Night came faster than Escanore expected.The sky turned from gray to black, the horizon fading until sea and air were the same dark mass. The last streak of orange slipped away, and with it, the warmth of the day.
The fire was his only light now. It crackled softly, throwing long shadows across the sand. Beyond its circle, the beach was swallowed by darkness. The sound of the waves grew louder, and every gust of wind seemed sharper.
Escanore pulled the lean-to lower, tightening the ropes and pressing stones against the canvas edges. He wanted no surprise gust to rip it away. When he was satisfied, he sat close to the fire, sword in hand. The blade rested across his knees, faint orange glimmers sliding over its edge.
He listened.
The sea. The river. The occasional cry of a night bird. Nothing else.
But his instincts told him he wasn't alone.
He turned his head slowly, eyes fixed on the tree line. The forest was a wall of black shapes, trunks and branches swaying in the wind. He couldn't see past the first few meters. Anything could be there—animals, strangers, or just his imagination.
His grip on the sword tightened.
Memories rose unbidden. Escanore's crew, laughing around a fire on the deck. Pedro's rough jokes, Juan's terrible singing, Garcia's constant curses at the sea. Men of flesh and blood, now cold and still. They should have been beside him. Instead, only he had survived.
Why him?
Sam's memories whispered another answer. The sudden pain in his chest, the last flicker of breath in 2025, and then—this. Another body. Another life. It wasn't chance. Something had chosen him. Or cursed him.
Immortal. The word surfaced, heavy and strange.
He didn't know if it was true. But the wound on his arm that had already healed in hours suggested it might be. If so, what did that mean? Eternal life? Eternal loneliness?
The fire snapped, breaking his thoughts. He forced himself back to the present. Thinking too far ahead would not keep him alive tonight.
He skewered the second fish he had caught and roasted it. He ate slowly, letting the heat calm him. The meat was plain, but it filled his stomach. He washed it down with water from the stream, cool and clean.
When he finished, he buried the bones in the sand and wiped the blade of his sword clean with a scrap of cloth. The act felt ritualistic, grounding.
The night deepened. Stars pushed through the clouds, faint and scattered. The moon was a thin sliver, barely enough to see by. The forest rustled now and then, but nothing emerged.
Escanore lay on his side beneath the lean-to, the sword resting close to his hand. The fire's glow flickered on the canvas, painting the inside with restless light. He kept one hand outside, palm flat on the sand, feeling the cool air shift around him.
Sleep came in shallow waves. He drifted, woke, drifted again. Every time the wind changed, his eyes snapped open.
At one point, he heard it—a sound different from the rest. A low thump, wood against wood. Three times. Then silence.
He sat up, every nerve alert, sword in hand. His eyes scanned the beach, the forest, the shoreline. Nothing moved. The fire hissed as a log split in the heat. The ocean kept its rhythm.
The sound didn't return.
But it had been real.
Escanore exhaled slowly and lowered himself back down, though he didn't sheathe the sword. He left it ready, his hand on the grip, his eyes half-open.
If there were others here, they had seen his fire. They knew someone had survived. He didn't know if they would come as friends or enemies.
"Let them come," he whispered into the night. "I will still be here."
The words steadied him.
He drifted into a lighter sleep, broken often, but enough to keep his strength. When the eastern sky finally began to pale, relief washed through him. The night had passed. He had survived.
The fire was nearly out, just a bed of glowing coals. He stirred them back to life, fed them dry wood, and watched the flames return. The sight filled him with quiet pride.
When he stepped outside the shelter, the beach was washed in pale morning light. The wreckage still littered the shore, but it looked less like a graveyard and more like resources. The ocean gleamed silver. The forest still loomed, but it no longer felt as suffocating.
Then he saw it.
Near the edge of his camp, just beyond the reach of the tide, lay something that hadn't been there the night before. A bundle, wrapped in woven leaves, tied neatly with fiber rope.
Escanore froze. He scanned the beach. No footprints. No shadows. Whoever had left it was gone.
Cautiously, he approached and crouched down. He untied the bundle. Inside were three thin flat cakes of bread, a small coil of rope, and a carved wooden stick with a notch cut into it.
A gift. Or a test.
He lifted the stick. He recognized it from Escanore's memories and Sam's half-forgotten knowledge. A fire-making tool. Someone had seen his struggle and decided to help.
He smiled faintly. He didn't know why.
Carefully, he wrapped the bundle again and placed it inside his shelter. He sat back by the fire, staring at the forest.
He was not alone. Others lived here. They knew about him now. They had chosen not to kill him in the night. That was something.
Escanore lifted his sword, resting the flat of the blade across his knees. The steel caught the morning light, battered but strong.
"This world tried to drown me," he said quietly. "But I am still here."
The waves answered, steady and endless. The gulls cried overhead. The fire burned.
Sam was gone. Escanore's crew was gone. But he remained. Strong, tall, and alive.
The last survivor.
And the first step in a story that had only just begun.