I've dealt with a lot as an Arknights player—more than I ever thought possible when I was just tapping away at my phone screen, guiding operators through missions, managing resources, and tackling events.
I've faced Reunion's soldiers, navigated Lungmen's Chernobog incident, and even tangled with things I have never seen in the game.
But if there's one thing I absolutely hate dealing with, one thing that sends a chill down my spine every time I think about it, it's the Seaborn.
Those creatures are by far the worst things anyone could ever experience.
The sheer amount of horror stories I've heard about them doesn't even do them justice—mutated, relentless, a hive-mind of ocean-born nightmares that adapt faster than you can blink.
I played Integrated Strategies, one of the events in the game, and I know what those things can do—turning people into monstrosities, spreading their influence like a plague.
Zombies or an apocalypse of other monsters?
I'd take those any day over the Seabourn.
They're a whole different kind of terror, one
I'd rather never face this world I'm now a part of.
My thoughts were interrupted by Executor's voice, his tone as cold and precise as ever.
"We've arrived," he said, pulling me back to the present.
And just like that, I found myself stepping out of the transport vehicle into Sanctilaminium Ambrosii, a city that straddled the cultural crossroads of Laterano and Iberia, its air thick with the scent of saltwater and incense.
Executor was at my side, his white hair and grey eyes as striking as ever, his halo glowing steadily above his head, his dark coat and pristine wings marking him as a Sankta executor.
Surprisingly, someone else had tagged along—an unexpected but not unwelcome addition to our team.
It was Lemuen, Exusiai's sister, a Sankta with soft pink hair tied in a neat braid, her halo a gentle glow, her wings a pale gold that shimmered in the sunlight.
Despite having to sit in a wheelchair. She looked umbothered and strong.
She wore a Laterano investigator's uniform, a white coat with gold trim, a sniper rifle slung over her shoulder, her blue eyes warm but sharp with focus.
She and Executor had been assigned as investigators alongside me, a trio sent to track down Gavriel Sanctus and the missing Sankta.
Lemuen greeted us with a small smile, her voice light but kind.
"Good to see you both. Let's hope this goes smoothly, shall we?"
A small talk started as we walked toward the city's heart, my frustration bubbling to the surface.
"Of all the places to be sent," I grumbled, adjusting my black overcoat, the red tie a stark contrast against my Laterano waistcoat.
"It had to be somewhere near the Seaborn. I'd rather deal with anything else—Reunion or even Ursus mercenaries."
Lemuen placed a comforting hand on my shoulder, her smile reassuring.
"Don't worry, Howard. I'm still capable of taking care of them if we run into any. My arts and aim haven't dulled since my last mission."
I sighed, running a hand through my hair.
"It's not really a problem, Lemuel. I just… really don't like those things."
Sanctilaminium Ambrosii unfolded around them as they traveled deeper into the city, its streets a blend of Laterano's white stone architecture and Iberia's maritime influence—buildings adorned with seashell mosaics, their roofs slanted to shed rainwater, the faint sound of waves crashing in the distance.
The city was a monastery-turned-settlement, its central cathedral looming over the skyline, its spires topped with crosses that gleamed in the sun, though the scars of its past collapse were still visible in the cracked stone and boarded-up windows.
The streets were quieter than expected, with only a few Sankta pilgrims and Iberian locals passing by, their voices hushed as they spoke of Laterano hymns and Iberian sea shanties, a cultural tapestry that felt both sacred and weathered by the ocean's proximity.
Their destination was a small chapel near the cathedral, a place known to house survivors of the monastery's darker days, now serving as a refuge for those with knowledge of the city's underbelly.
Inside, the air was cool, filled with the scent of old parchment and candle wax, the walls lined with faded tapestries depicting Sankta saints.
They approached a man kneeling in prayer at a small altar, his presence humble but marked by a quiet resilience.
He was Stefano Torregrossa, a monk of Sanctilaminium Ambrosii, his brown hair thinning, his face lined with the hardships of survival after the monastery's collapse during the Profound Silence years ago.
His robes were simple, a faded gray with a white sash, a small Laterano cross hanging around his neck, his hands clasped around a rosary as he murmured a prayer for the lost.
Howard took the lead, his voice steady but respectful as he addressed Stefano, waiting until the monk finished his prayer and rose to face them.
"We're looking for Gavriel Sanctus. He is a Sankta, a doctor from Laterano who is currently suspected of kidnapping dozens of his own people."
"We have reason to believe he's here, in Sanctilaminium Ambrosii. Have you heard anything about him?"
