Year 779, Qilvius Calendar
The waves crashed violently against the ship’s helm, the storm’s fury mirrored by the chaos on deck. Crew members darted back and forth, their shouts drowned by the roar of the sea. Some tightened their breastplates with trembling hands, while others loaded bullets into barrels, the acrid scent of gunpowder hanging heavy in the air.
Men bellowed orders and warnings, their voices straining to rise above the din, desperate to rally their comrades against the attackers. Pirates had descended upon them, ruthless and unrelenting.
This was no ordinary ship. The royal vessel of the Hiffelvein Kingdom bore a singular and infamous cargo: the most dangerous prisoner in the kingdom’s history. A man whose hands were stained with royal blood. He was being transported to the most desolate and unyielding prison in the world—the island prison of Ubbe.
A place of legend and dread, Ubbe had stood for over two centuries, its reputation as unyielding as its rocky shores. It was said that a death sentence was a mercy compared to the slow torment of imprisonment there. In its long, grim history of 200 years, no one had ever escaped. Those who tried had vanished and no one left to tell that tale anymore.
The criminal meant to be transported to the island prison now sat aboard the royal ship, which was under siege by four pirate vessels. Such an attack was unthinkable. The Royal Navy had carefully chosen a secluded, uncharted route—one that no pirate ship should have ventured near. Yet, here they were, not just one but four ships, raining chaos upon them.
The lower deck had taken heavy bombardment, and seawater now poured in through the breaches, flooding the ship at an alarming rate. Captain Javier Floski stood at the helm, his jaw tight as he surveyed the unfolding disaster. He understood all too well why so many pirates had come for them. He had pleaded with his superiors for reinforcements—three or four additional ships at least—but his requests had been dismissed. It was as if they had anticipated this. Perhaps even desired it.
As cannon fire shook the vessel once more, Javier let out a weary sigh. He descended to his cabin below, retrieving a bottle of wine from a hidden shelf. It was an 84-year-old vintage, a prize he had won at an auction the previous summer. He had never found the right occasion to open it—until now.
Amidst the chaos, he uncorked the bottle and poured himself a glass. The irony wasn’t lost on him. All of this—death, destruction, and desperation—over a single prisoner.
The prisoner sat in darkness below deck, his hands bound in iron shackles, his mouth sealed with Roveller Deux, an artifact crafted to silence incantation magic. Another artifact was strapped to his chest, suppressing every trace of mana within him. The cell was cloaked in absolute silence, fortified with numerous enchantments to block any sound from the outside world. While chaos raged above deck, the man remained unaware. His world was devoid of light, sound, and sensation.
Some might romanticize such isolation as a path to enlightenment, but to him, it was merely another day of existence—a monotonous reminder of being alive.
Captain Javier Floski descended into the bowels of the ship, his face grim. He knew their survival hinged on one decision. The pirates wanted the prisoner, and he would give them what they wanted. Duty might demand otherwise, but he would not sacrifice his crew in a futile defense.
Javier approached the solitary cell, retrieving a small, ornate key from an inner pocket of his navy-blue jacket. Unlocking the door, he stepped inside, the room flooding with faint light from the corridor.
The prisoner sat in the center of the room, his eyes sharp and unyielding, tracking the captain’s every movement. Javier sighed, coughed to clear his throat, and addressed the man directly.
"Admiral, I suspect you already know why I’m here," he began, his voice steady. "Perhaps you even foresaw all of this before we set sail. But none of that matters now. My duty was to deliver you to Ubbe Island, not to die halfway there."
He hesitated, then continued. "Those damned pirates want you. I’ll give you to them. My men’s lives come first, and I know you’d make the same call in my place. So, what do you say? No struggle, no theatrics. I hand you over, and we go our separate ways."
The prisoner didn’t speak. He merely raised an eyebrow, his expression inscrutable.
Javier exhaled sharply. "Oh, if you’re worried about us facing punishment in the capital—don’t. Whatever the consequences, at least we’ll be alive to face them."
The prisoner nodded slightly, rising to his feet. The iron shackles clinked against each other, the sound echoing harshly in the artifact-laden cell.
