The streets of Tortuga were a festering jewel of the Caribbean. They were narrow, winding veins of sun-baked mud and filth, where the air was a thick, stagnant soup of sea salt, stale rum, unwashed bodies, and the occasional sharp tang of vomit.
To any civilized man from Hugo's original world, the place would have been a waking nightmare, a health code violation on a continental scale. But for the crew of the Sea Serpent, fresh from the jaws of the Devil's Triangle, this was the scent of paradise.
Crooked wooden buildings leaned over the paths like drunken sailors, their shingles rotting and their windows dark with grime. Precarious signs for taverns and brothels swung in the humid breeze, creaking rhythmically. From the depths of the gambling dens came the clatter of dice and the sharp, musical ring of Spanish Reals, while the higher stories of the red-lantern houses echoed with the shrill, hollow laughter of the women who called this island home.
The streets were a sea of chaos. Drunken pirates stumbled through the mud, arms slung over each other's shoulders as they roared out discordant sea shanties. Arguments flared like gunpowder, a misplaced step or a spilled drink was often enough to send steel flashing in the sunlight.
The moment the Sea Serpent's crew stepped off the gangplank, they weren't just sailors anymore; they were a pack of wolves returning to their den.
"Barbossa! You old barnacle! I heard you'd finally gone to the locker!"
A squat, barrel-chested captain with a missing front tooth and a coat that had more grease than fabric staggered toward them, his face splitting into a wide, drunken grin.
"If the Devil hasn't seen fit to take you yet, Silas, then I'm safe for another decade!" Barbossa laughed, catching the man in a heavy, bone-jarring bear hug.
"How was the run? Any gold in the hold, or just more salt and disappointment?" Silas asked, his eyes darting toward the Sea Serpent's battered hull.
"More than salt, you old dog," Barbossa said, his expression shifting into one of profound, smug satisfaction. He pulled Hugo forward, clapping a hand on his shoulder as if presenting a crown prince. "Let me introduce you to the man who saved my skin. This is Hugo. My Navigator. A true genius of the currents."
Silas blinked, his gaze sweeping over Hugo's relatively clean, modern-looking attire and his calm, focused expression. Hugo stood out like a swan in a sewer. "This lad? He looks like he's never tasted a day's hard labor in his life, Barbossa. You're telling me he's a sailor?"
"He didn't just sail," Barbossa boasted, his voice rising so the surrounding crowd could hear. "He took us through the heart of the Triangle, Silas. We jumped a rogue swell that would have swallowed the Dauntless whole. This boy speaks to the sea, and the sea listens."
A ripple of skeptical laughter went through the gathered pirates.
"Through the Triangle? Pull the other one, Barbossa!" Silas jeered. "No one comes out of that graveyard."
"He speaks the truth!" Gibbs stepped forward, his lone eye burning with a fierce, defensive loyalty. "I was there! We all were! We saw the water part for him! Master Hugo is no mere boy, he's got the Sea God's own luck!"
Billy and the others chimed in, their voices a cacophony of vouching and praise. The pirates on the docks began to look at Hugo differently. The skepticism didn't vanish, but it was joined by a growing sense of unease and curiosity. In a world governed by superstition and luck, a man who could tame the Devil's Triangle was either a saint or a demon.
Hugo remained silent, a faint, polite smile on his face. He knew what Barbossa was doing, building a legend. In Tortuga, reputation was a currency as valuable as gold. A captain with a "miracle" navigator could recruit the best steel and the fastest ships.
"Enough talk! I'm parched enough to drink the bilge!" Barbossa waved his hand toward the town. "To the Mermaid's Rest! My coin, my treat!"
The Mermaid's Rest was the largest tavern on the island, a sprawling, two-story structure of driftwood and stone that vibrated with the roar of a hundred voices. When they pushed through the swinging doors, the heat hit them, a solid wall of humidity, cheap tobacco smoke, and the heavy, sweet scent of fermented sugar.
A one-eyed fiddler was sawing away at a tune that bore only a passing resemblance to music, but the patrons didn't care. They hammered their mugs on the heavy wooden tables, keeping time with the rhythm of their own shouting.
"Mistress! Bring out the good stuff! The Jamaican gold!" Barbossa slammed a heavy pouch onto the bar, catching the attention of the proprietress, a sharp-eyed woman with a scar running through one eyebrow.
"Captain Barbossa," she purred, her eyes flicking to the pouch. "I see the sea was kind to you for once."
"Kinder than you've ever been, Elena," Barbossa chuckled. He gestured to his crew, who were already seizing a large table in the center of the room. "The first round is for Hugo. He's the reason we're here to spend it."
Elena's gaze drifted to Hugo, lingering on his sharp features. "A new face. And a handsome one. Try not to let these dogs corrupt him too quickly, Captain."
The rum arrived in heavy, iron-banded barrels. Gibbs was the first to hoist his tankard, standing atop a bench. "To the Navigator! To Hugo! May his eyes never fail and his hand never shake!"
"To Hugo!" the crew roared, the sound echoing through the rafters.
Hugo raised his mug, clinking it against the scarred wood of the table before taking a long, slow draught. The alcohol was potent, a liquid fire that settled the last of the storm's chill in his bones. He didn't join in the rowdy boasting that followed. Instead, he retreated into the shadows of a quiet corner, his back to the wall, his hand resting on the heavy leather pouch at his belt.
The noise of the tavern became a distant hum as he sank his consciousness into the blue interface of the System.
[Name: Hugo]
[Era: Ancient]
[Technology Tree: Classical Shipbuilding (Tier 0 - Inactive)]
[Gold Coins: 20]
The number glowed with a satisfying, golden light. It was his first real stake in this world. He focused his mind on the inactive technology tree, a thrill of anticipation racing through him.
Activate Classical Shipbuilding, he commanded.
[Host detected to possess sufficient wealth. Consume 10 Gold Doubloons to unlock Tier 0?]
Yes.
[Wealth: 10 Gold Doubloons]
[Processing... 10%... 50%... 100%]
[Tier 0 Unlocked: The Foundation of the Ancient Fleet.]
Hugo expected a rush of blueprints, a deluge of architectural secrets, or perhaps a sudden increase in his craftsmanship. But as the blue light faded, a new prompt box appeared, flashing a deep, alarming crimson that made the celebratory air of the tavern feel suddenly cold.
[WARNING: Critical Error.]
[Technological Integration Halted.]
[Reason: Current Vessel "Sea Serpent" is structurally incompatible with Ancient Blueprints. Material Integrity too low for Tier 0 Modifications.]
Hugo's heart skipped a beat. He stared at the screen, his joy curdling into a sharp, icy confusion.
[Required: Foundation Ritual. To utilize Ancient Technology, the Navigator must possess a "Vessel of Resonance."]
[Current Objective: Find or build a ship with a soul. The "Sea Serpent" is a dead hull. Modifications failed.]
Hugo looked up from the screen, his gaze sweeping over his drunken, cheering crew. He had the gold, and he had the knowledge, but the system was telling him that the ship he had just saved was nothing more than a piece of rotting driftwood. If he wanted to build an empire, he didn't just need a ship. He needed something that didn't exist in this world.
He gripped the table until the old wood groaned. The "Great Navigator" system wasn't just a tool; it was a demanding god, and it had just told him that his journey hadn't even truly begun.