Dragon Raja 4; Chapter 17: Journey to the End of the World (17)

Dragon Raja 4

A Mi-17 helicopter landed on the helipad, just as Sasha had predicted—a true Russian-made aircraft. The helipad on the Yamal was only meant for light helicopters, so the ship trembled slightly under the weight of such a massive vehicle. Only a large helicopter with auxiliary fuel tanks could fly over the vast icy seas, and its launch platform was likely an oil rig in the North Sea or a large ship stationed just outside the thick ice zone. Everything had been meticulously prepared; these esteemed investors only came aboard when victory seemed within reach.

The pilot opened the cockpit door and jumped down, respectfully opening the rear cabin door for the distinguished guest. Despite the harsh conditions, the pilot hadn’t forgotten his manners, as if he were parking a Rolls-Royce in front of a yacht club’s red carpet. A man dressed in black sat inside the cabin, holding a glass of whiskey in his gloved hand. Vincent, who came forward to greet him, was utterly astonished. He had finally waited for the mysterious investors, only to find a load of coffins. The cargo hold behind the man was stacked with coffins, made of ebony wood with gilded handles, arranged in perfect order.

Chu Zihang’s guess had been partially correct: what arrived was indeed cargo, except for the man in charge of escorting it. The man was dressed in a black suit with a white bow tie, his face hidden behind a leather mask. Over the years, many representatives of the investors had come aboard, all wearing these strange masks. The mask had a bird-beak-like structure over the mouth, which made the wearer appear both ominous and slightly ridiculous, especially when the man had to flip up the lower part of the mask to drink his whiskey, causing the “beak” to jut out like a short elephant trunk. Vincent recognized the design; in the Middle Ages, doctors wore similar masks filled with herbs to ward off the stench of corpses and avoid contracting the plague, a practice that eventually became their symbol. Now, in the 21st century, this group still clung to those ancient masks, which suited their identity—they called their organization the “Holy Palace Medical Society.”

The man drained his whiskey, fastened the straps of his mask, and jumped down from the helicopter. He waved at Vincent, saying, “Hello there, dear Charon.”

Everyone in the Medical Society used different code names, and Vincent’s was Charon, named after the ferryman in Greek mythology who guided souls across the River Styx.

“Welcome aboard, honored….” Vincent paused. “How should I address you?”

“Oh… Macallan. Just call me Macallan,” the man in black smiled.

“Macallan” was clearly the name of the whiskey he had just finished, indicating he had no intention of revealing his real name. Vincent didn’t dare press further.

“Your first-class cabin is ready, Macallan,” Vincent said respectfully, glancing at the pile of coffins. “Shall I have your cargo transferred to the hold?”

“How could you call them cargo? When they were alive, they had names and reputations. Didn’t you reserve cabins for them? Just put them in there. Don’t worry, they won’t rot—they’re all well-preserved.”

Vincent had been told that nine distinguished guests would be boarding, so he had prepared nine first-class cabins. However, what he received were eight coffins and one flippant man.

“Would you like to dine or rest first?” Vincent asked deferentially. “I can report the details of our operations to you in the morning.”

“Do you think I’m here for a vacation? If I wanted a vacation, I wouldn’t choose a place like this! Of course, I want to jump straight into work. Take me to see that beauty first.”

Vincent hesitated. “The Saintess may have already retired for the night. I’ll wake her and have her come to meet you, but please allow her some time to prepare.”

“I’m looking forward to meeting the lovely Miss Reginleif, but the beauty I want to see is Maria, the Morning Star.” Macallan extended his hand, and the pilot immediately handed him another glass of whiskey.

Vincent shivered slightly in fear. “The conditions there are extremely harsh. Perhaps you’d prefer to view her via the cameras.”

“You really are an uncultured fool, Charon. Isn’t she your goddess? Even if she turned to ashes, her dust would still carry fragrance.”

The elevator slowly descended, moving through the decks. When the doors opened, the distant sound of rushing water could be heard through the bulkhead.

“The watertight compartment is draining; it’ll take about another minute,” Vincent explained.

The Yamal had 14 watertight compartments, located at the bow, stern, and along the sides of the ship. These compartments ensured that even if water flooded the lower deck, the ship could stay afloat and await rescue. The largest watertight compartment was located at the stern, and when the Yamal encountered particularly hard ice, the crew would fill it with seawater, raising the bow to break through the ice. Sasha had misunderstood why Vincent’s team had requested control of the lower decks—they were really concerned about the watertight compartment, where no one ever came or went.

A moment later, the draining stopped. Vincent struggled to stand from his wheelchair, hunching forward to open the heavy pressure door. Only Macallan and Vincent were allowed down here, so Vincent had to open the door himself. Macallan made no move to help, sipping his whiskey leisurely in this damp and cramped space, his refined demeanor a stark contrast to the other representatives who had come before him. It seemed as if he had never set foot anywhere other than a red carpet his entire life.

The watertight compartment was not empty. Surrounding them were aluminum maintenance scaffolds, and about a meter of seawater pooled at the bottom of the compartment. The air was thick with the smell of mold and decaying flesh. Macallan and Vincent stood on the aluminum scaffolding, looking down at the bizarre creature partially submerged in the water. It resembled the skeleton of a giant, with a massive ribcage and twisted spine, coiling like a dead Titan python. But it had no legs; below the waist, its spine extended into a long serpentine tail. Blood vessels grew out of the gaps in its tailbone, embedding themselves into the steel plates of the compartment floor. Even stranger was its head—a large iron box, chained tightly, filled with cement. The box wasn’t small, but compared to the enormous ribcage, it looked like a LEGO block on top of a basketball player.

The veins extending from its tail pulsed slowly, pumping dark, blackish-red fluid into the creature’s massive body. After a long moment, a faint thud echoed from its chest—a gigantic heart was beating sluggishly.

“Such a magnificent beauty… how tragic,” Macallan sighed softly. “Is it safe, Charon?”

“Absolutely safe! Please don’t worry, Macallan! She’s been like this for three years now—no incidents at all! We installed a 1,000-liter mercury pump in the watertight compartment. If she shows any signs of activity, it will release mercury to keep her subdued,” Vincent hurried to explain.

“But if she gains control of the nuclear reactor, that may no longer be enough. Mercury can poison her body and nerves, but it won’t affect her mind,” Macallan replied calmly. “The disaster aboard the Peter the Great occurred when the embryo took over the reactor. The massive energy allowed it to break free instantly, forcing us to pay a steep price to clean up the aftermath.”

“Yes, yes! I understand! I’ll make sure she doesn’t get near the reactor!” Vincent nodded frantically.

“What do you understand?” Macallan asked lazily. “You have no idea what happened on the Peter the Great. I’m just messing with you.”Vincent’s face turned pale. He indeed had no clue what the Peter the Great was, only going along to avoid contradicting this seemingly laid-back emissary. Despite his efforts to investigate the “Holy Palace Medical Society,” no matter how much time and money he spent, he found nothing. Yet this very organization had poured countless investments into him over the past decade. Without them, no one would have believed or supported Vincent’s secrets, and none of them could have been monetized. The Holy Palace Medical Society was the real owner of the Yamal. If the depth of the Twilight Dogma was like the Azov Sea, then the Holy Palace was the Pacific Ocean—its deep secrets were better left unexplored.

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