"Damn," Javier muttered, wincing at the amplified noise. "These cells are murder on the ears. But don’t get any ideas—I’m not taking those shackles off. The last thing we need is a cyclone in the middle of the ocean. You know what I mean."
The prisoner didn’t react to the captain’s words. He moved forward, his steps steady and deliberate, the weight of his restraints seemingly meaningless to him.
The two men emerged onto the deck, where chaos still reigned. Muskets cracked, bullets flew, and bodies littered the blood-soaked planks. Without hesitation, Captain Floski drew a pistol from behind his back and fired into the sky. The sharp report echoed like thunder, silencing the battlefield.
He infused mana into his voice, shouting with an authority that shook the air. “STOP THIS FUCKING BLOODSHED!”
Every man—pirate and soldier alike—froze, their eyes snapping toward the source of the command.
“He’s here!” Floski bellowed, gesturing to the prisoner. “Take him and GET LOST!”
From behind the captain, the shackled man stepped forward, his presence heavy and deliberate. The air seemed to change, a palpable weight settling over the deck.
Pirates and soldiers alike reacted instinctively. Muskets slipped from trembling hands, legs faltered, and dry throats swallowed hard. Sweat poured down faces, fear carving lines into the expressions of even the bravest men.
From one of the pirate ships to the southeast, a door creaked open. A man emerged, his greasy blonde hair catching the sun. His emerald-green eyes gleamed with malice, and his broken front tooth added to the grotesque smirk on his face. He was heavyset, with an elongated neck and a protruding belly that jiggled as he walked. His lips—both upper and lower—had been split by a single brutal slash, leaving permanent scars.
The pirates on deck immediately parted to give him space, retrieving their weapons from the bloodied planks and resuming their stances.
“Oh ho, if it isn’t our beloved Captain Floski,” the man sneered, his voice oozing mockery. “I don’t see you much these days along the Meridiane routes. Word is, you’ve been demoted to babysitting prisoners. Quite the fall from grace, wouldn’t you say? The Royal Navy of Hiffelvein should take better care of the few captains who’ve still got balls.”
Floski’s expression didn’t waver. “Don’t test your luck too much, Benner,” he said coldly. “If I wanted, I could sink three of your ships and leave you crawling for the rest of your miserable life. I’m giving you what you came for. Take him and leave.”
As he spoke, a discarded pistol lying at his feet rose into the air, its barrel swiveling to aim squarely at the pirate.
Benner raised his hands in mock surrender, the corners of his mouth curling into a sickly grin. His blackened teeth and bits of prawn meat stick between them showed themselves.
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“Now, now, my dear Captain,” Benner cooed, taking two slow steps forward. “No need for hostilities. I was merely expressing my affection after so long apart. This wretched creature meant no harm.” His grin widened, revealing the rotting state of his teeth. “We’ll take the man and leave—no more bloodshed, no unnecessary theatrics.”
The words were honeyed, but his smile was anything but sincere.
The prisoner stood silently at the back, unmoving as two soldiers approached to escort him. Just as they reached for his arms, his eyebrows raised—a subtle yet commanding gesture. Both soldiers froze, their confidence crumbling. They gulped audibly and stepped back.
Seeing it Captain Floski sighed and muttered, “He knows what he’s doing. Let him be.”
The man walked forward on his own, heading for the ship’s railing. His steps were steady, deliberate.
Benner’s voice cut through the tense silence like a whip. “What are you mudbrains staring at? Throw the damn net in the water, you idiots!”
Two young boys, barely sixteen or seventeen, scrambled to obey. With trembling hands, they hurled the net into the sea just as the prisoner climbed onto the railing opposite the pirate ship. Without hesitation, and without a glance back, he leaped into the ocean, as if the chaos around him didn’t exist.
The crew on the pirate ship strained to pull the waterlogged net with that man back aboard, their muscles aching under the effort. Finally, the man was hauled onto the pirate deck, dripping seawater but composed as ever.
