Somewhere deep in the forest, a sound emerged—low, drawn-out groans. It was the kind of sound no one wanted to hear in a place like this. Even after years at sea, facing monsters from the darkest depths, none of them had experienced anything like it.
Sikim grinned and called out, "Oi, Merchant of Death, what do you think it is?"
Elhaan's brow twitched. "Don't call me that, you bald, good-for-nothing king."
Sikim just laughed.
"They don't seem alive," Azan said, his voice steady.
A commander chuckled darkly. "If they wish for death, they've found the right people."
This earned a few smiles from the crew.
Then they appeared, shadowy undead, emerging from the fog with weapons the crew had never seen before. They wielded strange, otherworldly blades and rifles, faintly glowing with a sick light. Each strike produced explosions that vaporized everything in their path.
Ibhram acted first. He leapt into the air, his curved blade slicing through the undead like a hot knife through butter. Black Mask was just as fierce, his swords flashing silver in the gloom. Marda fought with raw strength alone, tossing enemies aside without using his mythical drawings.
"They'll keep coming until their master is dead," Elhaan shouted over the chaos. "A necromancer is hiding nearby!"
Azan heard him. Without a word, he charged forward, his fist tightening.
When it struck the ground, the blast shook the forest. The entire front line of undead was obliterated in a single, bone-crushing blow.
Ibhram and Marda returned, brushing dust from their clothes like bored warriors whose fun had been interrupted. But there was no time to linger; they had a greater prize to claim.
The trials that followed were just as odd. They faced a dragon that could only be slain by lies, its mind so gullible it believed anything said to it. Sikim, grinning widely, managed it effortlessly, spinning a ridiculous tale that led the beast to its doom.
Through it all, Azan stayed the same. Calm. Focused. He never acted like a man who thought death might take him that night. He planned as if he would live to spend the treasure with them.
After countless challenges—climbing a sheer mountain with only a narrow ledge for a path, battling shadow snakes in dark caves, and confronting the roaring lava hound in the depths of hell—they stood before it.
The Skull.
Its stone fangs towered above them, its mouth a gaping entrance to the treasure of the Forbidden Island, said to hold the greatest treasure in all the seas.
And now, they were just one step away.
The Skull loomed over the jungle like the crown of an ancient god, half-buried in the earth, its yawning mouth sealed by glowing runes. A faint light pulsed across its surface, shifting over symbols older than memory, older than history itself.
Elhaan stepped forward, his eyes scanning every curve of the stone. Slowly, he raised a hand, stopping just short of touching it.
"This isn't just a barrier," he murmured. "It's a test. Wards, death glyphs… illusions. This thing is alive."
The air changed—it became heavier and colder.
A voice drifted from the stone. Dry. Mocking.
"Hmmmnnn… what's this? A human with a ticking soul?"
The crew froze in place.
"Ahhh… the dying hour walks among you. So small. So brief. You carry one sun's worth of time… and think it can warm the grave?"
The runes pulsed, and a cruel intelligence seemed to gaze out from the skull itself.
Elhaan took a step back. His voice was steady, but his hands trembled. "This magic… is beyond me."
Azan stepped forward without hesitation. He surveyed the barrier, the runes, the glowing mouth. Then, without a word, he tightened his fist.
And then he punched.
CRACK.
The seal shattered like brittle glass. Light ruptured and vanished in an instant. The stone split apart with a sound like bone breaking.
Azan muttered, "You talk too much," and walked inside.
°°°
The chamber beyond glowed with dim light, sustained by veins of ancient magic that ran through the walls. Piles of gold, heaps of jewels, weapons from forgotten wars, and artifacts humming with strange power filled every corner. The air felt heavy with greed.
Azan glanced back at his crew. "You guys are going to live one hell of a life."
They forced smiles, but the truth loomed over them like a storm cloud. They all knew what the Black Mark meant.
Still, they followed.
In the center of the room stood a pedestal. Upon it rested a golden crow, its ruby eyes shimmering in the low light.
A young crewman stepped forward, eyes wide. "Looks valuable," he said, grinning. "It's mine."
"Wait," Elhaan warned, but the words came too late.
Click.
HISSSSSSS.
The crow screamed—not a sound, but smoke.
Black smoke.
It wasn't mist. It wasn't magic. It was something older and hungrier.
The crew staggered back as it poured from the crow's beak, moving with purpose. The temperature dropped. The gold seemed to lose its shine.
Elhaan's face went pale. "You fool..."
Black Mask swung his sword, but the blade shattered upon contact.
The smoke moved like thought, darting, choosing, killing.
Men screamed. Flesh tore. Bones cracked. Then the screams stopped.
Azan stepped forward.
The smoke lunged at him—and froze.
No scream. No pain.
Only stillness.
The Black Mark on his hand pulsed once.
Outside, the last sliver of sun fell below the horizon.
The world ceased to move.
Only Azan remained.
He stood in the quiet, surveying the frozen scene. "…Goodbye."
Memories flickered. Mikael's smile. The girl's laugh. The sound of the sea. The heat of fire. The roar of battle.
Then the smoke shifted. Twisted.
It lunged again. The Mark flared.
BOOM.
Back on the ship, Mikael gripped the mast as a burst of white light tore through the clouds. It was blinding, silent, and impossible.
The red-haired girl beside him stared at the horizon. "Was that… Captain Azan?"
Mikael didn't answer. Because he didn't know.
Three days passed. °°°
The sea was calm. The island stood still. No birds. No wind. Just waiting.
Then Mikael, feeling anxious, decided he could not wait any longer and set out to search for them himself.
He swam toward the island and began his search. He found the monsters his crew had defeated: giants, dragons, wolves the size of ships, and many more.
He felt something. He didn't know why. Just that something called him back—a pull deep in his bones, a whisper buried beneath the sound of rain.
The jungle was dying. The skull was crumbling. He had climbed all the way to this point.
And then he found them.
Three grandmasters lay near the skull's hollow eye. Alive, but barely. Their hair had turned white. Their skin hung loose, drained of strength. They looked as if years had been carved out of them in moments.
One lifted his head as Mikael approached. "You came," he rasped. "Too late for us… but not for what we carry."
They rose with effort. One pressed two fingers to Mikael's temple. Another, to his chest. The last, to the base of his spine.
"You'll feel it soon. Flashes. Instincts. You won't understand them yet."
"We're not giving you knowledge..."
"…We're giving you burden." Their bodies turned to ash before his eyes, drifting away into the wind.
Only one grandmaster remained—half-shadow, limping, barely clinging to life. Mikael took his arm and helped him back to the boat. Behind them, the island faded piece by piece until it was gone.
It would not return for another 100 years.
Far away
°°°
In a world of carriages and gas lamps, a man woke up in the dirt.
There was no sea. No sky. No magic.
His hand was empty.
A white-haired man opened his eyes.
And somewhere, a new story began.
To be continued....