"Hah…"

A long sigh escaped my lips, my throat burning as if set ablaze.

It took a while for me to register that I was awake. The sight of the pitch-black ceiling above had dulled my sense of time.

"So hot… cough, cough…"

With my hands bound, all I could do was press the back of my thumb against my forehead. Even that faint contact was enough to confirm the truth: I had a fever.

Worse than yesterday, damn it...

Once I was awake, I couldn't allow myself to fall back asleep. Sick or not—especially because I was sick—I couldn't afford to let my body rest aimlessly. My time was running out. I needed to escape this place as soon as possible.

That was easier said than done.

I tilted my head, peering into the darkness beyond the bars of my cage. The usual daytime racket had given way to an eerie stillness. All that remained were the occasional snores of my fellow captives. I had gone to bed earlier than usual last night; judging by the silence, it must have been the early hours of the morning—though I couldn't say for certain.

No matter. Everyone else was asleep. That was enough.

After confirming my surroundings, I leaned against the wall and reached for my braid. My hands were bound, but I didn't need my eyes for this. My fingers soon found the ribbon tied at the back of my head, and with a soft tug, I felt the cold, metallic object hidden within.

A lockpick.

Carefully undoing the fine thread that secured it, I slid the slender lockpick out of my braid. Its dark, slightly tarnished surface bore subtle traces of rust, a testament to its age and use. This collapsible, interlocking lockpick had been with me for many years.

Master…

For a brief moment, I saw the face of the man who had guided me when I first crafted this lockpick. I stared at it, my thoughts momentarily adrift. But I shook my head and forced my focus back to reality.

This wasn't the time to reminisce.

Turning to the wall behind me, I focused on the series of marks etched into its surface.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

With steady hands, I added another notch:

Scratch… scratch… scratch…

The sixteenth mark.

Carefully counting each one, I whispered to myself, solidifying the thought in my mind:

"Day sixteen begins."

After ensuring that the others in the cell were still soundly asleep, I braced myself against the wall and began to rise, slow and deliberate. With my legs bound, even a simple movement like standing required painstaking effort—and the fever made it all the worse.

But this was why I had always stayed close to the cell door.

As I steadied myself, the lock on the outside came into view. Taking a deep breath, I gripped the lockpick tightly and reached out through the bars.

I lacked magic circuits and had no aptitude for combat. The only thing I could depend on was my craft.

Craftsmanship—an ancient trade that was becoming obsolete in human society, gradually replaced by the rise of magical engineering. For someone like me, it was both a skill and an identity.

Despite understanding the theories of magic as well as anyone else, I had been dismissed and ridiculed for my lack of magic circuits.

"Cough, cough…"

Suppressing the urge to cough out loud, I held my breath and steadied my hand. Using my left hand to prop up the lock, I guided the lockpick into the mechanism with my right, my fingers probing with delicate precision.

This was my only "weapon," flimsy as it might be.

The fever made everything harder. My body was sluggish, my breaths sharp and dry, each one threatening to disrupt my focus. Even though I knew exactly what to do, my movements felt delayed, as if my body was a step behind my thoughts.

But then—

Click!

The lock opened with a sharp, satisfying sound.

I didn't have time to waste. If I hesitated, my fever might take me before I even set foot outside this accursed ship.