Benner stepped forward, his usually smug demeanor replaced by something darker. For the first time, he looked at the prisoner directly. His hands twitched, his eyes bloodshot as memories flooded back—bloody battles, massacres, and the faces of his lost crew, all tied to the man now kneeling on his deck.
The prisoner knelt with quiet dignity, his head held high despite the shackles that bound him. The sight only stoked the fury in Benner’s chest. He wanted to stab him, to unleash the rage boiling inside him, to avenge the countless lives this man had taken. His fists clenched so tightly his nails drew blood from his palms, his teeth grinding audibly.
But he didn’t dare.
The command from Lord Etrius—the pirate king of the Giorna Ocean—had been absolute: No harm must come to the prisoner. Not a scratch. Not a bruise.
Benner exhaled heavily, forcing himself to loosen his fists. He glanced at Captain Floski, who met his gaze with a solemn nod. It was clear the two men had reached some unspoken agreement.
The prisoner rose slowly, his movements fluid despite the heavy shackles. He locked eyes with Benner, his gaze piercing and unyielding. Even with his mouth sealed by the artifact, his eyes conveyed everything—an unspoken defiance, a readiness to follow, and a quiet warning that needed no words.
Benner shuddered under the intensity of that gaze. A chill ran down his spine, not from the sea breeze but from raw, unfiltered fear. This was no victory. There was no triumph in capturing this man. What Benner felt now was pure dread.
Cursing under his breath, Benner turned sharply and strode toward the door leading below deck. “Follow me,” he said, his voice lower than he intended.
The prisoner followed in silence, his shackles clinking faintly with each step. They reached an empty cell. Benner stopped and gestured toward it. “Get in.”
The man crouched slightly to step through the low doorway, his towering frame folding with ease. Inside, he straightened and turned, the dim light casting shadows across his face.
Benner locked the cell with a heavy clang, though he knew the act was futile. If the man inside decided to leave, no lock—or ship—could hold him. Wiping the sweat from his brow with a rough hand, Benner turned and marched back to the upper deck, leaving the prisoner behind.
Inside the cell, the man sat cross-legged on the floor. He stared at the iron bars with lifeless, unblinking eyes. His expression was neither anger nor sorrow—just an emptiness that swallowed everything.
Back on the deck, Benner watched as the Royal Navy ship retreated into the distance. He scowled and beckoned to the boy who had earlier helped throw the net. The boy hesitated but approached cautiously.
In a gruff tone, Benner barked, “Signal the other three ships to attack the Royal Navy vessel.”
The boy’s eyes widened in shock. “But Captain Benner... wouldn’t that be suicide? We already have what we came for!”
Benner’s expression darkened as he leaned closer, locking eyes with the boy. “Just shut up and do as I say.”
The boy shivered under the captain’s gaze, his throat tightening as he gulped nervously. Without another word, he ran off. He quickly loaded gunpowder into a small pistol and fired three shots into the sky. The sharp cracks echoed across the waves.
In response, the three pirate ships, which had been idle until now, came to life, their sails billowing as they turned toward the Royal Navy vessel. Cannon fire erupted, filling the air with smoke and the acrid smell of gunpowder. Meanwhile, Benner’s ship veered east, carried by the strong, salty winds.
One of the crew members, a burly man with a deep scar where his left eye used to be, stepped forward. “Captain, why send them on a suicide run? They’re our brothers.”
Benner turned to him, a crooked smile spreading across his face, revealing his blackened, decaying teeth. “Ah, Terry, my dear fool. Think about it. When we deliver him—the most dangerous man to ever sail these seas—what do you think Lord Etrius will notice first? If we show up with the prisoner and an intact crew, do you think he’ll greet us with open arms? Or will he smell betrayal, suspecting we struck some sort of deal?”
Terry frowned, his thick brows knitting together. “But the navy captain—why put on such a show like he cared about his crew?”
Benner let out a harsh, guttural laugh, clapping Terry on the shoulder. “Oh, Terry. The captain knows the game as well as I do. If he doesn’t return home with losses, do you think those crooked, self-righteous bureaucrats in the Hiffelvein Navy will believe he fought valiantly? Sacrifices are currency in this world, my friend. Without them, you don’t buy sympathy, honor, or leniency.”
