Riding Lugh would be the quickest way to get back to Diamane from Lapis, but I decided not to contact the base to send transport. It is not as though anyone I'll be putting anyone in danger by delaying my return, and there are too many things there that I'd rather not be dealing with right now.

I didn't want to report the incident at Allegro to Klaus, and earn another paperwork to top off the mile-high mountain of unfinished reports that I would still need to submit one day.

I didn't want to be bombarded with questions the others would certainly have about the 'Mystery of the Vanishing Anomaly' and 'From Sight to Sound—Can An Anomaly Change Its Type? Questions that I have no answers to.

I didn't want to deal with Renee and Dylan's reactions when they inevitably find out about Lennard's passing, and my role in causing it.

Instead, I weaved my way through the grid-patterned layout of Baracalle's marketplace, stopping by several stalls to treat myself with some skewered lobstertail, pan fried yam doughs, and blood orange liqeur.

Celine, as before, had refused to indulge in any of the delicacies I offered. Instead, she crossed her arms and puckered her lips in annoyance every time I slowed my steps, while griping about her need to see someone who could offer her better assistance as soon as possible.

Kids these days have no patience, do they? No respect, either.

I was somewhat inclined to make even more stopovers along the way just to teach her a lesson in waiting, but I am not free to linger too long if I wanted to catch the midday voyage back to Diamane. The Chief of Logistics would never send transport except in emergencies or official requests, but being a Scry Master, he'd know exactly what I'm doing right here, right now.

Due to the limited number of transports available at the base, I can afford dallying as long as I make the return journey at the earliest possible opportunity—as I've told Celine last night—but there will certainly be hell to pay if I missed that first opportunity due to what Klaus would consider 'pointless recreation'.

As we trekked down the slopes of the tiered streets, I could see a number of ships of sail from the ocean, and into the inlet leading to the Port of Stoma—our next destination.

The Port of Stoma is the largest ship harbour in the peninsula, if not the entirety of the continent. Seated at the armpit of the jutting landmass, the port connects Baracalle to the venussteel-rich nations of Antam at the south, Khalkonna at the northwest, and Halva, which—while but a small country—has a direct route to Corundum's crown jewel of economic and technological advancement, Padparadscha.

Going back to the base via this sea route would take a hundred times longer than traveling on Lugh's back, but the three-and-a-half hour additional break would be a welcome one. With enough luck, the Cantata's departure time would be delayed by at least another hour.

But luck, as it turns out, wasn't on my side—as it almost never was. When I arrived at the ticketing booth to book cabins for myself and the new recruit that I've been saddled with for the last twenty hours (separate ones, of course), the clerk informed us that the ship we're about to ride is set to deparin just ten minutes. So we had to rush down the pier and charge up the boarding ramp, barely managing to stumble onto the deck when the ship began to sail away from the port.

I leaned against the railing for a few moments to catch my breath, and when I turned around, Celine had already disappeared. Perhaps she'd tucked herself into her cabin, or maybe she'd gone to explore the lower decks.

Oh, well. Peace at last.

Lifting up my gaze towards the vast sky above, I watched the sylph-like strands glide above the white blankets that covered the glare of the noonday sun. Swept by the zephyr, the clusters of water and ice crystals broke and then reforged, forming scattered images of a two-headed jellyfish, a four-legged chicken, and a disembodied hand with six fingers.

I do not practice nephomancy, nor have I ever seen clouds as a signifier of anything other than the weather, but the pictures they paint never fail to tell me fascinating stories. They are our celestial counterparts, after all—sky-bound sentinels defending us mere mortals from the Daystar's blazing inferno.

Moments such as this is what I live for. Moments where I could savour the pictureque majesty of this world, without being burdened by the cares of Anomalies, pointless paperwork, and needy colleagues. Just me, the scenery, and—

"Excuse me, mister," a nasally voice chriped from somewhere behind me, forcing me to plummet back to the earth with a thousand pound-force. "Are you a Gatekeeper?"

Oh, for goodness' sake!

"No, I am not, sorry to disappoint." I hurried to flip my satchel over to hide the traitorous suncross symbol carved on its fastener, and scribbled another metal note to finally get a new carrier for my items—one that is free from any visual associations to my work.

The freckled kid didn't seem to believe my denial, but the emergence of a school of flying fish diverted his attention, so I took this opportunity to make myself scarce and dashed into the belly of the ship.

Once safe below deck, I made a beeline for the bar tucked behind the staircase. I've always been partial to the Cantata's rum coffee despite its unpopularity among my fellow Gatekeepers, and the background din from the other passengers playing darts and poker and whatnot often provides interesting entertainment.

There was only two other guests at the pub when I entered, which was more than fine. I'd take peace and quiet to entertainment any day, even though the former is usually much harder to find.

Taking a seat on the too-high stool, I wasted no time ordering three sets of my chosen beverage, drumming my fingers against the polished surface of the giada-wood counter whilst I wait for my drink.

And, of course, that brief moment of tranquility was immediately destroyed before I could savour it. The bartender didn't even have the time to prepare my order when a series of loud clangs echoed from the hull, amidst the faint cries of, "Anomaly attack!"

As I looked round to find that familiar glittering torrent, I noticed the ever-growing network of black patches appearing along the wooden floors and panels, I knew that this was caused by a Rot Anomaly. Judging from the rate of decomposition, this particular Anomaly isn't very strong, but the Rot is the worst kind of Anomaly to have in a wooden vessel that's currently drifting in the middle of the ocean. If left unchecked, it could spell doom on everyone aboard the Cantata.

I pulled out an ampoule of albedo tincture and dripped it onto the piece of crystal I picked from Allegro—a remnant from that missing Mirage Anomaly. Unlike the nigredo tincture, which relishes in impurities, the albedo tincture will only permeate into materials that lacks it, thus bringing forth the unique properties that were otherwise inhibited by corruption.

Having drawn out the quartz's healing abilities with the white tincture, I drew the jagged facet of the stone against the rotting parts of the ship to reverse the putrefaction process.

Sometimes, symptoms have to be dealt with before the source of the problem could be managed—the Distortions to be eliminated before the Anomalies themselves. But in the end, the root must be destroyed, and following the trail of decay led me back up to the deck, where a lone figure stood by the bow—a foul-smelling mist emanating from his lanky frame, while the ground beneath his feet blackened.

Moving closer to this new Anomaly's vessel, I immediately recognized that spotted face: it belonged to the boy that had briefly spoke to me at the deck earlier.

Dammit. Why?

Anomalies don't possess civilians.

They could, theoretically, do so, of course. However, taking a corporeal form puts an Anomaly at a higher risk of elimination. Consequently, they would never possess another being unless the host offers something that could offset the shortcomings of becoming flesh. Something like spellstone abilities.

For this rotten menace to take the body of a powerless child…

Something is definitely very, very wrong here. And I swear, I will get to the bottom of this.