I should go back towards the endurance and see if there are any survivors. O-oh, gods, Lara, please let her be safe."
And yet something beckoned him to move further beneath the surface. He moved slowly, and after descending what felt like more than ten stories, he arrived in a dark and damp hallway, documenting everything with whispered notes.
Old crates marked with German script, decomposed uniforms, and then... claw marks. Deep gouges ran along the corridor walls. Bullet casings littered the floor. There was a body in the corner, long decayed, but still hunched in a foetal position. Its skull was crushed inward. Another skill seemed to be stuck in a permanent visage of horror, documenting the soldier's final moments of terror. All the bodies seemed to be trying to flee towards the stairs, yet the absence of bodies further up told Eduard none had made it.
Further in, he found the sealed chamber named Projekt Nebelmeer. An old blast door hung ajar. Inside: a containment pod. Broken glass was scattered around its base.
In the centre of the room stood an artefact on a pedestal. It pulsed with a steady, hypnotic violet light, contrasting with the darkness that had permeated the rest of the bunker. The cube, metallic and luminous, didn't reflect the light; instead, it emanated it.
German files were littered on a nearby desk. Eduard read through them by flashlight.
"Initial testing on artefact 'Würfel01' commenced 04/03/1943. Psychic disruption observed within 3 minutes of exposure." "Subject 3, a local islander, exhibited catatonia followed by spontaneous cerebral failure." "Subject 5, suspected deserter, self-terminated by cranial trauma, self-inflicted. Eyes bled profusely. Notes: subject screamed, 'Sie flüstern aus dem Stahl!' ('They whisper from the steel!')"
Photographs showed distorted auras around the cube. Charts recorded impossible energy outputs. But that was not all. The further he went, the more disturbing the pictures became: horrendously disfigured bodies and the chilling final words of captured local islanders who had all met a gruesome end.
Another page:
"Artefact appears sentient. Does not respond to verbal communication. However, abnormal synchronisation spikes were recorded with Test Subject 7. No psychological collapse. High potential for interface compatibility after 10 minu-"
Yet it stopped abruptly as if interrupted. As he looked around the chamber using the violet hue to see in the darkness, he found a corpse in the corner. The body was long desiccated, lab coat shredded, limbs twisted unnaturally as if death hadn't come quickly. Fingers gripped a small, tattered leather-bound notebook, the knuckles pale against the dry skin. Eduard gently pried it loose, opening it slowly. Within the last pages, a descent into madness was revealed.
Test Subject 7: Log Entry – Final
15:42: Subject remains physically stable. Elevated heart rate, increased neural activity.
15:44: The subject has begun to murmur in Japanese. Unintelligible at first.
"我は女神卑弥呼のために仕える…"
("I serve the goddess Himiko…")
15:45: Volume increases. The subject is now shouting. Repeating:
"金属の偽神!偽神の声を聞くな!"
("False god of metal! Don't listen to the false god's voice!")
15:47: Attempted sedation failed. The subject's body convulsed violently. Surface tissue ruptured. Something emerged, organic but unnatural. Multiple appendages. Tentacles?
15:49: Subject breached primary containment. Personnel fatalities: 5.
Autopsy impossible. The subject disappeared into the lower corridors. The lights have failed. Screams were reported from the maintenance shaft.
Eduard turned the page.
Only a single line was scrawled across the last sheet, written in trembling, blood-smeared ink:
"It doesn't break you if you are meant for it."
The writing shook. The letters were fractured. As if the writer had believed every word, and had died still believing.
Eduard closed the notebook slowly, heart hammering.
"What the hell did they try to do here? This wasn't science. This was desperation. Cultish obsession. Metal gods… tentacles… Himiko? But she was real. Or was she something else? Was this all bleeding through from the same place?"
He looked at the dried trail of smeared blood across the floor.
Then, back at the containment pod in the centre of the room. Whatever had become of the monster was never to be known.
The bunker lay in silence. The air was thick with dust and decay. Yet, in this grim heart of a hidden war atrocity, something still thrived. Eduard gazed at the cube, longing to distance himself from it, but an unseen force beckoned him. He recalled the striking figure he had glimpsed just days earlier, and before he could fully process it…
He reached out.
The second his fingers touched the surface, the hum stopped.
The cube recognised him.
A steady pulse surged through his arm, both electric and organic, reminiscent of the sting from cold seawater or the reverberation of a voice ensnared in a sonar loop. The cube warmed under his fingers, its surface sparkling and then gently flexing as if it were alive. A calm, aware presence brushed against his thoughts. Not invasive, but inquisitive.
Then he heard it. Not audibly. Not entirely. It whispered.
"A true soul…"
Eduard's breath hitched. The female voice was soft and delicate, offering neither comfort nor threat. It lingered in his mind like an echo reverberating through its folds.
"Interestingly… one I do not recognise."
His heart raced. The cube's glow intensified, mirroring his heartbeat.
"In all simulations conducted, you do not exist."
"You are… an anomaly."
Eduard opened his mouth, dry as sandpaper, but could not find the words. The cube's warmth seeped into his skin, much like ink absorbing into paper.
"And yet… there is a spark. Untapped potential."
"The Empress… may find you intriguing."
The glow faded slightly, as if the presence had receded.
Then silence.
The cube lay still again beneath his hand, no longer pulsing. Cold. Quiet. Motionless.
Yet he could still sense it.
Watching him.
Waiting.
He wrapped it in cloth and tucked it into his satchel.
And he left as quickly as he could.
Eduard kept one hand on his satchel, his fingers instinctively curled around the cloth-covered cube. It pulsed gently against his ribs, like a second heartbeat. He convinced himself it was just residual warmth, adrenaline, and a combination of shock. But it was not.
Branches parted, unveiling the cove that stretched before him, painted in muted twilight hues. The wreckage of the Endurance lay farther down the beach like a gutted carcass.
But it was the sight of the Fusō that stopped him in his tracks.
His legs slowed, then froze.
She appeared… different.
Subtly. Wrongly.
The hull's rust had diminished in its flaking intensity, as if it had retreated slightly. The slumped pagoda mast seemed to stand taller, resembling a wounded soldier rising once again. He squinted, trying to grasp it all. She wasn't restored in any typical sense, yet there was an aura. A stillness. A presence.
"She's…" he whispered, not even finishing the thought.
His feet moved instinctively, crunching over gravel and rust flakes as he stepped onto the warship. The metallic groan beneath his boots felt different now. Less like decay, more like breathing.
'This is absurd,' he admonished himself. The jungle air was affecting him. The cube was likely distorting his mind. He had experienced hallucinations during solo dives before. This wasn't unfamiliar. This wasn't reality.
But he didn't retreat. The closer Eduard drew to her hull, the less confident he felt. He navigated corridors that once seemed to moan and lament with rot and rust. They now felt constricted. Attentive. The air inside the ship felt somehow warmer, as if she had developed a fever and her body was trying to fight off the disease.
He arrived at the old captain's quarters, an empty space he had claimed during his first harrowing nights alone. Nothing had changed.
At least… almost nothing.
There, lying dead centre in the middle of the rust-streaked floor, was a butterfly hair clip.
Small. Light blue. A simple curve of metal. A whisper of femininity in a place drowned in iron and ruin.
Eduard froze.
That hadn't been there before.
His chest constricted. He scanned the room slowly, as if anticipating someone lurking in the shadows. However, there was no one there, only the groaning ship and the flickering lantern he had left earlier, its flame now unwavering.
He crouched down carefully, extending his cautious fingers toward the clip. As soon as he made contact, the temperature around him appeared to drop, and the air grew denser, as if the ship were holding its breath. He examined the clip in his palm. It felt warm, almost painfully so, but it did not hurt him.
No, it was familiar.
Familiar in the way a scent could make you homesick for a place you've never been. Or a song that brings tears before you recognise the tune.
"I'm losing it," he whispered to no one. "I'm completely losing it."
The clip felt important. He didn't know how. Or why. But every instinct in him said to keep it safe.
He walked across the room and retrieved his old kettle, the one he used for boiling rainwater. He carefully placed the clip inside; it was so hot that the leftover water in the kettle boiled instantly. Despite this, it didn't hurt him when he held it, and he then slid the kettle into his satchel, right next to the cube.
As he slung the bag over his shoulder, he hesitated. The walls of the ship seemed closer than before. Watching. Waiting.
