III
April, 2008
It was a large freighter of over 300 meters in length, and almost full to capacity. The Chungking Express was bound for Kobe from the mainland, the first major transfer of the fiscal year—a good start to the year.
When other ships in the vicinity lost radio contact, it was thought to be a normal occurrence. The weather was not ideal, with spring winds and the occasional precipitation making the waters a little choppy and the atmosphere a little charged. Though a cargo ship of that size was new to the region, radios malfunctioned all the time. One minute the captain of the ship is chatting with fishermen hailing from Nagasaki, the next there’s silence over the airwaves.
Well, the fishermen would say, the captain of the Chungking would either get his equipment running, or he would get a ribbing from his fellows when he made it to port. There were no worries: cargo ships like that could plow right through any weather the Sea of Japan had to offer—this was not a northern shore where the Pacific waters became treacherous.
Many kilometers away, in the back rooms of a church in Fuyuki, a chime set to ring under certain circumstances begged to differ.
His communion with the Apostles of his blood had told them what to do. It had secured his release, though interference had delayed it by over two decades.
His time within the coffin, bereft of lifeblood had weakened him. But his distortions had kept him alive, the bending of reality around him with his eyes. He had found the power to crack the foundations of his prison, to disturb the physical body that made it up, though he could not destroy the container itself as weak as he was.
But through his machinations, he had managed to drive his distortions out into the surround, into the water that flowed and swirled around him. He could not drive himself out of his stone prison without the blood of the humans, but he could bring that blood to him—
The plan had called for the sacrifice of twenty, the same number of lives that had sealed him away, that had used holy scriptures and mystical arts to damage his physical body and drain him of energy. By the laws of magic that governed his eyes, he needed as many to reverse the damage and destroy the power that contained him.
Though only four had come, a fifth of what was needed.
Still, it had been enough to damage the seal, had been enough to extend his influence. He could reach out beyond his coffin, could distort the seas around him, and, eventually, his distortions had reached the surface, had entrapped a vessel of iron, a vessel running on the blood of human work. He tore that ship down into the depths and fed upon those within until he was strong again. Strong as he had been before, like he had never suffered the loss of power to begin with.
It was no coincidence that the moon was in ascendance, waxing nearly full when his power reached others, when he gorged himself until he was bloated and saturated.
And like stories of ghost ships haunting the seas, he reared the vessel back into the open air, now a distortion under his sovereignty.
Rochus, one of the Dead Apostle Ancestors, was released from his bindings.
After the early 17th Century, religious movements from the West were limited within Japan’s borders. Christians were executed and religious influence was snuffed out, forcing active members of the Church to go underground and stay hidden from the eyes. The official numbers of followers disappeared. The undocumented numbers dwindled. Functional members of the Church that operated in the shadows—the Executors—became but a handful within the region.
Rochus hated the Church.
He had trekked with the Dutch traders in Japan, the secular men that had no ties to the Christians of Portugal and other countries influencing the isolated country. He had thought, by traveling there, he could establish himself away from the prying eyes of the Church and the subtle conflicts of domain and personality with the Apostles of Europe. Japan was ideal, far and away from any strong influence—
But the members of the Church still there, hidden away from the eyes of the Shogunate, had been all the more militant about keeping their borders clear. Though persecuted, though gaining little outside help from the Holy See in Europe, the remaining members were the strongest and most clever, ones capable of protecting themselves from both the mundane and the magical.
Though he had time to set up, had time to create followers, it was not long before the Church had tracked him down. They had sent all available resources in the country to work for his destruction—meeting destruction themselves.
The bastards.
So he had sat, contained, the Church unable to muster the strength to destroy him entirely—the isolated Japanese had not the tools necessary to do much but seal him away—and his power had weakened to but the most miniscule of influence outside his stone prison. He had long since distorted his own existence to the degree that the lack of sustenance could not kill him, and even beneath the seas, he could regain strength with each phase of the moon. But enough power had been taken, had been drained, and so he sat, waiting, unable to do anything for himself.
Biding his time and allowing for his progeny to do its work.
It had taken them centuries to find the correct information, the records of where the Church had sealed him away. It had taken nearly another ten years to ascertain what was required to return their sire to the world, to settle on a plan that was quiet and effective.
Yet still, they were found out.
However, it mattered little in the end, the meticulous plans and time wasted. Rochus was patient—he had all the time in the world—and his offspring had managed enough. He was freed some time later than originally planned, but still within the realm of fast, relative to the life span of an immortal. Now he could use all of the plans and ideas he had while festering in his coffin, could show the Church what it meant to be patient if its current state could even muster a force to attempt on his life.
Rochus stood on the bow of the ship, appraising the island country. From what he could understand in the passage of time, over two hundred years had passed since he was sealed away. Japan had certainly changed—the ship he had stolen had proven that, made of iron and other materials he was not even familiar with. Learning what he could from distorting his victims’ memories, he could gather that technology had leapt forward and magic was considered nothing but myth to the people.
