The Mermaid's Rest was a cacophony of absolute chaos. Somewhere in the hazy, smoke-filled room, a pirate was howling a song about a barmaid in Port Royal; elsewhere, the rhythmic clatter of dice was punctuated by the occasional roar of a man losing a month's wages. The scent of spilled ale and unwashed bodies was thick enough to chew on.
But for Hugo, sitting in a shadow-drenched corner, the world had shrunk to a single, glowing blue notification that felt like a slap in the face.
[Activation Failed.]
[Condition Not Met: Ownership.]
[The technology tree "Classical Shipbuilding" requires a Vessel of Resonance. The Host must possess legal and spiritual ownership of a ship before integration can proceed.]
Hugo stared at the words until they blurred. He read the prompt again, then a third time, waiting for it to change, for some "newbie assistance" to offer a workaround. It didn't. The System was as cold and uncompromising as the depths he had nearly drowned in.
"Ownership?" he whispered, his voice lost in the tavern's roar. "You've got to be kidding me."
A surge of bitter, jagged disappointment welled up in his chest. He had nearly died in the Atlantic. He had gambled his life against a rogue wave and navigated a graveyard that turned other men's hair white. He had finally secured his first twenty gold doubloons, a fortune to a common sailor only to find out that he was still locked out of his own potential.
The "Classical Shipbuilding" tree was his path to power. It promised the ability to transform these primitive, rotting tubs into vessels that could outrun the wind itself. But the System was telling him that the Sea Serpent didn't count.
Why not? he demanded mentally, focusing his consciousness on the blue light. I'm the navigator. I saved the ship. The crew treats me like a god. Is that not ownership?
[Negative,] the System responded with mechanical indifference.
[The "Sea Serpent" is spiritually and legally bound to the soul of Hector Barbossa. The Host is a guest. A passenger. A servant. "Classical Shipbuilding" cannot be grafted onto a borrowed hull.]
Hugo slammed his tankard onto the table, the old wood groaning under the impact. He took a long, burning swallow of rum, trying to drown the frustration. He was a "high-level employee." He was the most valuable man on the ship, yet in the eyes of the System, he was still a nobody. He was a navigator without a compass, a king without a throne.
He looked across the room at the rowdy table where the Sea Serpent's crew was currently terrorizing the tavern's supply of ale. Barbossa was at the center of it, laughing loudly as he recounted their "jump" over the whirlpool. The crew adored Hugo, yes, but they still looked to Barbossa for their pay and their orders. If Hugo wanted to build something that lasted, he couldn't do it on another man's deck.
But twenty gold doubloons? In this era, that wouldn't buy him a decent lifeboat, let alone a ship capable of holding a crew.
"Master Hugo! Why the long face? You look like you've been sentenced to the gallows!"
Gibbs staggered over, his face flushed a deep, alarming red from the rum. He plopped down opposite Hugo, nearly missing the bench entirely. He leaned in, his breath a potent cloud of molasses and rot. "You should be celebrating, lad! The girls are lookin' at ye, the Captain's buyin', and we're all alive to see the moon!"
Hugo forced a thin smile, masking his inner turmoil. "I was just thinking about the future, Gibbs. A man can't spend his whole life on someone else's deck, can he?"
Gibbs let out a booming, wet laugh. "Ah! The ambition of youth! I saw it in your eyes the moment you took the wheel. You've got the sea-fever, Hugo. You're not meant for the merchant service or the common life."
"Tell me something, Gibbs," Hugo said, leaning forward. "If a man wanted to buy his own ship, something like the Sea Serpent what would it cost him in a place like Tortuga?"
Gibbs paused, squinting his lone eye as he tried to perform the mental arithmetic through a fog of alcohol. "A sloop like the Serpent? She's old, but her ribs are oak. To buy her outright? You'd be lookin' at eight hundred gold doubloons, maybe a thousand if the seller knows you're desperate. For a proper two-masted brig, you're talkin' thousands. Money a man doesn't see in ten lifetimes unless he finds a Spanish Plate Fleet."
Hugo's heart sank. Eight hundred. He had twenty. At his current rate of pay, even with a twenty-percent cut it would take years of successful piracy to save that much. Years he didn't have if he wanted to stay ahead of the powers in this world.
"Is there no other way?" Hugo pressed. "What about the wrecks? The prizes the Navy confiscates?"
Gibbs burped loudly and scratched his chin. "Well now, that's a different story. The Governor's Scrapyard, over by the east docks... they hold auctions when the harbor gets too crowded with 'troublesome' vessels. Most of 'em are prizes with no owners, or hulls that have been burnt to the waterline by the Royal Navy."
Gibbs leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Sometimes, they sell off the 'unluckies.' Ships with broken keels or rot in their hearts. No one wants 'em because the repair costs more than the wood is worth. You could pick up a dead hull for thirty or forty doubloons if the Governor's in a mood to clear the space. But what use is a ship that won't float, Hugo? You'd just be buyin' yourself a very expensive coffin."
Hugo didn't hear the warning. His mind was already racing, the "Classical Shipbuilding" skill in his mind illuminating a new path.
The System didn't say the ship had to be perfect. It didn't say the ship had to be seaworthy. It just said he had to own it.
If he could buy a "dead hull" for a pittance, the System would recognize his ownership. And once Tier 0 was activated, he would have access to the technology of the ancients. He wouldn't need a shipyard or a master carpenter; he would have the blueprints to rebuild the ship from the cellular level up.
He didn't need a ship. He needed a skeleton he could put a soul into.
"The Governor's Scrapyard," Hugo repeated, his eyes burning with a sudden, sharp clarity. "When is the next auction, Gibbs?"
"Tomorrow at noon, I reckon," Gibbs said, looking confused by Hugo's sudden intensity. "But Hugo, lad, don't go throwin' your hard-earned gold at a ghost. Those ships are scrap. They're for firewood and charcoal, nothing more."
Hugo stood up, his hand gripping the pouch of gold at his belt. The weight of the twenty doubloons felt different now, not like a small fortune, but like a key.
"I've spent my whole life surrounded by things people thought were broken, Gibbs," Hugo said, his voice steady and full of a new, dangerous purpose. "Sometimes, you just have to know where to look to find the life left in them."
He didn't wait for the pirate's response. Hugo pushed through the crowded tavern, ignoring the shouts and the laughter. He stepped out into the humid Tortuga night, the scent of the sea hitting him with renewed force.
He looked toward the east docks, where the masts of the "unluckies" rose like skeletal fingers against the moonlight. He had the gold. He had the knowledge. Now, he just needed to find a ghost that was willing to be brought back to life.