Escanore's grip on the sword tightened as he stood in the wreckage of his former life. The bodies of his crew lay silent behind him, claimed by the storm and left as offerings to the gulls. He did not look back again. What was gone would not return.
Instead, he turned his eyes inland. The beach rose toward a line of dunes, and beyond them stretched the edge of a dense forest. The trees stood tall and dark, their crowns swaying in the wind, their shadows hiding whatever lived inside.
Escanore's heart pounded. He knew nothing of this place. He didn't even know what coast he stood upon. The maps he had glimpsed in Escanore's memories were crude outlines, half guesses, half dreams. This land was wild, untouched, and dangerous.
But it was also his only path forward.
He couldn't stay on the open beach. Not with the stench of death drawing scavengers. Not with the cold wind gnawing at his bones. He needed fire. He needed shelter. He needed to survive the night.
Sam's memories stirred again. Fragments of videos, articles, guides he had once read out of boredom on his laptop. Survival basics. Fire, shelter, water, food. Four steps to stay alive.
Escanore took a deep breath and started moving.
He walked along the shoreline, scanning for anything useful. The tide had carried debris far and wide. He found a coil of rope, stiff with salt but still strong. He found a plank of wood long enough to serve as a support beam. He even found a tattered scrap of canvas caught on a rock, which could serve as a crude cover. Piece by piece, he gathered what the sea had spared.
Every so often, he stopped and looked around. His instincts screamed at him to stay alert. Somewhere inland, a crow cried. The sound of insects rose faintly from the trees. No human voices. No footsteps. He was alone, but not truly. The land was full of life, and not all of it would be friendly.
By the time he had carried the last of the salvage to a spot above the tide line, sweat ran down his back. His muscles ached, but they responded with strength that wasn't his own. Escanore's body was used to labor, used to hauling ropes and moving barrels across decks. Sam felt clumsy inside it, but at least the body knew what it was doing.
He jammed the two ribs of hull deep into the sand as posts. He leaned the long plank across them at an angle, creating a simple frame. He tied the joints with rope until they held firm. Then he draped the canvas over the slanted roof, weighing the edges with rocks. It wasn't much, just a low lean-to, but it would keep the rain off.
As the shelter took shape, he felt a flicker of something he hadn't felt since waking. Hope.
The next step was fire.
Escanore crouched by a circle of stones he had arranged. He piled dry seaweed and the thinnest sticks he could find in the center. But the wood was damp, and his hands were untrained. He cursed under his breath as spark after spark died in the salt air.
"Think," he muttered. Sam's voice in Escanore's throat. He pictured the tutorials he'd once watched on his computer screen. Don't smother it. Give it air. Feed it slowly.
He struck two pieces of flint together, again and again, until at last a single spark caught in the seaweed. He bent close and blew gently. Smoke curled upward. The spark glowed red, then spread, nibbling at the dry fibers. He fed it slivers of wood, one by one, until a small flame stood proud in the pit.
Warmth washed over his face. The fire snapped, alive, defiant against the wind. Escanore grinned. It was a small victory, but it was his.
He held his hands over the flames, soaking in the heat. For the first time since waking, he felt human again.
The sun was sliding lower. Time moved faster than he liked. Hunger gnawed at him. He scanned the shore for anything edible, but found nothing but broken shells. His eyes drifted to the mouth of a stream trickling into the sea.
He approached it carefully. The water was clear. He cupped his hands, drank, and waited. No pain twisted his gut. It would do.
As he wiped his mouth, a flash of silver darted in the shallows. Fish.
Escanore's lips curled. He returned to his lean-to, found a straight stick, and cut a crude point with his sword. It wasn't much of a spear, but it was worth a try.
He waded into the stream, water chilling his legs. He stood still, waiting, remembering not to trust his eyes but to aim where the fish would be, not where they seemed. The first jab missed. The second too. On the third, the spear struck true, and a fish wriggled on the point.
A laugh broke from his chest. Raw and rough, but real.
He carried the fish back, gutted it with the sword, and roasted it over the fire. The smell filled the air, rich and mouthwatering. When he finally tore into the cooked flesh, it was the best meal he had ever tasted. Hunger and survival gave flavor no feast could match.
When the sun dipped toward the horizon, Escanore sat beside his fire, the sword resting across his knees. The beach glowed red in the fading light. The wreckage lay in shadows. The cries of gulls faded into the distance.
But his mind was restless.
He thought of Sam, the man from 2025, and the life that was gone forever. The phone, the laptop, the empty nights. He thought of Escanore, the pirate who had fled Spain, chasing freedom across the sea, only to lose everything to the storm. Both lives had ended. And yet here he was. Alive. Alone. Different.
"Who am I now?" he whispered. His voice sounded strange in the still air. "Sam? Escanore? Or something else entirely?"
The fire crackled. The waves answered with their endless rhythm. No voice came back.
Escanore tightened his grip on the sword. Whatever he was, whoever he was, one truth remained. He was alive.
And as long as he breathed, he would keep moving forward.