All the better. It fit into his original plans for such isolation.
There were more people, however—lights made a haze of color on the horizon, even before the shore could be seen clearly. It reminded Rochus of days before his containment, of fireflies gathering about the rivers around Japan, around the land he would now claim as his own territory.
Perhaps, then, he would look into the other psychics he had heard of within the borders, the demon hunter clans that could show even members of the Church elite a thing or two. Their power, after all, was like the power he had mastered in his mortal life, the power that had seen him through when his transformation to Dead Apostle had come to be—
The ship he had commandeered was still a ways from reaching port, but he could easily see, under the moonlit sky, the five figures standing upon the jetty closest to his approach. Though indiscernible from any other beings that peppered the land, going about their late-night work, even at this distance he could tell that these were not the kind of ordinary people going about mundane lives. It was not quite a full sensation, though as one who lived over time fighting beings of supernatural power, it was the kind of periphery perception that was gained from surviving.
Rochus felt these were the ones sent to greet him. He knew that, sealed away by the Church, the survivors of his last battle would have set an alarm of sorts on him, a warning if he were to escape. He had imagined how many his enemies would send to face him, what their strength would be. After pillaging the minds of the freighter’s crew, however, he had come to wonder if there would be any to face him to begin with, the perceived strength of the Church so weak within the borders of Japan, the strength of those who knew the darkness that existed more hidden away than ever compared to older times.
“A mere five. It took twenty members of the Church to even come close to defeating me before, and they have sent five. I am…disappointed.” Though the outcome of the battle had resulted in his imprisonment, it still allowed a small sense of satisfaction to know how much the members of the Church had suffered for it. It had taken all twenty to contain him, and he had killed all but two when the seal had been secured on his coffin.
And though he had been sealed away, his progeny had survived. That seemed a greater victory, in light of what he had gleaned from the minds of the ship’s crew—that the Church, though returned to Japan in official capacity, had little influence over the island nation. Less influence than even the rest of the powerful nations in Asia.
“So the Church has grown weak in the time since it has sealed me, at least within these borders.” Rochus nodded to himself, then turned his gaze upon the cargo containers on the deck of the freighter behind him. “Still, a good opportunity to see how much of my strength I have regained.”
The violet hue to his eyes seemed to grow, like the nighttime sky was overtaking his irises, and he channeled his manipulations through them, envisioning what he wanted—
A spark of electricity ran from the deck up to the topmost cargo container of one stack, electrifying the entire set. He surged the distortion of his world into their very existence.
Rochus then turned his gaze back out past the bow of the ship, toward the docks where those sent to greet him had assembled.
They were indeed a mere five, a tiny handful, all the Church of Japan could muster. Only two of those five were even representatives of the Church, and neither looked the part—one wore a black and grey form-fitting outfit that looked less like clothing and more like a gymnast’s leotard. The other wore a blue dress that flared out at the hips, leaving her shoulders and thighs bare, though the latter was countered by over-knee boots.
“How much of his strength do you think remains?” the first, Caren Ortensia, wondered aloud. She brushed absently at a red length of cloth woven through her arms as if she could wear it like a shawl. “After two hundred and eighty years of imprisonment, it must be limited.”
The latter woman sighed as she stared out over the harbor waters, her eyes almost glowing under the moonlight. “He should be at a fraction of his capacity, but he isn’t even the danger directly.” Ciel shook her head, dark locks swaying. “The reports on his initial capture said that he was probably a psychic before his turning. His abilities are like Mystic Eyes, actualizing distortions with a gaze, though they bend the active will of a thing. In that way, he doesn’t even have to move to be dangerous. I can already detect irregularities around the ship, almost like a series of boundary fields—he’s making the ship like his own personal mobile fortress.”
“Boooring,” the third person said. Her legs kicked out over the edge of the dock she sat at, a child forced to wait patiently. Or not-so-patiently. “He should distort the distance between us so he can hurry it up and get closer.” Arcueid Brunestud did not even particularly feel this entire situation necessary—she would have gravitated toward this returning Ancestor eventually, or he to her—but that lingering sense of responsibility coupled with Ciel’s request for help could not go unanswered.
Not that, of course, Ciel asked her in particular.
“Shiiiiiikiiiiiii,” Arc whined, leaning back and glancing over her shoulder into the darkness cast by one of the numerous containers on the dock. “Did we really have to get here three hours early?”
It wasn’t a completely pointless question, either. The amount of effort required to actually ensure Arcueid could feint off her “programming,” her deeply-rooted predilection to sleep now that her duties were over, they meant a daily conflict, a daily struggle.
Her continued existence of smiles and enjoyment could only be maintained by the continued efforts of the one that no longer looked upon them.