Terry’s face hardened as he processed the captain’s words, but Benner only smirked. “This world’s fucked up in ways you can’t even begin to imagine, Terry. The only rule is survival.”
With that, Benner turned his gaze toward the horizon, where the eastern winds carried his ship further away from the chaos behind them.
As they sailed toward Ianseotta Island, dark clouds began to gather in the sky, their edges tinged with an ominous gray. The sudden shift in weather sent a chill through Benner’s spine. He hadn’t expected anything other than calm seas until they reached their destination.
The first drops of rain were harmless, almost refreshing, but within minutes, the downpour turned fierce. Sheets of rain lashed the ship, and the once-stable vessel began to sway under the onslaught of rising waves. Benner wasted no time activating the artifact Biola Deux on the upper deck. A shimmering barrier formed, redirecting the cascading water and preventing it from pooling on the deck.
But even as he worked, he began to hear something—a sound so hauntingly beautiful it froze him in place. It was a melody, soft and ethereal, weaving through the roar of the storm. His tension ebbed away as a soothing calm washed over him. His shoulders slackened, and his breathing steadied as if every muscle in his body had surrendered to peace.
Then the memory struck him. A drunken tale, once dismissed as rambling nonsense, came rushing back. He had heard it in a seedy bar on Ianseotta Island—a legend of beings whose songs bewitched and lulled their prey into a vulnerable trance. Creatures born from the sea itself, daughters of Yelvin, the god of oceans.
The Mermaids.
The realization hit him like a lightning strike. Benner didn’t hesitate. He raised his hand and delivered a thunderous slap to his own face. Pain seared through his cheek, a trickle of blood pooling at the corner of his lips and around his earlobe. But the sharp sting did its job; the trance broke, and his mind snapped back to clarity.
“WAKE UP!” he roared, staggering across the deck. He grabbed crew members by their collars, shaking and slapping them out of their stupor. Some blinked, disoriented, but many remained frozen, their eyes glassy, entranced by the sirens’ song.
It was too late.
Ahead, a colossal wave loomed on the horizon, its crest towering higher than anything Benner had ever seen. It surged forward with unstoppable power, an embodiment of wrath. Benner’s legs buckled, and he collapsed to his knees. The haunting melody of the mermaids still whispered in his ears, their siren call refusing to let go.
“Oh, holy Yelvin,” he muttered, his voice cracking as he raised his eyes to the heavens. Rain battered his face as he whispered again, louder this time, “Help us. Don’t abandon us.”
The massive wave crashed against the ship, swallowing it whole.
***
Year 975 by the Qilvius Calendar
The sun basked in its usual glory, its rays streaming through the rooftop window and falling directly onto the girl’s face. She groaned and pulled the blanket over her head, attempting to shield herself from the persistent light. Her reprieve was short-lived as a voice rang out from downstairs, loud enough to wake every chicken in the neighborhood.
“FIONA! GET UP, OR DO I HAVE TO COME DRAG YOU OUT MYSELF?”
The fiery yet unmistakably melodic voice belonged to her aunt. Fiona shot up in bed, her hair a mess, and shouted back, “Yeah, yeah! I’m coming!”
“Come fast! I don’t have all day—I’ve got work!” her aunt’s voice retorted.
Fiona yawned dramatically, her jaw stretching as wide as a lion's, and extended her arms upward in a lazy stretch. She glanced down at the other side of the bed, where her brother, Rushar, was supposed to be sleeping. Predictably, it was empty.
“Just like him,” she muttered to herself.
Rushar was the quintessential early bird—up at the crack of dawn, efficient and diligent in everything he did. Fiona, on the other hand, was the complete opposite: a self-proclaimed sloth, perfectly content to sleep through most of her day if given the chance.
But today wasn’t the day for indulgence. She had a new day ahead and no desire to be the reason her aunt was late for work. Not in a hundred years.
Fiona slapped her cheeks lightly, a personal ritual to shake off the last remnants of sleep. “Good morning, you two,” she mumbled to her own cheeks with a grin.