British Island was shrouded in a thin layer of purple mist, appearing from afar like a giant silkworm cocoon, exuding an extraordinary eeriness.
Any sane person would not want to approach this place, yet there was a massive ship slowly steering into the fog.
Anna, dressed in a tight, bright red dress, stood at the very front of the ship's bow, like a figurehead.
As the massive ship drew closer to the island, the sailors on deck, with cloth stuffed in their ears and bandages wrapped around their eyes, collapsed in agony on the ground, their mouths agape shouting incoherent phrases.
Anna glanced at them without care and continued to look forward.
The fog was not very thick, and Anna soon saw the disheveled British Island; no, it should no longer be called British Island, but rather the British Isles.
The massive framework of the island had fractured, some parts sinking to the seabed while others lay askew on the water's surface.
