Chapter Text
Into the Land of the Rising Sun
Galan had once ruled an empire, and now he could barely endure a crowded room.
The thoughts of others came to him whether he wished it or not—thin, constant threads brushing against his mind until they tangled into something suffocating. He had crossed half the world to escape them, to outrun the memories they dragged behind them.
It hadn’t worked.
The midday heat baking the hull of the passenger ship was a persistent annoyance, though it failed to drown out the cheerful singing echoing from the lounge. Galan sat in silence, observing the crowd with the detached precision of a man who had already seen their stories play out a thousand times. He wore a plain brown tunic and trousers—a costume of Roman simplicity.
He was here to investigate the spectral warriors—or so he told himself when he needed a reason that sounded better than running.
"Attention passengers," a female voice announced over the speakers in Godlang. "We are approaching the Summer Beach port of Tsushima’s Central Island."
The message repeated in Japanese, then Chinese, and finally in the rolling Latin of his home.
Galan stood and left the stuffy lounge for the starboard deck. The salt air was sharp, and the sun beat down with a familiar, insistent heat. He leaned against the railing and, out of a habit he’d never managed to break, let his mindcast ripple outward.
Near the rail, a trio of heavenly servants stood: two restless younger angels and an archangel whose patience was clearly at its limit.
"Archangel, do you think they’ll perform plays of the great ones here?" the boy asked, his wings fluttering in a blur of uncontrolled, youthful excitement.
Galan’s smirk faltered.
The boy’s chaotic energy was a sudden, unwelcome mirror of his grandsons—the small hands clutching his legs in the imperial gardens and the high-pitched laughter he had left behind when he turned his back on Rome.
He severed the connection.
Further down the deck, two men in matching purple jackets leaned against the railing, their conversation warm and ordinary. Galan brushed them with his mindcast, the words arriving already understood—clean, immediate, and impersonal.
"I’m exhausted."
"Me too. I can’t wait to eat some broth noodles when we get back."
"Why don’t we go to my mom’s shop? Then we can see the cherry blossoms."
"I’d love to, but I still need to figure out where to take Chiyu…"
Galan didn’t mean to listen further.
But then—
"I’ll grab her favorite grilled eel lunch box."
The words struck like a jagged shard through his carefully ordered mind.
Buying his girl her favorite food.
The deck vanished.
He was back in his memory—the sharp, sour taste of a dried plum from his youth in Paldri exploding on his tongue. His first wife’s laughter rang out, too loud, too close, like a ghost screaming in his ears.
Galan tore himself free with a mental wrench that left his head throbbing.
His grip tightened on the railing until the wood groaned. The ocean breeze had turned to iron in his lungs.
You can’t even listen to a stranger without bleeding.
He pushed off the railing and retreated. He descended the stairs, bypassing the food court, where the smell of grilled meat and soybean paste soup felt suddenly nauseating. He reached his cabin, gripped the handle, and waited for the door to verify a trace of his soul. It unlocked with a heavy click.
Inside, sunlight filtered through the porthole, illuminating the dust motes. He sat at his desk and looked at the scattered maps and brochures.
"Go in. Talk to people. Stay busy. Don’t think too much," he said as he threw the clutter of objects into his divine vault.
He knew the odds. He knew the world rarely allowed for such simple endings.
"Hopefully," he whispered to the quiet cabin, his voice hollow, "it goes better this time."
The engine hum died away, replaced by the sudden stillness of a ship at rest.
"Attention, passengers, we have successfully docked. You may now disembark."
Galan took a steadying breath, forced the emperor and the widower back into the depths of his mind, and rose to join the line.
"It’ll do."