The wrappings around Shiki Tohno’s eyes kept him from directly viewing the True Ancestor, though his attention was on her, his concealed and covered face turned in her direction as if the barrier were no impediment to his gaze. He gave a faint smile from the cargo container’s shadow, a gesture that was at least enough to momentarily placate the blond vampiress’ impatience.
Momentarily.
“Boooooored,” she moaned, thirty seconds later.
“Not for long,” the last figure said, from atop the same container, his feet planted and his eyes on the horizon and the distant speck of a ship. His red hair was matched by something resembled a knight’s surcoat, the styling matched by the breastplate around his chest. Though his eyes did not have anything particularly special about them compared to the others, they kept vigil in the moonlight like an owl waiting for prey. “I think…he’s about to do something.” Shirou Emiya blinked once, then nodded. “Yep.” His tone was casual. “Duck.”
A cargo container not unlike the one they surrounded crashed into the docks as if fired from a canon. It smashed where the five had gathered, sending a plume of dust and dirt and twisted metal into the air.
The five of them had scattered about, now too far from each other to be a simple, single target. As they glanced at one another to make sure nobody had been hurt—or at least, Ciel, Caren and Shirou did, Arc merely looked to Shiki and Shiki was not looking at any of them to begin with—Caren said, “Perhaps we should move in now?”
“Good thing we brought two boats, then. Try and divide his attention.” Ciel said. She was already leaping into one of the small powerboats they had requisitioned. “Hit him from both sides?”
Arc was following after her, sighing. “If we must.”
Shiki followed her, and on the other side of the dock jetty, Shirou and Caren settled into a second powerboat, its engine already revving up. “So, in other words,” Shirou was saying, “the current plan is entirely made up of: split up, hit from both sides, then wing it?”
Ciel shouted as Shiki started up the engine to their boat. “Don’t worry, even that straightforward a plan will get ruined by my partners, here.”
“We will not worry,” Caren said back, though she did not raise her voice much at all. “If one of you is in danger, Shirou will gladly sacrifice his body to shield you from any injury, from being crushed by thirty tons to suffering a paper cut.”
Both Ciel and Shirou stared, though Caren returned their gazes impassively. Only Shiki seemed to give a faint grin at that.
Arc, standing at the bow of her ship, was pointing. “Oh, hurry, hurry, there’s more incoming—”
Another half-dozen cargo containers struck the dock and the surrounding space, cutting off further talk.
Rochus’ gaze fell upon the boat with three occupants as it sped to one side, his eyes making out the curious three on board. A girl in a dress that looked like it was missing parts, a boy in simple black, a blond woman—
True Ancestor.
His eyes widened. Moving along the railing of the ship to follow after that trio as they circled around to the starboard, he watched the woman carefully and intently. She was not to be taken lightly, though at the same time, her presence was an exciting development. If Rochus could somehow contain her, somehow distort her with his power—
“That was certainly a rude greeting he gave us earlier,” Caren said as she took the controls to their boat. “You should give him one in return.”
Shirou nodded. Taking a half-step up to place himself clear of the boat’s windshield, he held out his hand, a bow taking shape in his grip. “Trace, on.”
The ship itself had become a distortion, a mobile fortress. Like the Forest of Einnashe, it was now a moving distortion, the physical representation of Rochus’ power warping the world like a personal Reality Marble. Unlike Einnashe, it had no heart; instead, it was merely a product, one of many Rochus could generate with the proper time and energy.
Still, it was no simple creation. The layers of its hull were now warded, the metals reinforced or recomposed, various areas shifted to resemble a magician’s nightmare of bounded fields and wraith summonings. A weapon fired upon it would rebound off of shields greater than any armor plating or be distorted into nullifying space and implode; a person stepping foot on board could attract the attention of spirits to possess them or the reanimated bodies of the crew to attack them. Rochus had not only drained the life from the ship, but distorted the memories on board to a nightmarish world of his choosing.
Rochus considered opening the door, so to speak, for the True Ancestor. He wanted her up close, understood that such meager defenses would do little but stall their meeting. But still, two others were with her, and he wanted little interference—
“My bone twists into madness.”
Seven layers of hull plating and magical enhancement failed with an explosion to the port side of the vessel.
Rochus glanced over his shoulder to the plume of smoke now rising from one side of the ship. He contemplated the sort of things that could cause such damage and wondered if these beings were mere Church Executors, or something more or different.
No, Rochus sighed, it made sense that they would not be mere Executors. If the True Ancestor rode with them, it seemed likely that they were not related to the Church at all, or in a limited fashion—most of the Church types avoided contact with perceived heretical beings. Perhaps these were magi that had been turned by the True Ancestor, like it was rumored she had once done to the Serpent of Akasha.
If they were so, if they had earned the interest of the True Ancestor, then they had earned his interest and full concentration as well.
To be continued.
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Originally Posted by ItsaRandomUsername
