Pain!

An indescribable pain!

Dorian felt as if a metal spike had pierced his chest—cold, weakening, something precious seemed to be bleeding away at an alarming rate through the wound. Every nerve felt like it was spasming, crying out under unbearable strain.

Yet he could not wake up. It was as though he was trapped in a long, suffocating nightmare.

In this dream, there were two versions of himself, and two entirely different lives.

The first version grew up in an orphanage, burdened by reality but harboring a dream of one day traveling the world. Sadly, he hadn’t worked for long before tragedy struck. Before he could even save enough money for his journey, a rare illness claimed him—ALS, the ‘Locked-in Syndrome.’ Bit by bit, he lost all physical functions. First his upper limbs, then everything else. In just a few short years, he was unable to move, speak, swallow, or even breathe unaided—until his body became a cage, imprisoning his soul, leaving him to die, helpless and alone.

The other version, though born without a mother, was blessed with a strict but loving father, and a large family full of warmth. An uncle, burdened by bouts of mental illness yet noble and compassionate most of the time. A beautiful aunt, who loved Dorian as her own child. A cousin who took him hunting, trained him in swordsmanship, horsemanship, and the art of sailing. Friends to grow up with—rambunctious, carefree days spent getting into mischief.

The dream showed a family bonded together by loyalty and love, steadfast knights, and faithful vassals.

Yet these two different lives seemed blurred, as though seen through frosted glass, impossible to fully grasp.

The scenes of both lives played out like phantoms, distorted and distant. Dorian could only vaguely recall being grievously injured in a major upheaval recently. The grand ‘Palace of Memory’ that built his identity seemed to have lost a vital piece, causing an unstoppable collapse. The first life emerged, providing a shaky foundation to prop up the ‘Palace’—but left everything else in chaos.

He felt like a ship adrift, its anchor lost, left to drift aimlessly in a shattered stream of memories. Even his own sense of self was growing indistinct, all but his deeply ingrained instincts and basic knowledge slipping away.

Time passed—how long, Dorian couldn’t tell—until only a single vivid memory remained in his mind:

A stormy night.

He stood upon the deck of a colossal ship, its prow adorned with a massive, blue dragon figurehead, its shape mountainous and regal. His father’s face, full of worry, appeared before him. He was speaking urgently, but Dorian couldn’t hear a word—only see his lips move.

Then freezing, bone-chilling seawater engulfed everything.

Dorian instinctively felt that this must be the key to the recent upheaval. But the more he tried to hold on to the memory, the quicker it slipped away.

“Who am I? What happened that stormy night? Where is my family now?”

And then—

SPLASH!

A large basin of icy seawater splashed across his face, shocking him awake from his nightmare.

He hadn’t noticed it, but in the instant his eyes snapped open, a subtle glimmer flickered in his ocean-blue right eye.

Slowly raising his head, Dorian realized that he, along with several soaked and bedraggled people, was bound hand and foot with coarse ropes. They lay sprawled helplessly across the deck of a wooden sailing ship.

A group of ragged, sinister-looking sailors loomed over them.

Leading them was a burly man, nearly seven feet tall, with a curved cutlass strapped to his side and a flintlock pistol hanging from his belt. His presence radiated a cold, blood-soaked aura. He took a long swig from a rum bottle, glaring impatiently.

“You worthless dogs better stop pretending to be dead on the deck,” he growled. “The captain’s pets don’t like eating motionless corpses. Get up—don’t make trouble for us.”

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

Dorian’s heart sank. He cautiously glanced around.

The waist-high ship wall bore fresh scars from blades and bullet impacts. Cannons lined the open deck, bronze barrels still smelling of gunpowder, and dark stains of dried blood marred the gaps between the wooden planks.

Busy sailors, their clothes torn and dirty but their bodies strong, rushed around fixing broken rigging, mending damage from a recent naval skirmish, or tending to the wounded.

A black flag with a white shark-riding skeleton hung high from the ship’s mast—a pirate flag.

Without a doubt, this was a pirate ship that had just fought a bloody battle.

Just a short distance away, perhaps a mile at most, a merchant ship lay burning amid a shroud of mist—broken and shattered by cannon fire. Its fate sealed after a failed attempt to repel the pirates. Now it was sinking into the depths, flames flickering until swallowed by the sea.

The blood-red flag raised on the pirate ship’s mast was clear proof of their intent.

It was a signal—none would be spared.

Dorian's heart skipped a beat, realization dawning grimly.

“I’ve been captured by pirates… And they plan to feed us to something?"

