The sixth year on the island was a year brimming with overflowing hope.
At the edge of the beach stood a masterpiece born from sweat, blood, and unwavering perseverance. The boat was finally finished. And it was beautiful. Its sturdy hull was made from the best timber Arka could find, each plank shaped and fitted by his own hands. Its mast rose proudly, and its sail, painstakingly stitched from animal hides, looked ready to catch the wind and ride toward adventure.
Every morning, Arka would go to the boat, his hand stroking the smooth wood as his mind soared far across the ocean. Here, on the verge of his freedom, the old part of himself—the teenager who yearned for a fantasy world—resurfaced with full force.
"Soon," he whispered one bright morning, his eyes sparkling as he gazed at the horizon. "Soon we'll set sail. We'll find answers."
His mind painted the fantastical images he had read about in his comic books. He imagined meeting graceful and wise Elves, the long-lived and kind-hearted guardians of nature. Perhaps they would share their ancient knowledge with him. He imagined the magnificent cities of the Dwarves beneath the mountains, filled with glittering gems and brightly lit forges where legendary blacksmiths forged magical weapons. The wild expectations he had once only found in the pages of a comic now felt so real and ready for him to explore.
Bullyu, Hanzo, and Selen seemed to share in his excitement. Hope felt so close he could almost touch it. He had even begun to gather provisions: dried meat, preserved fruits, and the most important scrolls and books.
However, this world had its own way of shattering expectations.
It all began in the afternoon. The once cloudless blue sky began to fill with gray clouds that gathered with unnatural speed. The wind, once a gentle breeze, started to blow fiercely, carrying the thick scent of a storm. The usually bustling animals in the forest fell silent, as if holding their breath. The foxes stopped playing, their fur standing on end as they stared anxiously at the horizon.
By late afternoon, the sky was as dark as night. The wind howled like a hungry monster, and the first drops of rain began to fall—not mere droplets, but a wall of water that seemed intent on drowning the entire island.
"Quick! Help me tie it down!" Arka yelled to the foxes, his voice nearly swallowed by the roaring wind.
They fought desperately amidst the raging storm. Arka pulled on the strongest ropes he had, trying to lash his boat more tightly to a line of sturdy palm trees. The waves, once calm, now raged, rolling into giant walls of water that slammed against the shore with brutal force, dragging the sand from under Arka's feet.
The boat, which had looked so mighty on land, now groaned and creaked under the assault, a fragile toy before the wrath of nature. A massive wave crashed down, snapping one of the mooring lines. Arka saw it and, without a second thought, lunged forward, his body bracing the boat as it threatened to break free, his shoulder pressing against the wooden hull with all his Aura-infused strength. But his power was nothing compared to the might of the ocean.
A colossal wave finally came. It was far larger than the others, a horrifying anomaly that struck the coastline with a force that made the ground tremble. The ropes snapped like thread. Arka was thrown aside as the boat was lifted by the surge, tossed onto the sand before being dragged back by the water.
"NO!"
Arka screamed, his voice raw and desperate. He tried to run after it, but the receding wave was too strong, pulling him off his feet. He could only watch in horror as his boat—his dream, his hope, his six years of hard work—was lifted one last time and smashed violently against the sharp coral rocks at the end of the beach.
The sound of splintering wood was audible even over the deafening storm, a sound that tore not just through the timber, but through his very soul.
The storm raged on through the night, but Arka no longer felt it. He just sat on the threshold of his stilt house, staring blankly into the darkness.
The next morning, the storm had passed. The sky was once again a clear blue, as if mocking his sorrow. With the shambling gait of a living corpse, Arka walked toward the beach. There, caught among the coral rocks, were the remains of his hope. Shattered planks, a mast broken in three, and the tattered, shapeless remnants of his sail. His boat hadn't just been damaged. It had been obliterated.
Arka fell to his knees on the wet sand. His gaze was vacant. Then, his shoulders began to tremble. A small sob escaped his lips, then transformed into a broken, agonized wail. He roared, not like a warrior, but like a small child who had lost everything. He slammed his fists into the wet sand again and again, oblivious to the pain.
"WHY?!" he screamed at the silent sky. "AFTER ALL THIS... WHY?!"
Six years. Six years he had survived, learned, and struggled. Six years he had poured his blood and sweat into his one and only hope. And in a single night, it was all snatched away. Amidst the ironic beauty of the morning, Arka felt more than just sadness. He felt a surging rage, a burning injustice, and beneath it all, a despair so dark and absolute he felt he would never see the light again.