Stefano's dark eyes studied the trio—Howard's determined gaze, Executor's stoic presence, and Lemuen's quiet vigilance.
The chapel's silence was heavy, broken only by the faint flicker of candles, as Stefano considered the question, his expression a mix of caution and weary knowledge, the weight of their investigation hanging in the air.
***
Stefano Torregrossa stood in the small chapel, his weathered hands still clutching the rosary, his dark eyes reflecting a mix of caution and regret as he addressed Howard, Executor, and Lemuen.
The flickering candlelight cast long shadows across his faded gray robes, the Laterano cross around his neck glinting faintly.
"I've heard of Gavriel Sanctus," Stefano said, his voice low, tinged with unease.
"There have been… worrying rumors about him, especially recently with the disappearances."
"But I haven't seen him in years—not since before the monastery's collapse, when he was still a doctor passing through this city."
The trio exchanged glances, the weight of another dead end settling over them.
Left with no choice, they huddled together in the chapel's nave, their voices hushed as they discussed their next steps.
"We'll need to cover more ground," Howard said, his tone resolute despite the frustration creeping in.
"Let's split up and investigate separately. We'll regroup later with anything we find."
Executor nodded, his gray eyes sharp with focus.
"I'll look through the church records here—there might be something in the archives about Gavriel's movements."
Lemuen adjusted her sniper rifle, her blonde braid swaying as she spoke.
"I'll head to the local sanitary facilities. If Gavriel was a doctor, someone there might have seen him or heard something."
Howard straightened his black overcoat, the red tie a stark contrast against his Laterano waistcoat.
"I'll take the rest of the city—talk to the locals, see if anyone knows anything."
They agreed and went their separate ways, the chapel's heavy doors creaking as they parted.
Executor disappeared into the cathedral's archives, a labyrinth of dusty tomes and scrolls, while Lemuen headed toward the city's small hospital, her white coat blending with the Sankta pilgrims she passed.
Howard ventured into the streets of Sanctilaminium Ambrosii, the salty tang of the sea mixing with the scent of incense as he began his search.
He approached various locals, his questions direct but polite, his detective's instincts sharp as he gauged their reactions.
At a market stall selling dried fish, he spoke to an elderly Iberian woman, her hands rough from years of labor.
"Have you seen a Sankta named Gavriel Sanctus recently? He's a doctor; he might have been around here."
The woman shook her head, her voice raspy.
"Not in a long while, sir. I heard his name years ago, but no one's seen him since."
Further down the street, Howard stopped a young Sankta pilgrim, his halo glowing faintly as he carried a bundle of prayer candles.
"Gavriel Sanctus—does that name ring a bell? He's wanted for the disappearance of Sankta citizens."
The pilgrim frowned, his wings twitching slightly.
"I haven't seen him in years. Last I heard, he was working at the hospital, but that was before the troubles here."
The answers were the same wherever Howard went—vague recollections, outdated information, and no recent sightings.
Frustration gnawed at him as he wandered the city, the sound of waves growing louder as he neared the docks. Just as he was about to turn back, he spotted a familiar figure, one he recognized from one of Arknights' most tragic story events—a man whose story had left a lasting impression.
Clément Dubois, known as "The Gardener," stood near a small garden plot by the docks, his hands full of flowers—white lilies and blue forget-me-nots, their petals vibrant against the gray stone of the city.
He was a middle-aged man with a gentle demeanor, his brown hair streaked with gray, his eyes a soft green that held a quiet sorrow.
His clothes were simple, a monk's robe patched at the elbows, a small trowel hanging from his belt, a reminder of his role tending to the monastery's gardens during Sanctilaminium Ambrosii's darker days.
His face, though kind, bore the weight of loss, a man who had survived the collapse of his home and the horrors that followed.
Howard approached, a small smile tugging at his lips as he greeted him.
"Clement, I assume?" "Nice to meet you."
He glanced at the flowers in Clément's hands, his tone lightening for a moment.
"Those are beautiful—what's the story behind them?"
Clément's eyes brightened, his voice eager as he answered, his hands gesturing with the flowers.
"These lilies are for the cathedral—they symbolize peace, something we need more of here. The forget-me-nots… They're for remembrance, for those we lost when the monastery fell."
"I've been tending to the gardens here, trying to bring a bit of life back to this place."
They continued with small talk for a moment, Howard appreciating the brief respite, but he soon shifted to the subject at hand, his tone growing serious.
