Sunlight crept through the shutters in thin golden blades, scattering dust like drifting motes of glass. The air smelled faintly of salt and smoke from the port.
Milo stirred beneath the blanket. His mind floated between dream and waking until habit pulled him upright. The wooden floor pressed cool against his feet, a reminder that morning waited whether he liked it or not.
He stretched, joints cracking softly. Another day, he thought, rubbing his eyes.
The basin by the window glimmered with clean water. He splashed his face, the cold biting through sleep's haze, then brushed his teeth with a paste of crushed spirit-leaf. The mint burned sharply on his tongue. It was his own invention, though Grandma insisted it "tastes like medicine."
Downstairs, the scent of fried flatbread and herb soup beckoned.
"Come on, Grandma… isn't the food ready yet? I'm starving!" Milo called, stepping into the kitchen with exaggerated misery. His stomach growled loudly enough to prove the point.
"You, child!" Grandma huffed without turning, her hands busy adjusting the pot on the stove. "All you ever do is eat, play, and sleep, then eat again. Can't you give an old woman a moment's peace?"
Milo leaned against the doorway, his grin sharp and teasing. "Old? You?" He gave an approving nod. "I'd believe that if Grandpa said it about himself, but you, Granny? Even the midwives in town are jealous of your looks."
The wooden spoon in her hand paused mid-stir. A faint laugh escaped her, soft but pleased. "Hee-hee… now, now, Milo, you've become quite the sweet talker. Is the rumor true, then? That you've taken a liking to the lass who owns that beauty parlor?"
Before Milo could deny it, a deep voice echoed from behind him. "Rumor's true enough! I heard the same thing down at the forge." Grandpa entered the kitchen, his beard smelling faintly of smoke and iron.
All the hair on Milo's arms stood on end. "G-Grandpa! Don't spout nonsense!" he sputtered, cheeks reddening.
Grandma chuckled as she turned, placing steaming plates on the table. "Don't tease him. Our Milo will definitely find someone far prettier than that hag."
Grandpa lifted his hands in mock surrender. "I yield, I yield! I know you two will start ganging up now."
Milo exhaled in relief and sat, the aroma of roasted herbs making his stomach twist with hunger. "Wait… is this—" He poked at the tender meat on his plate. "Spirit beast meat?"
Grandpa puffed up with pride. "Ha! Ha! Of course. Congratulations, lad, and all the best for your finals."
Grandma joined him, her smile bright. "Eat well and awaken soon. Once you enter the Manav Realm, you can start helping your grandpa with artifact smithing."
"Yes, yes," Grandpa added, patting his hammer-worn hands. "Then this old man can finally rest and retire. You'll inherit my forge and my hammer, and with your spark you'll surpass me easily."
Milo smirked, scooping another bite. "Hmm… old man, are you planning to retire so you can chase women across the ocean?"
Grandpa froze mid-laugh, sputtering. "Y-you! Don't twist my words!" He shot a panicked glance toward Grandma. "Woman, don't listen to this brat—he's become a word twister!"
Grandma burst into laughter, but her voice cracked suddenly into a fit of coughs. The sound tore through the light-hearted air.
Milo set his spoon down at once, worry clouding his face. "Grandma, are you all right?"
She waved a trembling hand, trying to steady her breath. "Silly boy, why are you so worried? It's just a cough. Everyone in town gets it once in a while. With a few drops of holy water from the Red Sanctum, I'll be fine. Bring some when you return later."
Milo frowned, his jaw tightening. "Tch… those Sanctum scammers again? I'd rather get you a proper potion from the alchemy shop."
Her eyes widened. "You dare call them scammers?" She scolded, pressing a hand to her chest. "Oh, gods forgive this rebellious child of mine." Another cough wracked her before she disappeared back into the kitchen, muttering prayers under her breath.
Grandpa leaned closer and whispered, his tone low. "You shouldn't speak ill of the Sanctum, at least not in front of her."
Milo lowered his voice, too. "You know as well as I do, Grandpa. 'Holy water' is nothing more than a concentrated extract of Drownshade Ivy. That's all."
The old man froze mid-polish, his eyes narrowing. "That's… rare knowledge, boy." His tone carried both surprise and caution. "How do you know that?"
