In the world of pirates, no one who sets sail ever returns home. Once they venture too far into the sea, there's no turning back.
Pirates sail in search of treasure—that has always been the way. Among them, one stood above the rest: a legendary figure known as The Treasure Hunter. He earned the title after discovering countless treasures, riches so vast they could buy an entire kingdom.
But then, he vanished. Without warning, he and his entire crew disappeared into thin air. For over three centuries, he has been declared dead, lost to the sea.
Ever since, the world has been obsessed with his story. From pirates to common folk, everyone speculated about his fate. The moment news of his disappearance spread, theories followed—and they've never stopped.
The most popular theory? He found a treasure that was never meant to be discovered. And when he did, it cursed him and his crew—either killing them outright or rendering them invisible to the world.
The story became legend. Books were written—some factual, others pure fiction. The Tale of the Treasure Hunter became a source of history, bedtime stories, and pirate folklore alike.
But like all old tales, it began to fade from memory. People questioned whether he ever existed at all. Yet that wasn't the real tragedy.
The real danger was the desire his story ignited.
What began as curiosity among ordinary civilians soon turned into obsession. One by one, they left their homes, driven by the dream of uncovering what he found. The number of pirates surged with each passing year—all because of a mystery in a book.
But that was only one mystery.
The treasure he discovered was never revealed to the world. Not because no one saw it—but because everyone who did vanished as well.
In other words, no one truly knows what that treasure was—or whether it even existed at all.
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May 15th, 1524 — Kastam Island
In a modest house built from damp stone and patched wood, the smell of old ink mingled with drying parchment and a faint trace of lemon polish. The place was quiet—too quiet—except for the occasional sound of bristles scratching across canvas.
Louis Tamala sat stiffly in a chair, posture rigid in a way that suggested both concentration and deep-rooted anxiety. A small easel stood in front of him, holding a canvas that currently played host to a creature of questionable identity.
He wore a white shirt with a high collar, partially hidden beneath a brown sleeveless leather vest. From a distance, he looked like someone in his mid-twenties. Up close, his youthful awkwardness gave him away. He was nineteen—soon to be twenty on July 7th, though he already carried himself like someone a decade older, weighed down by invisible expectations and invisible failures.
To his right stood Mrs. Devi West—his teacher, a woman who possessed the sort of beauty that made men reconsider marriage proposals already rejected. She wore a bright yellow blouse embroidered with white and gold thread, its pattern shimmering faintly in the morning light. A bonnet shielded most of her neatly tied brown hair, and her skin, pale with a strange golden tint, gave her an almost painted quality. She looked to be around thirty, though her elegance could easily pass for something younger—or something older, if viewed through the lens of a storybook.
She was married. Louis knew that. He reminded himself of it often. Whatever adolescent fluttering he'd once felt had long since retreated into the quiet part of his heart where first crushes went to die. He had moved on—or at least, convinced himself he had.
Still, when he glanced up at her and saw her looking elsewhere, his gaze lingered a little too long.
At the moment, though, Mrs. West's attention was squarely on the canvas.
Louis had tried to draw a horse. That was his goal. His vision.
What emerged on the canvas, however, might best be described as a cautionary tale.
The creature had four legs. That much could be said. But their proportions defied logic, and the joints bent in directions nature had never intended. Its eyes—if they could be called eyes—stared into the void, hollow and misaligned. Its mane resembled the frazzled bristles of a broom, and its expression suggested it had witnessed a lifetime of horrors and given up halfway through.
If one squinted, it resembled a donkey. A very tired, cursed donkey.
Mrs. West's expression twisted, just slightly. Her lips pressed together, her brows drawing close with the precision of a seamstress threading a needle. She stepped closer, the floorboards groaning beneath her shoes, and stopped just beside his chair.
Louis felt it before he saw it—that familiar weight of judgment, sharp and silent. He didn't dare look up.
Then came the voice. Calm. Measured. Far more dangerous than shouting.
"What is this, Louis?"
He swallowed. The seconds dragged on like slow drops of water from a leaking tap.
"I… I drew a horse," he said at last, his voice barely louder than a whisper.
He glanced up for a moment—just a flicker of courage—and immediately regretted it.
She was still looking at him. Not with fury, no. That would have been manageable. Instead, it was the kind of disappointment that sank into your bones and made you question your very existence.
"I… I tried my best," he added quickly, as if that might spare him. His eyes returned to the canvas, studying the sad creature as though it had betrayed him.
Before Louis could get another word in, Mrs. West leaned forward slightly, her sharp gaze pinning him to his seat. Her voice was low, measured, and all the more dangerous because of it.
"It's been a month, and you haven't improved in the slightest. Tell me, Louis—are you here just to waste my time?"
There was nothing exaggerated about the way she said it. No theatrical anger. Just a calm, surgical tone that reminded him far too much of his own mother—particularly when she was about to lecture him into silence.
For a fleeting moment, the illusion surrounding Mrs. West shattered. He no longer saw the elegant, poised woman in her bright yellow blouse and neatly tied brown hair. She wasn't beautiful in that moment. She was terrifying. A lioness disguised in lace and politeness, about to pounce.
"I told you to practice at home. Did you actually do it?" she asked, but her words hardly paused for breath. "Because from the looks of it, you clearly didn't."
He lowered his head instinctively, as if the wooden floor might absorb him if he stared hard enough. His fingers clenched around his thighs, pressing into the dark brown leather of his trousers, which had darkened over time into something closer to black. They groaned faintly under the pressure, as if offering him a silent show of sympathy.
"I—uh—I really did practice, you know?" he began, his voice unsure, thin like ink on watered paper. "But I—"
The sentence crumbled mid-way through. Whatever excuse he had prepared gave way to a wave of guilt he no longer had the energy to hold back.
"…You're right. I didn't practice at all."
Her expression didn't change much, but the slight curve of her mouth made it clear she had expected this confession. Yet rather than satisfaction, there was something heavier in her silence—disappointment that sat somewhere between teacher and mother, expectation and exhaustion.
She straightened her posture with a small exhale, walked around to the front of the canvas, and gripped the edges of the wooden stand with both hands. Her eyes didn't waver from his.
"Why?" she asked, not with anger now, but cold curiosity—dissecting him like a subject under observation. "What's your reason? Don't tell me you didn't have a canvas. I've sent you two every single day."
She didn't wait for an answer.
"Did you ignore all of them? You think they're free? I spent my own money, Louis. I even borrowed some from my husband's savings just to get you those materials. And you just let them sit there, untouched?"
Her voice rose—not in volume, but in pace. Each word struck harder than the last.
"I've done my best as your teacher. You asked for this—you came to me, begged me to teach you. I agreed to take you as my private student. And this—this is how you treat that trust?"
She might have continued, words sharpening into a crescendo, if not for the sound of the front door opening and closing behind them.
Both of them turned slightly at the noise.
The footsteps that followed were calm and light, approaching with the grace of someone entirely unaware of the tension in the room. Into the doorway stepped a young woman in a dark blue blouse, its clean folds falling over a crisp white skirt. Her dark reddish-brown hair was styled neatly beneath a white fascinator that perched atop her head, and her hands—gloved in elegant white—were folded gently before her as she entered.
Louis recognized her immediately. He had seen her many times, far too often for his peace of mind. She was Mrs. West's sister-in-law—her husband's younger sister—and her presence alone had ruined more than one drawing session.
She was beautiful. Frustratingly so. Enough that Louis had spent the better part of the last month pretending she wasn't there whenever she passed through, only to fail each time.
And she always passed through.
But until this moment, she had never once spoken to him.
"Hello, sister," she said softly as she gave a slight bow of greeting.
Then her eyes met his, calm and clear.
"Hello, Mr. Louis."
She said it so simply. So politely. And yet something inside him melted just the same.
Even as she looked away and turned to head upstairs, he kept his eyes on her, unsure whether he was sighing or forgetting how to breathe. The fabric of her skirt disappeared beyond the staircase railing, and her footsteps faded shortly after.
Her name was Lily.
And that had been the very first time she said his name aloud.
Mrs. West was still standing where Louis had last seen Lily disappear. Her eyes narrowed as she snapped, "Where the hell are you looking at?!" She inhaled sharply, then let out a rough exhale.
"N-No, nothing," Louis stammered, startled back into the present.
Her voice grew sharper. "So, were you coming here just for her? To look at her every day?"
His eyes widened in alarm. "Huh? No! Of course not!" he denied, shaking his head quickly. She closed her eyes briefly, as if holding back further words, then opened them again—calmer, but no less stern.
"Then what is it? Tell me, Louis. Why exactly didn't you practice?"
He hesitated for a moment before responding, this time with something real.
"B-Because... I have to work. I go straight to work after class every day."
Though said with hesitation, the words carried the weight of truth. His days were long. After leaving Mrs. West's class, he helped his mother at home with their confectionery stall, selling sweets on street corners just to scrape together enough for rent, groceries, and—ironically—the very art classes he was failing to commit to.
He hadn't come to learn art just for fun. There was a goal—something distant but deeply rooted. He wanted to get into an art university, to become a professional. With a certificate, he could work as an illustrator, a decorator, a book artist, or even a designer. In this country, art wasn't just a passion—it could be a path to stability. A better salary. A different life.
But right now, under this weight, none of it seemed reachable.
Mrs. West went quiet. She stood still, her eyes unreadable, before finally asking, "Is that just another excuse, or... are you really in that kind of situation?"
Louis didn't respond right away. He lowered his gaze, not out of shame but because he was gathering the words. He wanted to explain—properly. Clearly. In a way that didn't sound like just another excuse. After a long moment, he started talking.
He explained everything—his work, his mother, their tight finances, and the way his earnings were split: rent, groceries, tuition. He spoke slowly, carefully, trying to be honest without sounding pitiful.
When he finished, Mrs. West said nothing for a few seconds. She didn't scold. Didn't sigh. Instead, she gave a slow nod, her expression shifting into something far less rigid. She lifted one hand to her chin, gently touching it with her fingers as if lost in thought. Her eyes wandered to the ceiling, toward the upper floor where Lily had gone moments ago.
Louis waited in silence. While she thought, he turned back to the canvas, his fingers moving instinctively. He picked up a brush and placed its tip near a corner of the painting.
He didn't really draw. Not properly. Not anything new or even meaningful.
He just added a single line—on a part of the canvas already stained with ink.
A meaningless stroke.
Neither improving nor worsening the drawing.