The first thing Sam felt was the taste of salt.It was sharp on his tongue, heavy in his throat, and clinging to his lips. He lay on his back, half buried in cold sand, listening to the slow rhythm of the sea. A wave rolled in, hissed across the shore, and pulled away, leaving him sinking a little deeper into the wet ground. His body felt heavy, as if stone weights were tied to every limb.
Sam groaned and forced his eyes open.Gray clouds stretched above him. A few gulls wheeled in lazy circles, their harsh cries echoing down the empty coast. He blinked against the brightness. For a long moment, he didn't move. His mind struggled to catch up. He remembered something—his small apartment in America, the glow of his computer screen, a half-empty cup of coffee beside him. His chest had burned, his vision had gone black. That had been… 2025.
But this wasn't his apartment. This wasn't his time.
Sam pushed himself up with both arms. The sand stuck to his skin and clothes, clinging to him like a second layer. He coughed hard, spat out seawater, and finally got to his knees. His head pounded. His breath came rough and ragged.
He looked at his hands. They weren't his.They were larger, darker, scarred. Strong. Not the hands of a man who spent his life in front of a screen, but of someone who had hauled ropes, swung blades, and lived under the sun. He stared, stunned, turning them over slowly. His arms were thick with muscle. His chest was broad. His whole body felt unfamiliar, like a stranger's clothes he had been forced to wear.
And yet… it felt natural, too. As though this body belonged to him now.
A name rose in his mind, heavy and foreign. Escanore.Not Sam. Escanore.
The moment the name came, memories that weren't his rushed through his skull. A ship rocking on rough waves. Men shouting in Spanish. Laughter over mugs of cheap wine. A storm tearing through the night, sails ripping like paper, waves rising like mountains. Screams. Darkness. Then silence.
Sam grabbed his head with both hands. Two lives fought inside him. Sam of 2025. Escanore of the fifteenth century. He remembered the glow of a modern city and the chaos of a wooden deck at sea. He remembered his last heartbeat in a quiet apartment, and also the last cries of men swallowed by the ocean.
He gasped for air. His body trembled, but he did not collapse. Slowly, the flood of memories settled into place. He was both. He was Sam. He was Escanore. He was alive.
The gulls cried overhead again, reminding him where he was. He lifted his head and looked around.
The beach stretched wide and long. Broken timbers lay scattered across the sand, the remains of a ship smashed to pieces. Ropes lay twisted like snakes. A shredded sail flapped weakly on a jagged rock. And further down, dark shapes sprawled on the ground.
Bodies.
Sam forced himself to stand. His legs shook but held. He staggered forward, towering over the wreckage at nearly one hundred ninety centimeters. He had never been this tall before. His height, his broad shoulders, his heavy frame—everything about this body felt larger than life.
He walked among the wreck. The first body he found was face down in the sand, arms stretched toward the sea. Another lay curled on his side, mouth open in an expression of terror. Their clothes were rough, sea-stained, patched with leather. Pirates, he realized. Men of the sea. Escanore's crew.
And they were all dead.
One by one, he checked them. Ten… twelve… fifteen. Not one drew breath. Their eyes stared lifeless at the gray sky. The storm had taken them all, and left only him.
A heavy silence pressed down on him. The sea, the gulls, the wind—none of it mattered. He was the last survivor.
Sam swallowed hard. He wanted to mourn, but the grief wasn't truly his. He had never known these men. Escanore had. Yet their faces, their laughter, their screams—those memories lived in his head now, too. He felt the loss, even if it belonged to another life.
He knelt beside one man whose hand still clutched a broken dagger. Gently, Sam pried the weapon free. The blade was bent, useless. He tossed it aside. He couldn't rely on scraps. He needed something stronger. Something that could keep him alive in this strange new world.
That was when he saw it.
Near a pile of shattered planks, half buried in sand and seaweed, a glint of metal caught his eye. He hurried over, dropped to one knee, and began digging with both hands. The sand was wet and heavy, but soon his fingers struck steel.
With a final pull, he dragged it free.
A sword.
It was long and heavy, the grip wrapped in blackened leather. Rust dotted the blade, and the edge was nicked, but it was whole. It was still sharp. A weapon made for battle, not for show.
Sam held it tightly. The weight felt right in his hands, like it had always belonged there. Escanore's memories stirred again—the clash of blades, the strain of muscles, the thrill of survival. Sam had never held a sword in his life. Escanore had held one every day. And now the two were one.
He stood there on the beach, gripping the weapon, and for the first time since he awoke, he felt something like stability.
The wind tugged at his hair. The ocean roared softly behind him. Ahead, the beach curved toward a dark line of forest. Beyond that, unknown land.
Sam—no, Escanore—straightened his back. He was alive, alone, and armed.
The world had taken everything from him. His crew. His ship. His old life. But it had left him one thing: a chance.
And he would not waste it.