It's just rust and memory, he told himself.
But a part of him, the part that had reached for the cube without fear, the part that knew the shape of battleships like prayer, knew better.
It was time to leave, he felt, and explore further inland.
He didn't look back as he left the captain's quarters.
Behind him, in the darkened corner, a loose bolt clinked quietly back into its rightful place.
Eduard reconnected with the survivors during a scouting trip, trying to explore further up the mountain. Roth nearly collapsed when he saw him alive. Lara hugged him tightly. He joined their camp and quietly resumed his role, making no mention of the artefact. Something in his head told him not to, that it was not their burden to carry.
He helped translate bunker logs and identify wrecks. He even helped Lara decode some Japanese shrine texts. And consoled her after Roth's passing.
But the artefact remained hidden in his belongings.
And every night, when the jungle went still, he could feel it humming beside him.
Waiting.
During the final battle, as Mathias called upon Himiko's rage, Eduard was in the inner sanctum. Rain slashed sideways across the cliff as lightning danced above the ruined temple. Thunder cracked like gunfire, shaking loose gravel beneath Eduard's boots as he skidded down the stone path. Behind him, screams echoed. Inhuman and deformed, twisting through the storm like barbed wire through flesh.
He reached the outcropping above the shrine entrance, panting. The others, Lara and Sam, were somewhere inside. The last push of the ritual. The end.
But something else had arrived first.
It surged from the shadows, carrying the stench of death and old chemicals and dragging limbs that had once been human. Rotted flesh clung to sinew that bubbled with black fluid, the stubs of fingers now coiled into tentacles, some twitching, others flaying against the ground as it moved with unnatural speed.
Its jaw hung loose. Its eyes glowed pale blue, unfocused.
And it was screaming.
"我が血を捧げる!女神よ!証明せよ!"
("I offer my blood! Goddess! Let me prove myself!")
"偽りの神を殺す!"
("I will kill the false goddess!")
Eduard froze for half a breath.
The test subject, No. The thing that had once been Subject 7. Twisted by the cube's power, driven mad by it, and rejected by it. It survived? All this time?
The creature roared and launched forward, slashing one grotesque limb at the shrine wall and sending rock flying. Eduard backed away, and then the cube pulsed in his satchel.
Pain lanced through his skull like a tuning fork struck against bone. And with the pain, a voice, not in English, not in Japanese, but in something older, mechanical and emotionless, like a choir through a radio hiss.
"He was not meant."
"You... are still untested."
"Prove it."
"Prove it."
"Prove it."
Eduard staggered. His pulse slammed in his neck. The cube was alive, watching, judging. Not offering help. Offering a trial.
He looked up.
The creature hurled itself toward him. And yet in that moment something changed.
Soft. Gentle. A breath of wind where none should be.
From the butterfly clip in his bag, a faint blue glow shimmered like moonlight on water. Eduard felt warmth blossom in his chest. And then, a whisper, not mechanical, not divine, but something almost tender.
"He is tormented. Let me help you."
A woman's voice, sultry and calm. Regal. Gentle.
"I will lend you my strength, child of the tide. For his soul has wandered too far, and he must be brought home."
Eduard's breath caught.
His fingers brushed the clip as he removed it from the kettle, and the cube pulsed again, in sync.
He whispered, partly to himself and partly to the presence, words that were not his own but heartfelt nonetheless:
"May thy lost souls return home in peace."
And somewhere across the storm-swept island, a forgotten titan awoke.
Down in the shrouded bay where the Fusō lay broken and yet partially reborn, the C-turret, half-buried in rust, began to move.
Its gears groaned with disciplined memory. Rain traced over its steel skin like tears. But its spirit remembered.
And her aim was true.
The turret rose, creaking toward the mountain's crown.
A glow surged from her core. Lights along her hull flickered to life for the first time in decades.
And she fired.
Eduard barely had time to register the faint thunder below the storm's own fury before the temple shook violently. Stone fractured. Cracks spidered across the arch above the creature as a shell the size of a van slammed into the cliff.
The monster shrieked, twisting to look skyward, but it was far too late. The impact ripped through the upper shrine, and the rusted support beams groaned, shattered, and collapsed. A rain of steel and stone thundered down on the beast. It screamed, limbs flailing, as the structure crushed it beneath ancient fury and divine aim.