Damn it. Milo's mind flashed in panic before he forced a calm smile. "Ah, I think Lily's mother mentioned it once. She works at the alchemy shop, remember?"
Grandpa's brows eased. "Hmm. That makes sense. She's an assistant there, after all."
He set his tool down, voice softening into a thoughtful rumble. "Still, lad… remember this. Faith in gods and fear of sin hold human society together. Without them, the world would fall into chaos. So even if the Sanctum bends the truth or collects extra coins, maybe it's worth it to keep people united."
He leaned back, eyes distant. "A few years ago, a plague swept through this town. It was the Sanctum that distributed potions freely. Whether it's proper medicine or just holy water; if it cures people, then no one argues. And as long as folks believe and follow the faith, that's what matters to the Sanctum. The church took advantage of their trust, and people didn't mind, as long as they got better. Your grandma was among the sick back then. That's why her faith runs deep."
Milo's expression eased, though skepticism still glimmered in his eyes. "I understand, Grandpa… even so, I think the Red Citadel should supervise them at least a little."
Grandpa chuckled, shaking his head. "Red Citadel? Here, in this forgotten corner of the kingdom? They don't bother investing in Driftmoor. The Harbor Guild runs seventy percent of our economy. The Citadel only takes its thirty percent tax and looks the other way. Otherwise, they'd have claimed the port long ago."
Milo nodded slowly, the truth settling in. "You're right."
Grandpa placed a heavy hand on his head, the touch rough yet affectionate. "Grow up a bit more, and I'll take you to Brinewall. You'll see what a real port city looks like. My friend there owns a forge that could humble even Driftmoor nobles."
Milo smiled faintly. "I'll hold you to that, old man."
The warmth returned for a moment—steam curling from their plates, sunlight spilling across the table, laughter echoing faintly between coughs that refused to fade.
Soon after eating breakfast and apologising to Grandma a few times, he left to meet with Marco as planned.
***
After passing through the familiar road, he spotted Marco and the gang. Before he could greet them, Marco's hurried but irritated voice roared into his ear. "Milo, you're already late. Hurry up!"
"Hmm… What's there to hurry about, boss? Besides, why does it seem like you look extra handsome today?" Milo spoke while moving closer.
Hearing that, Marco scooped him up playfully.
"Let's go," Marco said confidently. "Today I'll give you a real tour. Haven't you always wondered what a ship looks like inside? I'm about to open your narrow-minded imagination."
With that, he strode toward the port.
When they approached, they saw a large ship moored nearby, something like a galleon from the 16th century in Milo's old world.
The most eye-catching feature was the structure at the bow, a beast's head forged from what looked like bone and metal, an artifact crafted with incredible skill. Its imposing appearance gave a sense of oppression and awe.
Marco smiled with pride and explained, "What you're seeing at the bow is the head of a Flood Dragon. It's been modified by an artifactor to fit the ship. Flood dragons are powerful sea monsters, terrible creatures that terrorize the waters. The presence of its aura acts as a great deterrent to most sea monsters. As long as you don't disturb some ancient beast, ships like this are considered the safest and most formidable for deep-sea travel."
His eyes glinted with longing. "This ship is from Emberhall, the regional capital city of Emberhall province. Our village is just a temporary stop. The weather ahead looks terrible, so they've parked the ship to take care."
"Boss, your wisdom and knowledge are endless," Milo started, fawning. It was his quick wit and flattery that had boosted his status from the bottom to second-in-command within the group. Thanks to Marco's favor, he rarely had to pay for food or supplies. If simple words can earn money and benefits, what's wrong with being a little shameless?
Marco shook his head with a faint smile. "Stop fawning. I just found out yesterday when my father told me. Now, enough of that, let's go check out the ship."
Marco took the lead
On the deck of the grand vessel, a handful of teenagers who seemed to be no older than fifteen ran about in fine uniforms, laughing as they chased one another between the railings and ropes. Their laughter carried like silver bells across the harbor.
Among them, Milo spotted a girl around twelve years old. Her posture alone was enough to command attention, her chin lifted and her steps deliberate, and her presence calm and assured. Even Marco, the son of the Harbor Guild head, didn't carry himself with such quiet authority.
Milo's lips curved mischievously. He leaned closer and whispered, "Boss, is that girl our future sister-in-law?"