Most of the merchant sailors, having survived the pirate raid, were seasoned men of the sea, known as seasoned sea veterans. Their sense of danger was keener than Dorian’s. They also knew well just how cruel this band of pirates aboard the Cannibal Shark could be.

Ignoring their blood-streaked injuries, they fell to their knees, pleading for mercy:

“Mister 'Bonecrusher', it was the captain who ordered resistance! We’ve surrendered already. Please, spare us!”

“Mercy! I’m a gunner for the Pelican! I have skills—I’m willing to join the Cannibal Shark!”

The pirate leader, the ship’s first mate known as Bonecrusher Miles, remained unmoved. He took another long drink from his stolen rum, his expression cold and cruel.

“Unfortunately,” he sneered, “you lot don’t qualify. Aside from that cook, who stabbed your captain and proved his worth, none of you have the right to bask in the captain’s mercy.” He nodded toward his men. “Take them. The little ones must be getting impatient by now.”

The brutal pirates wasted no time hauling the terrified captives to their feet. Condemned without a shred of remorse, the merchant sailors’ faces twisted in despair.

“You sea scum! You and that traitor cook will face justice one day!”

“I pray to the Ghost Ship to claim my soul! One day the dead will rise against you monsters!”

Some cursed and shouted, others prayed desperately.

One of them near Dorian whispered through chattering teeth, “Almighty Creator, we should never have listened to our captain. Why did we set sail during the Rose Wars?! Why?!”

Slowly, Dorian began piecing together the situation from their frantic cries.

This raid was no ordinary act of piracy. It happened in the North Sea, close to the Old Continent’s shores. There, two noble houses of the Hastings Kingdom had waged a Thirty-Year War for the throne, represented by their symbols, Red and White Roses.

The Crimsonvale house, known as the Red Rose, had ruled Hastings, but five nights ago, a sudden storm had devastated both fleets in the Dover Strait, the southernmost part of the North Sea.

The Red Rose Crimsonvales had lost all their male heirs—even King Henry VI aboard the flagship, the Blue Dragon King, had perished in the depths. The Yorks, the White Rose, had emerged victorious.

Lesser nobles and merchants once loyal to the Crimsonvales were now fleeing for their lives, fearing the new king’s retribution. Some fled to other North Sea nations, while others sought refuge in far-flung colonies.

The Pelican, the merchant ship carrying some of Lord Crawford’s valuables, had set sail from Hastings for the Bantaan Archipelago two days ago, only to fall prey to the Cannibal Shark pirates.

Dorian himself had been fished from the sea—near where the Dover battle had taken place—a survivor without a name or past. Now, along with the Pelican’s crew, he was condemned as a pirate’s captive.

“Red and White Roses, Blue Dragon King, Crimsonvale…”

Hearing these words, Dorian’s eyes grew unfocused. Somewhere deep within him, chaotic memories seemed to align. Faces, sometimes clear, sometimes blurred, surfaced in his mind—especially an image of a burning Red Rose Crest, vivid against the backdrop of a bloody battlefield.

Warmth, longing, love, regret—emotions surged, and his heart ached.

“Aaargh—!”

A sharp scream broke through his thoughts, jolting Dorian back to reality.

He looked up, and saw the pirates were already carrying out the execution.

On the forecastle deck, several burly pirates dragged a bound sailor under the ship’s keel, scraping his body against barnacle-covered wood—a brutal punishment known as Keelhauling. The man screamed as his flesh was torn apart by the sharp shells. He barely had time to draw breath before he was pulled under again, his body shredded to ribbons. The surrounding sea turned dark with his blood.

It was one of the most dreaded punishments among sailors—a slow, agonizing death.

Suddenly, the sea was alive with movement. Black dorsal fins cut through the waves, attracted by the scent of blood—sharks, the pirate captain’s “pets.”

From the ship’s rail, a long plank extended out over the sea. One by one, the pirates forced the remaining captives along the narrow board, carving shallow cuts into their skin as they went.

Prayers, curses—it made no difference. The sailors screamed as they fell into the bloodied waters, swallowed by the thrashing maws of the sharks below.

Seeing his companions meet such a grisly fate, despair clawed at the remaining captives.

They weren’t just being executed. No, Dorian realized. This was a blood ritual—a sacrifice.

“This… this is what real pirates are like,” he muttered, half dazed. “Not like that kid with the rubber powers…” The words spilled out without him even understanding what they meant.

Suddenly, a pirate shoved him forward onto the narrow plank.

Below, the ocean churned red with blood, the sharks’ eyes glinting in the water. The stench of blood was suffocating, sending chills across Dorian’s body.

If nothing changed, this would be his last chance—he would never find out who he was, never uncover the truth.