Chapter 82: Humanity Conquered the Land, But Not the Sea
Humanity had conquered the land but never the sea. As a result, people naturally learned less and less about the ocean, and ignorance bred the unknown. That's why they believed the bizarre, grotesque things beyond human knowledge and common sense mostly came from the sea. Like typhoons born in the deep that ravaged the land, like schools of fish suddenly dying and washing up on beaches, like the dead rising from the waters.
Sea fog rolls in. They return. Starved and parched. Withered by scorching sun and bitter cold. Stay away from the sea.Barricade yourself indoors. When the sea fog retreats once more, check your soul first.
"By the time you realize it's been stolen, it'll be too late."
I hummed a little tune under my breath, one foot propped on the bow as I faced the waves rising like giants time and again. When massive swells loomed like jaws ready to swallow our little fishing boat whole, they inevitably split apart right at the prow, crashing left and right as if slamming into an invisible pillar. The morning sun that should have risen from the east long ago was nowhere to be seen, replaced by thick sea fog creeping in over the water's surface like a living thing.
The madwoman folded a talisman neatly and flung it toward the churning sea beyond. A geyser erupted with a whoosh, like a whale spouting from its blowhole. I nodded as I watched hundreds, sometimes thousands, of things beneath the surface swarm to seize that single talisman. It must burn away the heavy grudges and karma of vengeful spirits by force, lightening earthbound souls (water vengeful ghosts, localized spirits) tied to a specific area or time, if only temporarily. Naturally, the older and heavier the grudge, the more agony they'd feel upon contact—like rolling in the fires of hell. But it offered escape from eternal torment or oblivion. Touch the talisman, let it incinerate their accumulated resentment and karma, and they could break free from the suffocating depths, ascending with the shaman's aid.
Of course, forcing the burning of a vengeful spirit's karma placed no small burden on the shaman. Shamans are said to dread the karma of annihilation or killing above all. It goes against heaven's will for those who aid the living along the gods' path and guide the dead properly to shoulder such immense sins. The karma fire talisman she'd just tossed was something even seasoned shamans avoided. Hell, I hadn't even known anyone actually used them until I saw it with my own eyes.
"You sure it's okay to throw that out? This sea's crawling with more drowned ghosts than you could ever count. Even if you invoked the gods and pulled souls nonstop for 365 days straight, using every drop of blood and sweat for more talismans, you couldn't save them all."
"...I know. I just wanted to see if they're attacking the living of their own will... or if they're being forced into it."
"These drowned ghosts swarming us—normally they'd just drift aimlessly in the sea, but now some other force is driving them straight at us?"
"Yeah. They're terrified of suffering, of being devoured, so they're clinging to us desperately. Begging us to pull them out of the water. I told you before—half the reasons fishermen die are just bad luck, but the other half... it's because they failed to protect what they should have."
The madwoman circled the boat's perimeter slowly, shaking her bell with a soft tinkle-tinkle.
"Vengeful spirits sometimes hit a tipping point all at once, overflowing with resentment and rage. There are ancient ones steeped for ages, their grudges so thick they can't contain the killing karma fueled by the sea's abundant yin energy—they're scattered like grains of sand in a desert. Imagine heading out to sea, casting nets and lines, when those bastards are gnashing their teeth. What happens? Accidents, obviously. But the ones crowding us now? They're not rampaging out of hate. They're just scared of the pain, desperate to escape the vast ocean that's trapped them against their will. So they flock to the living."
"The living look like a lifeline to them, huh."
Well, yeah. Picture a sinner roasting to a crisp in hell, staring at some saint in paradise sipping cool wine right in front of him. Of course he'd beg for help or drag the guy down just to climb out himself.
That made the scene even more nauseating.
"The Father of all things casts out none, loving all equally, so no darkness can exist beneath His radiant light."
But what the hell was this? If not darkness, then what? Hell, even calling it 'darkness' felt too poetic, too dignified. This was dregs. A present-world hell where the unloved, the ignored, the unjudged—whether unjustly slain or deservedly dead—all suffered equally. These were the scraps He'd discarded, the stains He'd turned away from. I pitied the things lurking beneath the surface, waiting endlessly for Judgment Day.
I tell you truly: You must believe in Jesus, Father of all things. Do so, and heaven's gates will open; you'll be free from all the world's evil and pain.
Even if I preached that, their shattered selves and minds, eroded by eons of agony, wouldn't grasp the very concept of heaven. No matter how gently I polished them, washed away their sins, freed them from torment—how could they even comprehend Jesus or paradise? It'd be like kidnapping an innocent soul, locking them in an asylum, drugging them senseless for half a lifetime, then dumping them back into society one day. Tell that person, "Hey! You're free now! No more drugs, no chains, no cages—you can do whatever you want!" You think they'd even understand?
I don't get seasick, but the revulsion was unbearable anyway.
The Trinity. Three yet one, one yet three. Perfect in essence alone. He holds the divine aspect of Creator and the human empathy for His creations—so is that truly '100% pure perfection'? If not absolute purity, why call Him complete, perfect, flawless?
"That's exactly why I exist."
The unequally unloved, the unfairly unjudged, the denied rightful ends—they all deserve justice. It's the Creator's duty to uphold His creations' rights. Amid the thick fog, shoving aside the clinging drowned ghosts at the bow, I spotted a massive fishing boat approaching. It had been blasting SOS signals nonstop from the wheelhouse radio, luring the living like an ant-trap ghost ship from the sea. Its nets held not fish, but fishermen who'd gone out for the day's catch—captured, weeping blood tears, wailing pitifully: "Save me, please.""Get me out of here, I beg you.""It was all my fault."
Figures emerging one by one from the ghost ship were drowned ghosts with flesh ravaged by fish bites or bodies bloated from the water. They clutched skewers for impaling their catches, corroded filleting blades strapped where hands should be. Crabs had made homes in empty eye sockets, curling tight; each breath gaped wounds like fish gills fluttering open.
No lingering ties to life, fully embracing death—yet rejecting the living's right to breathe. To them, the sea's bounty of life was a dead sea that ought to be filled with corpses. They scattered indiscriminate murder like inevitable typhoons or tsunamis.
I shot back, "And who permitted you to do that?"
They spoke as one: