As the villagers carried out their ritual, something strange was happening in Buggy's lodging. While his crewmates slept, faint white lights drifted out from their bodies one by one—every crew member except Buggy. The wisps vanished into the void, unseen.
The next morning, everyone awoke feeling strangely weak. Their limbs felt heavy, their faces pale with exhaustion. All of them—except Buggy.
Of course, no one suspected the villagers. They brushed it off as "just not agreeing with the local food and water." When Buggy saw them in the morning, he quickly realized the situation was serious.
But unlike the others, he didn't believe it was something as simple as "bad water." If it were, maybe one or two people would feel sick—but all of them, except him? That was no coincidence. He couldn't find the cause, but his instincts screamed there was something hidden. For now, he told the crew to stay inside and rest.
Later that morning, just like the day before, villagers arrived in droves at breakfast time. Each one brought food and fruit, ignoring Buggy's attempts to refuse, and left their offerings behind with enthusiastic smiles.
When the meal was done, they returned to collect the dishes, carting away even the leftovers. Some of them left with smiles of satisfaction, while others looked frustrated and disappointed.
After making sure his crew rested, Buggy went out alone, pretending to stroll casually while secretly investigating.
What he found only deepened his unease.
The villagers all seemed obsessed with pets. Every household had cats or dogs, and they treated them like beloved children—pampered, cuddled, doted upon.
Even stranger, none of them seemed to work. In broad daylight, men, women, and children all lounged in their courtyards, basking in the sun with their animals.
Buggy frowned. On a remote island like this, survival should demand hard labor. Yet they lived leisurely, without toil, and still enjoyed a standard of living far too high for such an isolated place.
The food alone proved it. Rare ingredients, delicacies fit for nobles—things no poor village could afford. Something was wrong.
As he pondered, Buggy felt eyes on him.
From a distance, someone was watching.
It was a scrawny boy, dressed in rags, hair matted, looking every bit a beggar. He was completely out of place on this strangely idyllic island.
The boy's eyes flashed with a desperate decision. Then, with a wild grin, he broke into frantic movement, waving his arms as he ran straight toward Buggy.
"They eat people! They eat people! Run! Run!" he shouted at the top of his lungs.
The cry startled the peaceful village. The lounging villagers stood, alarmed, their gazes snapping toward the boy.
Within moments, several rushed forward, seizing the child and silencing his cries.
"Honored guest, please don't be frightened," one villager said quickly, forcing a smile. "He's an orphan from our village. He suffered trauma as a child and lost his mind. He doesn't know what he's saying."
Buggy shook his head calmly. "No, I'm fine."
But his sharp eyes lingered on the boy. Beneath the messy hair, his eyes gleamed—bright, clear, sane. This was no lunatic. No child with eyes that sharp could be truly mad. He was pretending. Pretending for a reason.
Buggy's unease deepened. The boy's outburst, his crew's strange condition, the villagers' eerie behavior… everything pointed to a darker truth.
The villagers dragged the child away, apologizing profusely. But once out of Buggy's sight, their expressions changed. Cold eyes filled with killing intent fixed on the boy.
In a remote grove, the villagers argued over his fate.
"We can't let him stay. He's of no use to us."
"He's just a fool. Who would believe his nonsense? Leave him be."
"But what if his words plant suspicion in them? That could ruin everything."
"The young ones are naive. They won't question us."
The debate grew heated.
Perched high in a tree, Buggy had followed them silently, listening to every word. His suspicions were confirmed—the island was hiding something dangerous. And it had already affected his crew.
"Throw him into the sea," Reagan's voice cut in coldly as he stepped forward. "Let fate decide if he lives or dies. But we can't risk him exposing us."
The villagers fell silent. A few faces flickered with pity, but it quickly faded. Most looked on with icy indifference.
Without hesitation, Reagan grabbed the boy—still thrashing and crying out—and dragged him toward the shore.
Buggy stayed hidden. If he moved too soon, he might alert them. Better to wait.
At the water's edge, Reagan showed no mercy. Like tossing away trash, he hurled the boy into the sea. Without a backward glance, he turned and left, ignoring the child's desperate struggle in the waves.
The villagers scattered, heading back to their homes.
That was when Buggy moved.
In an instant, his form blurred with a shaven step. He appeared above the drowning boy, snatched him out of the water, and vanished again—speeding back toward the crew's residence with the child in tow.