At the edge of the Earth's Lung, the King-level Wandering Ship, the *Kindling*, lay at anchor.
Its twelve-kilometer-long hull, covered in giant, colorful murals in the style of the Amazon Tribe, was half-shrouded in light mist and half-bathed in sunlight.
It carried a million people.
The survivors of the South American Continent had found a precarious peace on the King-level ship, carrying on the new tribal spirit of the Andean Alliance amidst the sea of mist.
Local time: 11:00 AM, December 30th.
Martinelli, the helmsman of the *Kindling*, hadn't slept in two days. He was well aware of the speculations surrounding the "Cosmic Letter" and the "53-day countdown." Although he had made all possible preparations for the worst-case scenario, his heart still pounded with dread as the day drew near.
'I hope everything will be all right.'
'I hope the speculation is just a misinterpretation, that Nirvana still holds some goodwill for us.'
The common people knew nothing of this.