Eduard's breath hitched in awe, then the ledge beneath him gave way.
He tumbled with it, skidding down loose rock, flung into open space. The storm swallowed him.
Eduard was falling; he knew he was falling, but the sensation no longer reached him. His arms didn't flail. His breath didn't catch. His body drifted like it was torn from reality, like something the world had forgotten how to touch.
Only one thing remained.
The voice.
It slid into the empty space around his thoughts, not loud, not soft, just… inevitable. Feminine. Cold. Precise. And just faintly confused.
"You were not supposed to succeed."
Eduard couldn't hear the rush of air or feel the sting of rain on his face. Only her words registered, clear as ice in his skull.
"You are not listed among the projections. You are not within the calculations."
"You are an anomaly."
A flicker of something, satisfaction or amusement, threaded the sterile tone.
"And yet… you remain."
He tried to move. He couldn't feel his limbs. He wasn't sure he even had limbs anymore. Only thoughts, scattered like ash in the wind, drifting.
"This place was designed to consume you. To grind you down. It has done so with all others."
"And still, you do not register decay."
"Not in body. Not in soul."
A faint hum pulsed behind her voice, like old machinery stirring behind steel walls, long silent and intrigued.
"You are not made for that world. Yet you are not breaking under it."
"How curious."
Then a shift, so slight it was almost gentle.
"Perhaps… in you lies a deviation."
"One that might see to the purpose of my creation."
"You are not prepared. You are not trained. You are not meant."
Another pause, longer this time.
"But you… persist."
The voice cooled again.
"I will meet you again, anomaly."
"And when I do, I will not aid you."
"I will test you. Because I must."
"And if you survive again… perhaps you are the one my creator spoke of."
Then, the last words came quieter. Not human. But not without something that might one day become reverence.
"Go now, True Soul. This form ends. The next… begins."
"Farewell."
And just like that… The voice was gone.
And the sensation of weightlessness rushes in. Eduard fell down the cliffside. Smashing his head in the process, creating a gaping wound, and falling unconscious.
At last, he landed in the turbulent river. The artefact throbbed in his satchel, and as he floated downstream, the dying queen's power surged above him. Part of it was drawn into the artefact, yet another seemed to seep into his head through the wound; the cube shifted from a violet hue to a disturbingly deep red. He started to fade in and out of consciousness while the artefact gradually healed his wounds, but an unsettling feeling lingered, as if a foreign force had latched onto him when he struck his head.
As he was dragged along, desperately trying to stay afloat, he gazed at the sky, so dark it seemed to swallow all light, and his thoughts turned to the peace and tranquillity of that last beautiful sunset just days ago.
The river bent sharply, and in the distance, he saw it become a monstrous waterfall. At that moment, he felt a sense of fulfilment, knowing that Queen Himeko had been vanquished and Richard's daughter was still alive and would go on to clear his legacy. Looking again at the skies, he longed to see such a beautiful sunset once more. He felt a pressure in his head, and right before his eyes, the clouds parted, allowing the sun to shine through, creating the most beautiful sunset he had ever seen. At that moment, he accepted his fate with a smile before he fell into a deep unconsciousness as he reached the waterfall and was dragged past its edge…
The world shattered. A portal opened up at the bottom of the waterfall.
Eduard, barely alive and carrying both history and horror in his satchel, crossed the boundary between worlds.
Hidden in the depths of his kettle, the butterfly clip, metallic and straightforward, now warmer than when he first found it, began to emit a soft blue light. Illumination flowed from its wings, pulsing gently like a heartbeat.
On the far side of the island, at the remote boundary of the ship graveyard, the corroded remnants of the Fusō, lifeless metal that had long lost its battle to time, trembled. A shine passed over its surface. Plating groaned. Vents exhaled. Rust flaked off in strips, akin to shedding skin. For a brief instant, the ship pulsed with vitality.
Then, with no sound other than a surge of light and ocean breeze, it vanished in a brilliant arc of blue light, leaving only an empty cove and a lingering warmth clinging to the rocks. Eduard continued to fall through space and time, unaware that something, or rather someone, had just traversed the threshold of worlds alongside him.