"Okay, this is it. Time for us to sneak in," Paul whispered softly.
Paul ducked low, creeping behind the shadow of a large rock, then signaled with two fingers for Robert to follow him.
"We'll enter from the port side of the ship. There's a rope ladder—they must use it to board during high tide," Paul whispered.
They slowly walked along the dampening sandline, each step echoing in their minds even though nothing could be heard except the waves and the distant crackle of a campfire. Just a few meters ahead, the warship loomed above them.
Paul stopped, crouching behind a pile of old, moss-covered crates.
"There it is," he murmured, pointing at a rope ladder hanging from the side of the ship, barely visible in the darkness. The rope ladder swayed lightly in the sea breeze.
Paul climbed first, his hands deftly pulling himself up rung by rung. Robert followed, his heart pounding—not from exhaustion but from fear.
Once they reached the top, they rolled behind a stack of supply crates covered with a tarp. Paul motioned for silence.
Paul whispered, "We need to get to the lower deck. Do you still remember the ship's layout?"
Robert nodded slightly. "There's a corridor near the main hatch. Through there, we can reach the storage room."
"Good."
They moved quickly but quietly—like shadows. The old ship creaked softly under each step.
They arrived near a small steel door, slightly ajar.
They exchanged glances. Robert nodded slightly, as if entrusting Paul to check first. Paul took a deep breath and slowly leaned toward the narrow opening. He peered inside. Darkness. No sound.
Paul reached into his pocket and took out his lighter. He gently pushed the door open bit by bit and stepped inside. Strange symbols covered the walls.
Suddenly, a hand touched his shoulder.
Paul jolted and turned sharply—
It was Robert.
"Hey—"
"You bastard," Paul hissed sharply. "If you ever do that again, I swear I’ll strangle you on the spot," he muttered, trying to hold back his anger.
What took so long? Robert asked.
Paul stepped out and closed the door.
"Ah... no, nothing," Paul said too lightly, clearly hiding something.
"Let’s keep moving to the supply room," he added.
They crept forward slowly, sticking to the ship's shadows. Each step was cautious, as though a single creak could spell disaster.
Before long, they stood before an old wooden door—the entrance to the supply room.
Paul touched the handle gently. It wasn’t locked. He opened it and they both slipped inside.
The room was pitch dark. Paul reached into his pocket again and pulled out his lighter.
A quick flicker of light revealed an oil lantern on a wooden table in the corner. Without hesitation, he took it and lit the wick.
A soft orange glow slowly spread, revealing a dusty, shadow-filled room.
"This way," Paul whispered.
They took a few steps forward, then Robert felt himself step on something. He stopped and looked down. A floor latch was set flush into the wood—with a rusty, old padlock.
Robert quickly grabbed Paul’s sleeve.
"Wait."
"What is it?" Paul asked.
"Look here," Robert whispered, pointing to the floor.
Paul directed the lantern to the spot.
Paul’s brow furrowed.
"What is that...?"
Robert knelt and touched the padlock.
"This... a lock. Could there be a hidden room below?"
Paul looked around, scanning the area. A few seconds later, he found a small crowbar wedged behind an old crate.
"This might help," he muttered.
He returned to the lock and, without saying much, slipped the tip of the crowbar into the gap. With a few firm, quiet jerks—
Crack!
The old padlock snapped open.
They were both shocked by what they saw—a narrow staircase leading down into the ship’s belly.
Without hesitation, they descended.
The staircase wasn’t long, but at the bottom, they found a corridor. It was cold. The air felt as if it had been trapped for decades. The smell of metal, oil, and something rotten.
"This should be a supply area, but if my hunch is right... something is hidden here," Paul whispered softly.
Robert swallowed hard. They kept moving, passing rows of ammo crates and oil drums, until they reached the end of the corridor—where a massive steel door stood, secured by a wheel lock like a vault.
However, what made them stop wasn’t the door itself—but the faint sound from behind it.
Breathing. And... soft tapping.
Paul and Robert looked at each other. Their breath caught, as if icy air had pierced straight into their spines.
Robert pressed his ear against the door. The breathing grew clearer—heavy, weak, like someone who had been trapped inside for a very long time.
"Hey... Paul," Robert whispered. "There’s someone in there. I’m sure they’re... still alive."
"We have to open this door," he continued. "Before they die in there."
Paul nodded slightly, his eyes scanning the wheel lock on the door. "The lock isn’t just this wheel. This isn’t an ordinary security system. Look here," he pointed to faint engravings around the door—circles and symbols nearly erased by rust, with patterns that didn’t look military or mechanical.
"Not just locked... this door is sealed," he murmured.
Robert frowned. "Like... to imprison something?"
Paul didn’t reply, instead starting to work. He searched around the corridor, rummaged through old crates, and found a small steel chain and a long crowbar. He wedged the crowbar into the side of the wheel, forcing it to turn.
After several minutes of effort and loud clicks, the wheel started to move. Then, slowly—the steel door opened with a heavy hiss, a sharp, foul-smelling air blasting out from inside.
"We did it!" Paul exclaimed, taking a long breath.
Just as Paul was about to push the door—
Footsteps echoed from behind.
"What are you doing?"
The voice was deep, calm... and instantly froze Paul in place.
Paul and Robert quickly turned around.
From the dark corridor behind them, Gustavus Adolphus emerged, holding an oil lantern in his hand, accompanied by three ship guards.