The boy drifted along the waves, floating endlessly across the vast ocean. No one knew how long it had been; his soaked body lay limp on a raft adrift in a calm, silent sea.
He looked different now—no longer the frail figure he once was on the island. His body had become stronger, more defined.
His hair was no longer plain black. Streaks of deep blue and white shimmered through it, like waves glinting under sunlight on the sea.
The ragged slave uniform he once wore had vanished, replaced by garments woven from white and azure, flowing with patterns as graceful as the tides.
He remained unconscious, unaware of the miraculous transformation that had overtaken him.
…
No one knew how much time had passed when, on the deck of a luxurious ship, two sailors fishing suddenly noticed something drifting toward them.
"Hey, there's someone out there."
"Hah, you're just trying to distract me because you're losing. I can see right through you."
"I'm not kidding. There's really someone floating out there."
Hearing that, the other sailor dropped his fishing rod and squinted toward the boy lying motionless on a half-rotten raft.
"Huh, you think that one's still alive?"
"Pretty sure. His skin's still pink; he's probably fine."
"Looks tall and well-built. Might be worth saving."
With that, one of the sailors tied a rope around his waist and dove into the sea to pull the boy in. The other hauled them both up.
Smack! Smack!
One sailor slapped the boy twice across the face, but he didn't stir.
"He's not waking up. What do we do now?"
"He's still breathing. Just bring him to the medic."
The burly sailor hoisted the boy over his shoulder like a sack of grain and headed toward the infirmary. Halfway there, a massive figure appeared.
It was a woman—easily four hundred pounds, draped in gold and jewels from head to toe.
Her extravagant appearance matched the opulent ship itself. She was likely its owner.
"Good morning, madam," both sailors said, bowing deeply with utmost respect.
"Oh… and what is that you're carrying?" The lady asked, puffing her pipe as her gaze fell on the unconscious boy.
"Ma'am, we just pulled him from the sea. We were taking him to the infirmary," the sailor answered without hesitation.
The lady walked forward, each step landing like a hammer strike against the ship's deck. It didn't feel like a human walking but rather an elephant on the move.
She lifted the boy's chin with two fingers, studying his face from side to side, her gaze growing increasingly heated.
The boy's face—handsome yet boyish—looked like a tender piece of prey, calling out to the four-hundred-pound matron before her.
"Oh my, whose poor little darling drifted all the way out here? Hurry up and save my precious baby. Take good care of him, and when he's feeling better, send him to my room." The lady's eyes curved in a delighted smile as she hummed a tune and waddled away, almost skipping.
A chill ran down both sailors' spines. Their eyes turned to the boy, filled with pure pity.
If that massive woman sat on him, even if he didn't die, he'd be crippled for life. They couldn't help but feel like they hadn't saved him at all—they'd doomed him instead.
…
Inside the infirmary, the boy slowly opened his eyes. He looked around; everything felt strange and unfamiliar.
His body felt different from before, as though he was still floating in the sea—light, fluid, and oddly buoyant.
Turning his head to the left, he saw an old man wearing glasses and a white coat.
"Were you the one who saved me?" he asked.
"Not exactly," the old man replied. "I'm the ship's doctor. You woke up before I could even check you. You must be starving after drifting at sea for so long. Here, eat this." He handed the boy a sandwich.
The boy's eyes widened. The sandwich looked like ordinary food, yet it glowed faintly with a strange brilliance.
He took a big bite, and for a moment, his soul soared straight to heaven. That taste, that aroma... it wasn't food; it was divine.
He remembered the past—days of surviving on moldy crumbs of bread and bland, rock-hard boiled potatoes.
Compared to everything he'd ever eaten, this felt nothing like food.
"So good… it's so good," he muttered, tears streaming down his face as he devoured the sandwich.
For the first time in his life, he understood what happiness tasted like. And it all came from something as simple as a sandwich.
The ship doctor watched him, puzzled. The boy's behavior looked utterly unsophisticated. It was just an ordinary sandwich, yet his reaction was far too dramatic.
"What kind of work did you do before this?" the doctor asked.
"I mined ore," the boy replied between bites, carefree and unguarded.
"Mining, huh… rough environment, so I guess the food wasn't great either," the doctor murmured.
Mining wasn't glamorous, but at least it was honest work. Still, if the boy had been a slave, the doctor's gaze would have changed.
"Take your time. There's plenty more. When you're done, you should go thank the lady who saved you," the doctor said with a faint smile.
"Right, right, right. I definitely have to thank the one who pulled me out of the sea," the boy replied, nodding as he ate. His eyes wandered toward a mirror nearby.
'Huh? Is that me? Why do I look so different?' he thought, but brushed it off and kept eating.
"What's your name?" the doctor asked.
The boy froze for a moment, and suddenly, memories of the old slave who had pushed him into the sea resurfaced.
The old man's rambling words about freedom, about liberating the world—they still made no sense to him, but somehow, they sparked something.
'Freedom… freedom… freedom… Frydam. That'll be my name,' he thought, deciding on a whim.
After all, slaves didn't have names—only numbers. Now that he was asked, he had to make one up.
"My name's Frydam," the boy said.
Boom!
A thunderous explosion erupted as alarm bells rang. A cannonball tore through several walls before slamming straight into the boy's face.