Chapter — Gazed Upon by Faith
The deck still shuddered beneath Sabre's feet. Broken railings groaned, splintered wood scattered like jagged teeth, and the stench of salt, blood, and scorched deck filled his nose. The Marrow Leviathan had vanished beneath the waves, leaving only silence in its wake—and yet Sabre felt no relief.
His chest still throbbed with the ghost of the strange heartbeat he had felt since the awakening hall. That pulse—the faint echo of astral energy buried inside him—was louder now, insistent, as though the sea itself had answered it and whispered his name across the waves.
And then he noticed it.
A presence. Calm. Immense. Cold. It didn't announce itself with power or destruction. It simply was, and the world around it trembled quietly in acknowledgment.
The cloaked man appeared on the deck, moving with a grace that contradicted the chaos. His eyes, when Sabre finally dared to look, were impossibly sharp, ancient, and unreadable. The survivors froze, the sailors cowering as if they sensed that their lives had shrunk to insignificance beside him.
And then those eyes found Sabre.
The boy felt as if a star had been turned on inside his chest. His heartbeat staggered under the weight of that gaze, his knees almost buckling. Every instinct screamed—this man was dangerous. Terrifyingly so. And yet… he felt drawn toward him. Compelled.
"Come," the man said.
The single word was gentle. Soft. Yet it carried a weight that compelled movement. Sabre's legs obeyed before his mind could catch up.
He followed as the man walked toward the lower levels of the ship, his strides long, steady, deliberate. Every step made the deck groan beneath them, yet the man moved as though the waves, the splintered wood, and the terror-stricken crew did not exist. Sabre could feel the faint hum of suppressed energy around him, subtle yet overwhelming. He didn't know whether to fear it or revere it. Perhaps both.
No one interfered. Sailors bowed their heads. Guards fell silent. Even the captain avoided the man's gaze. Sabre felt it clearly now: this was not a man to challenge. This was a force—a cultivator whose mere presence could command obedience.
They reached a dimly lit corridor, the lanterns swinging gently, casting long shadows over the swaying walls. The man did not slow, and neither did Sabre.
Finally, they stopped before a reinforced door, plain except for the metal bands bracing it. Without hesitation, the man opened it and stepped inside. Sabre followed, pausing only a fraction of a second to adjust to the relative calm of the room.
Inside, the space was modest but precise: a single bed, a table with maps of surrounding seas, a chair, and the lingering scent of incense. The chaos of the deck felt impossibly distant. The ship's creaks seemed softer here, the waves gentler.
The man sat on the chair and gestured for Sabre to stand.
Sabre obeyed, though every instinct told him he was being measured. The man's eyes studied him as if peeling back layer by layer, probing deeper than skin or bone. Sabre felt vulnerable, exposed. His palms sweated. His stomach tightened. And yet, he did not look away.
"Your name," the man said.
"Sabre," he replied without hesitation.
The man's expression remained neutral. But there was a flicker in his eyes—a spark Sabre could not read.
"What you did on the deck," the man continued, voice calm but edged with subtle authority, "was reckless."
Sabre froze. What had he done? Survive. Hide. Breathe. Was that reckless?
"I—I didn't do anything," he stammered.
The man's jaw tightened slightly, a movement so subtle it could have been mistaken for shadow. Yet Sabre felt it coil around him, the invisible tension tightening like a vine.
"You carry something abnormal," the man said. "Even if you try to hide it, I sensed the fluctuation the moment the Leviathan struck."
Sabre's chest jolted. The astral energy? Could it be that this stranger sensed it? He had barely begun to understand it himself.
"I don't understand," Sabre admitted, his voice low, careful, trying not to betray the chaos roiling within him.
"Maybe you don't," the man replied, leaning back slightly. "Or maybe you pretend not to. Power leaves traces, even when suppressed."
Sabre looked down, swallowing hard. After the awakening hall, after the Astryx's interference, nothing felt normal. Nothing inside him felt controllable. And yet the man's words cut through that confusion like a blade, precise and unavoidable.
The man stood. Sabre instinctively stepped back, but the motion was unnecessary. The man's hand rose, steady but not threatening.
"I called you here," he said simply, "for a reason."
Sabre's pulse hammered in his ears. He dared not speak, dared not even guess.
The man's gaze sharpened, slicing through the stillness. "You intrigue me."
Sabre swallowed. The words were deceptively casual, but their weight sank into his bones.
"Either your talent is monstrous," the man continued, voice low and deliberate, "…or there is something else inside you. Something far older, far more dangerous than you yet understand."
A shiver ran down Sabre's spine. The astral power, the strange heartbeat—it was being recognized. Not just as energy, but as a presence.
"Which one is it, Sabre?"
Sabre's lips parted slightly, no answer forming. He did not know. He did not know what he had become, what the Leviathan had sensed, or what the man before him already knew.
The ship rocked softly, lantern light tilting with the movement. Shadows stretched across the walls, blending with the tension that seemed to thicken the very air.
"Tell me, Sabre," the man's voice dropped lower, slicing through the silence, "am I calling you here because of your talent… or because I sensed something far more dangerous inside you?"
The air in the room turned colder, heavier. Sabre's heartbeat thundered. He did not know the answer. He did not know which truth was more terrifying.
But one thing was certain: the world was no longer safe. Not for him, and perhaps not for anyone else.
And whatever this man wanted from him, Sabre felt—somehow—that it would change everything.