The cargo hold was in shambles.
A massive beast had shattered its cage, the slaves had ransacked every crate, and the place was now a chaotic wreck.
After hastily tending to my injuries, I stood and began scavenging anything useful from the mess around me.
My plan had gone completely haywire.
What should have been a straightforward operation—quietly unlocking all the cells—had spiraled out of control the moment two sirens appeared.
Worse yet, they found me instantly, even in total darkness.
How?
What gave me away?
Each step I took across the spilled liquor-soaked floor squelched with an irritating sound. My frustration only grew as I recalled how my single most lethal weapon had been wasted on a mere beast.
"Tch!" I clicked my tongue in irritation.
I only had three bombs to begin with, and only one was a fire bomb—the kind that explodes with searing flames capable of real damage.
Now, it was gone.
I reached the spot where I had dropped the bomb earlier and crouched down. Pain flared through my limbs, a searing reminder of both my injuries and the sickness that clung to me like a curse. My breath hitched, and my grimace deepened.
This shouldn't have happened.
My suitcase was waterproof, my clothes were dry, and the bombs had been freshly made for battle—far from their expiration.
My gaze fixed on the bomb lying in the spilled liquor.
If it wasn't a defect in the bomb itself, then what?
I mulled over its design. The ignition relied on a low-tier fire rune stone, a common alchemical material that even amateurs could use to perform rudimentary fire spells.
When I'd faced the beast, the bomb's initial ignition had worked, but the final explosion hadn't. If it hadn't misfired, both the beast and I would have been obliterated.
"Could it be..."
I rubbed my chin, pondering an unsettling possibility.
What if the issue wasn't with the bomb? What if it was... the ambient mana density here?
Theories about mana, runes, and alchemy flashed through my mind—concepts I'd once obsessed over but could never fully utilize.
I didn't have a functioning mana circuit.
Despite this handicap, I'd managed to craft makeshift tools and turn hopeless situations to my advantage. These scraps of knowledge were often my lifeline.
Even if the bomb was unreliable, I couldn't afford to leave it behind. Reaching for it, I muttered, "Might as well try—"
"Ahh!"
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Pain shot through my hand the moment I touched it, like molten metal against my skin. I recoiled, cradling my fingers and biting back tears as I sank to the floor.
What the hell?
My hand felt like it had been seared to the bone. My thoughts scattered under the onslaught of pain.
"Damn it, damn it, damn it!"
As I sat there nursing my hand, the realization hit me like a punch to the gut.
The bomb wasn't broken. It was hot. Scorching hot.
I wiped at my watering eyes, hissing through clenched teeth. My irritation doubled. Why hadn't I guessed? If only I hadn't touched it.
But then again, how could I have known?
It's not like I could see the heat. I wasn't some snake capable of thermal vision—
Wait.
Snakes.
The thought struck me like lightning.
In one of the books I'd read, there was mention of certain snakes possessing heat-sensitive organs they used to track prey.
And sirens—serpentine creatures—might share this trait.
Pieces of the puzzle started to fit together.
Not just this incident, but other subtle behaviors I'd observed in the sirens over the past weeks began to make sense.
There was an 80% chance—no, higher—that these creatures could perceive heat.
This realization stirred a flicker of excitement.
For someone like me, who lacked the ability to gather intelligence in the heat of battle, discovering such a crucial piece of information before a proper fight was invaluable.
Of course, avoiding a fight altogether was still my preferred option.
But that seemed increasingly unlikely.
According to the plan, the beasts were supposed to breach the cargo hold doors first, storming the deck and sowing chaos.
While the ship's crew scrambled to fend off the beasts, the slaves would launch a second wave of attacks, armed with whatever weapons they could scavenge.
The pirate ship would descend into utter mayhem, creating the perfect cover for anyone to slip away unnoticed.
The plan was simple in theory, but reality was merciless.
The beasts had indeed charged out, and the slaves had ransacked the hold for weapons before storming off in droves.
By now, they likely believed the crew was too overwhelmed by the beasts to put up much resistance.
They were probably charging headlong into what they imagined was their victory.
But more likely... they were running straight into despair.