Krafft's Anomaly Notes

Chapter 413 Blindness
Snow is not a sudden, blanket of snow, but rather scattered, tiny grains of sleet against a chaotic backdrop, mixed with mist, stirred up and lifted by the wind, swirling in the air.

There was no clear trajectory, only a rough, grayish-white expanse, like turbulent currents in a reef area, churning and rolling.

Unlike the tranquil and smooth snow on land, it only gives people a sense of restlessness.

An overwhelming anxiety rose with the wind and snow, and when he looked toward the bow of the ship, the turmoil in his mind almost drowned out the sound of the wind.

Their last visual connection to the foreship, the brazier, is now even more blurred.

There is no longer a transition between near and far, only abrupt existence or complete emptiness remains.

A faint, illusory bright spot lingered in the field of vision, flickering and swaying, repeatedly swallowed and exhaled by the wind and snow, ready to disappear completely at any moment.

Oliver stared intently at the light, his eyes bulging in the cold wind, almost forgetting what he was supposed to do. Each time it briefly disappeared, his heart clenched, until it laboriously reappeared.

Things did not go as he wished; the disappearances became increasingly prolonged, while the reappearances became increasingly brief and dim.

Finally, it was completely erased from view, and from beginning to end, it failed to convey the true distance between the two ships.

Short, dull thuds came from above, like a giant hand pounding a damp drumhead.

He looked up and saw that the sail was no longer billowing, but was being repeatedly pulled tight and loosened by the turbulent wind.

The heavy canvas first swelled to its limit, then was flattened and collapsed by the turbulent current, violently thrown against the mast. Immediately afterwards, the sail caught the wind again, straightened up again, and a buzzing and slight pulling and tearing sound came, a signal that the fibers were nearing their limit.

The ropes were no longer under uniform tension, but instead switched between high-pitched tension and low-pitched strain as the wind shifted. Several secondary ropes rubbed against each other, producing short, irregular, and harsh scraping sounds that constantly reminded them that they were under excessive and irregular tension.

A stronger gust of wind comes, and the entire rope system sounds at the same time, like a tavern musician suddenly plucking all the strings. A series of tight, taut sounds rise from the sail's head, along the ropeway to the highest point, and then abruptly stop at the mooring point.

The barely audible hum pierces the wind, indicating that the structure is adjusting its posture at the limit.

Experienced sailors know that this is not a sign of impending breakage, but rather a reminder, a warning.

The Iceberg is a large ship that has weathered many storms, but it is too old after all. If we sit idly by, its next warning may not be the last one it issues.

All the figures on the deck stopped moving, like ice sculptures frozen in place.

Oliver knew that their eyes were not elsewhere, but on him; the ship was awaiting the captain's orders.

He glanced one last time at the firelight ahead and shouted an order to the winch:
"Main sail, reduce to half!"

The experienced crew, well-prepared, turned the axle, and the winch regained control of the cable. The canvas was folded up, and the wavy edge was constantly slapped, the sound becoming lower and more muffled, closer to the hull, like a giant crouching down.

Sluggish, but tending towards stability.

At the same time, they undoubtedly slowed down.

Stepping onto the slippery deck, Oliver rushed to the Bronze, took a deep breath, and blew the agreed-upon deceleration signal with all his might.

The resonance of the metal spread outwards, entering the murky, chaotic white, where it was sheared by the airflow and scattered by the snow particles.

Imagine a bucket of dye poured into the sea; it vanishes in an instant, barely lingering, let alone being noticed by someone far away.

He leaned over the gunwale, pulling his ear out from under his hat brim, waiting for a reply.

Unfortunately, no sound came until the ear lost its sensation of temperature.

The light ahead flashed once and then vanished completely, disappearing into the vast snowstorm and never reappearing.

Unlike the Iceberg, the Snowpine had sturdier sails and masts, allowing it to sail at full speed in bad weather without fear of damage. As long as the speed difference was maintained for a period, the distance would quickly widen. Perhaps William heard his signal, but the ship was too large and the crew's coordination was not yet smooth enough to slow down in time.

Or perhaps William didn't hear the signal, was so engrossed in the new ship's superior performance that he was completely unaware of the Iceberg's predicament.

Whatever the reason, the two ships have completely broken off and lost all contact.

A thought I'd never had before jumped into my mind—

I have to rely on myself now.

The thought flashed through his mind like an icicle, and before he could even react, he stared blankly at the empty space in front of him, subconsciously waiting a few breaths, as if giving that glimmer of light a chance to reappear.

The wind continued to push the snow and fog, gray and white swirling, but no bright color ever emerged.

His chest suddenly felt empty, like a boy who had suddenly realized he was separated from his father. His breathing paused briefly, then became rapid, so rapid that he belatedly realized that the previous breath had not yet fully entered his lungs.

True independence arrived unexpectedly.

Although every command no longer required permission, it was only now that he realized the two were not the same.

The previous independence was still based on the premise that there were people in front of you.

Even just an outline, a glimmer of light, is enough to catch up with a ship if necessary.

Now, the premise no longer exists.

When the realization of "relying on oneself" falls on one's shoulders, it brings not panic, but a brief period of clear blankness.

He stood still, not moving immediately, until he heard the time bell ringing in the cabin.

The arm was raised, not as a deliberate movement, nor as a subconscious defense, but as an extremely familiar swing—towards the crew behind him, from shoulder to wrist, the amplitude small but clear.

That was a gesture signaling a shift change and a break; he had done it countless times, from his early days as first mate to now, without needing to think about it.

The sailors responded immediately, their footsteps crisscrossing on the slippery deck as they made their way to the hatches, calling out names one by one.

Then someone else responded, crawling out from under the deck to take over the post.

The boats continued to operate, the bells stopped ringing, and the wind and snow persisted.

After the handover was completed, he slowly came to his senses and realized that no one knew or cared what he was thinking.

The captain of the Iceberg straightened up by holding onto the gunwale, letting his legs carry him back to the helm, where he grabbed the handle.

Perhaps the frost had stuck to the leather of the gloves, which made them gripped exceptionally firmly, and they didn't slip off even a fraction of an inch amidst the turbulent waves.

This is a good habit. You know, when a ship is about to throw someone overboard, it doesn't distinguish between ordinary sailors and the captain.

So when the loud slapping sound and the subsequent jolts came, he swayed only slightly before regaining his balance and immediately looked toward the source of the sound.

The waves weren't high, but their direction was unusually strange, completely out of line with the other waves.

The shadow of the wave crest seems to be half a beat ahead of the wave itself.

　The author... is almost there.
　　(End of this chapter)