"Clément, I'm looking for someone—Gavriel Sanctus, a Sankta doctor. He's behind the disappearance of dozens of Sankta, and we think he's here in Sanctilaminium Ambrosii. Have you seen him?"
Clément frowned, his brow furrowing as he thought for a moment.
"Gavriel Sanctus… I don't think I've seen him recently," he said, his voice hesitant. But then his expression shifted, a memory surfacing.
"Wait—I do remember something. There was a man matching that description, always seen at one of the quieter ports by the sea, a place the locals avoid. It's a weird spot, near the old docks—too close to the water, too isolated. I thought it was strange, but I didn't think much of it at the time."
Howard's eyes lit up—a lead at last. The mention of the sea sent a chill down his spine, his earlier fears of the Seaborn resurfacing, but he pushed them aside, focusing on the task at hand.
"Thank you, Clément," he said, his voice firm.
"That's exactly what I needed."
***
Executor stood in the dimly lit archives of Sanctilaminium Ambrosii's central cathedral, the air thick with the scent of ancient parchment and wax.
The room was a labyrinth of towering shelves, each one crammed with leather-bound tomes and scrolls, their pages yellowed with age, the faint glow of his halo casting long shadows across the stone floor.
His grey eyes scanned the records with mechanical precision, his white hair stark against his dark coat, his pristine wings folded tightly as he flipped through a logbook of visitors to the city over the past year.
His fingers paused on a name—Gavriel Sanctus—repeated entries showing the Sankta doctor had been visiting the same place: the old docks, a secluded area near the sea, logged multiple times in the months before the disappearances began.
The executor closed the book with a soft thud, his expression unreadable but his mind already calculating the next move.
He left the cathedral, his steps silent as he made his way toward the docks, the city's streets growing quieter the closer he got to the water.
The old docks were a forgotten part of Sanctilaminium Ambrosii, their wooden planks warped and splintered, the air heavy with the briny stench of saltwater and rotting fish.
Rusted chains hung from broken posts, swaying in the breeze, their metallic clinks a mournful rhythm against the distant crash of waves.
Barnacles clung to the pilings, their jagged shells glistening in the moonlight, and the water below was a dark, inky black, its surface rippling with an unnatural stillness that hinted at something lurking beneath.
Executor found himself standing before an old giant ship, its hulking form moored at the far end of the docks, a decaying relic of Iberia's maritime past.
The ship loomed like a ghost in the fog, its hull blackened with age, barnacles and seaweed clinging to its sides like a disease.
The name on its bow was barely legible—Santa Isabella—the paint peeling away in flakes, revealing rotting wood beneath.
The deck creaked ominously under its own weight, the tattered remnants of sails hanging like shrouds, swaying in the wind with a sound like a whispered lament.
The air grew colder, the faint hum of Executor's halo the only light in the oppressive darkness, its glow reflecting off the slick, wet planks as he leapt aboard, his movements silent but deliberate.
Inside, the ship was a maze of decay, the narrow corridors dripping with moisture, the walls slick with mold that pulsed faintly, as if alive.
The air was thick with the stench of decay and something worse—a briny, metallic scent that Executor recognized with a chill: the mark of the Seaborn.
Shadows danced in the corners of his vision, the creak of the ship's hull echoing like a heartbeat, each groan of the wood sounding like a distant scream.
He moved deeper, his firearm drawn, his golden eyes scanning for any sign of Gavriel or the missing Sankta.
The floor beneath him was sticky, a dark, viscous liquid pooling in the cracks, its surface shimmering with an unnatural sheen.
A sudden noise—a wet, slithering sound—came from behind, and Executor turned, his halo flaring brighter.
But before he could react, something cold and unyielding wrapped around his legs, yanking him off his feet with a sickening lurch.
Tentacles, slick and black, emerged from the shadows, their surfaces covered in tiny, needle-like spines that glistened with venom.
They tightened around him, their grip like iron, pinning his arms to his sides, his firearm clattering to the floor.
A low, guttural hum filled the air, vibrating through the ship, as if the vessel itself were alive, its walls pulsing in time with the sound.
Executor struggled, his halo flickering, but the tentacles dragged him into the darkness, the last glimpse of light swallowed by the ship's bowels, leaving only the eerie hum and the faint drip of water echoing in the void.
[ Abnormal Interference Detected]
[ ▫️▫️ ▫️Approved.]
[ Fusing Event : Under Tides X Hortus de Escapismo]
[ Succesful]
[ New event : Unda de Vocatione]