Marco froze mid-step. His expression stiffened as a faint red crept up his neck. "Shut it," he muttered, keeping his gaze forward. After a beat, he added under his breath, "That's Sheraphin Duskveil—the daughter of Lord Vladimir Duskveil, owner of this ship. Nobility from Emberhall itself. And no, don't ask me how the hierarchy works. I've got no clue."
Milo grinned wider. Beside him, Lily's eyes narrowed, sharp and dangerous.
Ah, jealousy, he thought, half amused. The girl's glare could have melted steel.
He turned to her, voice low and teasing. "Don't worry, Sister Lily. She's like a comet—bright, fast, and gone before you blink. But you, my dear moon, you're what stays in the night sky of our boss's heart."
Lily's face flushed scarlet. "You—!" She clenched her fists, torn between smacking him and laughing.
Before she could decide, Marco raised a hand. "Quiet," he murmured. "Let's move closer before the crew clears the dock."
They followed him down the pier, the wooden planks groaning under their steps. The ship loomed larger with every pace. Its hull a wall of polished blackwood etched with golden runes, sails glinting like dragon wings in the light. Crewmen rushed across the deck, shouting orders, the clatter of tools and boots blending into a living rhythm.
"Beautiful," Milo whispered, eyes wide.
Marco nodded silently. Just as they approached the boarding ramp, a voice snapped: "Stop right there!" The voice sliced through the noise.
They all froze. Milo looked up.
A small girl, perhaps twelve or thirteen, stood near the railing above as sunlight glinted off her silver clasp. Her fine clothes marked her status, but it was her gaze that caught him: sharp, unwavering, and cold as cut glass.
"Who are you?" she demanded. "You can't just walk onto this ship."
Milo blinked, startled by her confidence. He glanced at Marco, whose expression had shifted from surprise to careful composure.
Marco stepped forward, voice calm. "I'm Marco, son of the Harbor Guild head. We're not here to intrude, just to admire the ship. A quick look, nothing more."
The little girl crossed her arms, chin lifting higher. "Since when could villagers have 'just a look' at a noble's vessel?"
Some sailors paused, pretending not to listen. A few hid smirks behind their hands.
Marco chuckled softly, lowering his head in a polite half-bow. "No offense meant. We're visitors only. Surely someone of noble birth can understand our curiosity?"
She hesitated, measuring him with those sharp eyes. The breeze stirred her hair, but her expression didn't soften.
"Ohh? Even the Harbor Guild Master's own family can't board a ship sitting in their own harbor?" Milo asked with a lazy grin on his lips, though his fingers drummed softly against his thigh, tapping out a rhythm born of unease.
Finally, she said flatly, "No. You wait here. I will ask Lady Sheraphin first."
Marco held her gaze, smile never faltering. "Understood," he said. "We'll wait."
The girl gave a grave nod, too solemn for her age, then stepped back into the shadowed deck, vanishing behind a mast.
Marco exhaled quietly and turned to his friends. "Patience, boys. We wait for her call."
Milo watched him for a moment, admiration flickering beneath his grin. The harbor bustled around them again, and the ship's banners rippled in the wind, crimson and gold. Somewhere beyond the horizon, a storm was fading, and sunlight spilled across the sea like molten glass.
"Soon," Marco murmured, almost to himself. "Just a little longer."
Time dragged like syrup over stone. The harbor's noise dimmed to a low hum. The creak of wood, the slap of water, the whistle of wind through rigging. Then, at last, movement stirred on the upper deck.
Sheraphin Duskveil stepped into the light.
She wasn't dressed like the other children. Her gown shimmered faintly, embroidered with silver threads that caught the sun like fish scales. Even standing still, she radiated the effortless grace nobles were born with. But her expression held none of the arrogance Milo expected, only curiosity.
Her gaze swept the pier, pausing when it found Milo.
For an instant, her brows drew together. The sunlight carved sharp edges across his face, scar and shadow blending into something half-wild. Her expression faltered, curiosity flickering before she schooled it into calm.
Milo stepped forward before anyone could stop him. The boards creaked under his boots as he bowed with exaggerated flair, one hand across his chest, the other extended dramatically.
"Your Highness!" he called, voice carrying easily over the water. "Forgive a humble villager's intrusion, but your presence is… dazzling. Truly, I've seen nobles before, but none so radiant. If you'd grant me the honor, I'd love a glimpse inside your magnificent ship… surely an eminent person from the great House of Duskveil would never deny a poor villager a moment's wisdom."
The dock went silent.
A dozen heads turned toward him, some amused, others horrified. Even the sailors paused mid-task.
Sheraphin blinked, caught between shock and disbelief. Then color flooded her cheeks, softening the sharp lines of her composure. The corners of her mouth twitched.
"He's insane," Marco muttered to himself, but he couldn't deny it was working.
Sheraphin tilted her head, studying Milo with cautious intrigue. Her entourage of noble children held their breath, whispering faintly behind her back.
Finally, she spoke, her voice clear, controlled, but tinged with reluctant amusement. "Well… I suppose it is our duty as nobles to help the less fortunate broaden their horizons." She straightened a little, feigning gravity. "Very well. I'll allow a brief visit. But misbehave, and you'll never set foot on this ship again."
Milo pressed his palms together and bowed even deeper, grin spreading like sunlight. "Your kindness humbles me, Your Highness. I stand enlightened already."
A soft giggle escaped her before she could hide it. "Go ahead," she said, waving toward the ramp. "But remember, I'll be watching."
Marco quickly stepped in, bowing politely. "Our sincere thanks, Princess. We'll treat this like a royal audience."
Marco led the way up the ramp, his boots echoing against the polished planks. Behind him, the others followed, eyes wide with excitement.
The moment Milo's foot touched the deck, he felt it, an almost imperceptible shift in the air. A different kind of order here. It was his years of experience as a spy, his honed ability to see what should remain unseen, that kicked in.
While Marco and the others gawked at the ship's carved walls and silken banners, Milo's attention sharpened. The décor was royal, yes, with elegant furniture, golden trims, and the faint scent of sandalwood, but beneath the finery ran another current. A military rhythm.
He caught it in the way the sailors moved, smooth and synchronized, always within reach of their posts.
To most, they seemed relaxed, laughing over dice and cards on the mid-deck. But Milo noticed the subtle wrongness: almost all men held their cards in their left hand. Their right rested casually near weapons, each within easy reach, never tangled in rope or cloth.
A chill brushed the back of his neck.
He slowed, pretending to admire a carved railing. What's going on? Isn't it supposed to be a merchant ship stopping for bad weather?
Their boots were all regulation cut. Their stances were balanced, weight forward. These weren't dockhands. They were trained. Soldiers disguised as crew.
A faint vibration underfoot caught his attention. The ship's timbers creaked oddly, as though patched recently. His eyes flicked toward the seams, the repairs too clean and too recent. Fresh lacquer barely masked faint streaks that sunlight betrayed in shades of dark rust.
Blood.
The metallic tang teased his memory, one he knew too well from his years dissecting carcasses, cleaning instruments, and rinsing stains that never fully left his hands.
He exhaled quietly through his nose, gaze hardening. Merchant ship, huh?
He let his friends drift ahead, their laughter rising as they discovered the captain's wheel. Marco leaned over the rail, Lily calling for him to look below.
But Milo stayed still, eyes sweeping the deck, piecing details together like cogs in a weapon.
Too perfect. Too alert. Too much hidden.
The air carried a faint iron scent beneath the perfume of sea salt and oil. Milo moved quietly down the dim corridor, boots landing without a sound. The deeper he went, the heavier the air became, like stepping into the lungs of a sleeping beast. Lanterns swayed from hooks in the ceiling, their weak glow rippling across steel panels slick with condensation.
He rounded a corner and stopped short.
"Stop there. No one goes beyond this point," a guard barked.
The man stood rigid in polished armor, aura pressing against the air like a solid wall. Even from a few paces away, Milo could feel it weighing on his skin.
He raised his hands casually, forcing a calm smile. "Apologies. Just looking around. Got turned around a bit."
The guard didn't blink. "Turn back."
"Of course, of course." Milo tilted his head in mock deference, but his gaze slid past the man, tracing the faint glint of light further down the hall.
Beyond that checkpoint, maybe twenty or thirty steps ahead, stood another set of guards. Six of them, each far stronger than the one in front of him. Their presence filled the narrow passage with quiet menace. Even from this distance, he could feel the pressure radiating from them. It was the same kind of weight the guest of honor, like Mr. Hamilton, carried, the kind that made the air feel as if it wanted to kneel.
And behind those men sat the end of the passage: a reinforced metal chamber, its surface gleaming like the polished hide of a serpent.
Milo's pupils contracted. That's no storage hold.
He pretended to scratch his ear, letting his eyes drift casually around. Then, soft footsteps sounded behind him.
He turned slightly.
A woman stepped out of a side cabin, her robe brushing against the doorway. Her gait was calm, measured. She didn't so much as glance at Milo as she passed him, perfume mixing faintly with the aroma of medicine.
The guards ahead reacted immediately, straightening up and parting without a word. Even the man who had stopped Milo stepped aside, head bowed.
The woman crossed the corridor's last stretch and stopped before the chamber. She murmured something too low to hear, then entered. The heavy door began to close behind her with a deep, hydraulic groan.
Milo's curiosity overrode caution for half a heartbeat. He leaned slightly, just enough to peer through the narrowing gap.
What he saw jolted him cold.
A man sat slumped in a chair, his robes royal, his sleeve empty where a hand should have been. Blood darkened the floor beneath him.
Then, beside him, still as a statue,
A figure in a silver dragon mask. The faint lamplight glinted off the etched scales of the mask, the dragon's snout curling across one cheek. Even at this distance, Milo saw it clearly. The same mask that had haunted his nightmares since he had come to this world. The same missing finger resting against the hilt of a blade.
His chest tightened. She is here.
The assassin who had killed Anne and her son.
He didn't breathe. The door was nearly shut when the masked woman turned her head slowly, sharply, and her gaze locked on him.
Milo's blood froze. Every instinct screamed danger.
But his experience kept him still.
He forced a sheepish grin, scratching the back of his head like an awkward boy caught wandering too far. The act came naturally now.
The door sealed shut with a dull clang.
Only then did he let himself exhale. His pulse hammered in his ears.
The same mask. The same missing finger. But she's wounded.
The image burned in his mind—the bandages crossing her chest, blood soaking through the linen.
"Hope she didn't see me," he murmured under his breath, but a thought shook him to the core. She could even summon meteors from the sky…who would injure her?
Each step back grew heavier. The wood groaned faintly under his boots. He kept his grin fixed, shoulders loose, stride lazy, every inch the harmless boy who'd wandered where he shouldn't.
But behind that calm mask, his mind raced, tight, mechanical, precise.
A faint draft brushed past him, carrying a fresh scent.
Milo slowed. His nostrils flared once. The smell curled into his senses: damp, earthy, and wrong. Beneath the salt and oil of the ship lingered something sharp and chemical, something he recognized instantly.
Grave mushroom extract.
The thought struck him like a whisper from his old life. The same pungent reek once used to preserve the dead. It stung his nose and burned faintly at the back of his throat. But this time, another trace wove through it, metallic, warm, unmistakable.
Blood.
He stopped beside a tightly sealed door. Air leaked faintly through the edges, carrying that strange mix of formalin and copper, preservation and decay.
His fingers twitched toward the handle before he caught himself. Every instinct said to move on. The odor was too strong, too fresh to belong in the lower hold of a merchant vessel.
His pulse quickened. Formalin and blood… odd things to smell on a ship.
He exhaled through his teeth, forcing the unease down. Whatever the crew was doing here, it wasn't his concern. He had already seen enough below deck.
"Nothing to do with me," he murmured, low and tight.
Turning sharply, he climbed toward the deck above. Each step felt heavier, as if the air itself resisted his leaving.
The higher he rose, the cleaner the air became, yet that faint tang still clung to his senses, iron and decay, stubborn and ghostlike.
Milo paused at the threshold, eyes narrowing against the light. No point thinking about it now. Tomorrow's examination decides everything. Without cultivation rights, even the sharpest mind is just another corpse waiting to happen.
He drew a steady breath, forcing his shoulders to relax. Focus, Milo. Survive first… question later.
Then he stepped into the sunlight. Even though the sunlight poured over him, easing the chill of the sea air, a faint unease stirred beneath his skin… something he couldn't quite put his finger on.