Charles pointed at the Rat beside him and turned to walk up the stairs.

Bandage, indifferent to the bleeding wound on his face, performed a Fotan cult salute to Hook and followed suit.

As the two were boarding the ship, Hook extended his right hand, and the bloody dagger in his hand pierced the chest of the believer on his left.

“AAAAHHH!!” The scream echoed throughout the port.

The others in the port, seeing the black robe of the Fotan cult believer, dared not meddle in the affair and kept their heads down, busy with their own tasks.

Charles, turning to see this scene, his face filled with disgust, this was why he had previously avoided contact with the Fotan cult. He turned to shout at Deep, who had come over to watch the commotion. “Don’t just stand there, weigh anchor and set sail!”

Hook gave a tug, and a beating heart appeared in his hand. He took the heart to the side of the Rat, smearing something on the hull while muttering under his breath.

“Get away, don’t touch my ship with that disgusting thing.” Charles instantly drew a revolver and pointed it at his head.

“Captain Charles, with this, your ship will be protected by the great one.”

“I don’t need it!” Charles’ finger rested on the trigger.

Seeing that Charles was not joking, Hook, holding the heart, smiled slightly, bowed slightly, and stepped back half a step.

“Captain Charles, we Fotan believers are always polite and friendly, why do you always have a prejudice against us?”

Looking at the bloody heart in his hand, Charles couldn’t be bothered to explain.

Under Hook’s gaze, the Rat’s chimney began to emit black smoke, slowly heading towards the dark ocean.

“Deep, take the helm for me.” Charles shouted to the boatswain before heading to the captain’s quarters with Bandage.

A yellowed sea chart was spread out on the table. The chart was not detailed, with only a few scattered islands marked in the vast expanse of black.

This was the best that could be bought at the port; more detailed maps were held by the Explorers’ Association.

“Where is your item? How far is it from the Coral Island?”

The bandaged right hand accurately pointed to a point in the unmarked darkness.

“Unexplored territory…” Charles had anticipated this answer. An already explored island wouldn’t offer such a high reward.

“What does your relic look like?” Charles continued to ask.

After a long pause, Bandage slowly replied, “A statue of the Holy Lord… made of gold…”

Although the response was somewhat halting, the voice was surprisingly young, sounding like a teenager going through puberty.

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

“Is that thing a relic?”

“…”

“What dangers are on the island?”

“…”

Facing Charles’ further inquiries, Bandage remained silent.

“You take the helm, your shift is from 12 to 24. If you need to use the restroom or anything, Deep can take over for a bit, I’ve taught him how to steer.”

Bandage stood up silently and walked outside.

Charles’ finger tapped on the table, organizing his thoughts. It sounded simple: find the item and bring it back. But if it were really that simple, the Fotan cult wouldn’t have sought outside help.

The place must be extremely dangerous. The first mate sent by the Fotan cult offered no hints, which could mean two things: either he truly didn’t know, as all previous expeditions had ended at the bottom of the sea, unable to relay any information.

Or the danger was so great that they were deliberately keeping it from him to avoid scaring him off. Neither option was good news. Now, he could only take things one step at a time.

The journey at sea was incredibly oppressive, and the Rat was depressingly small, limiting the space for movement. Fortunately, except for the two new sailors, everyone else was used to it.

Charles had initially been wary of the new first mate, keeping an eye on him. But after a few days of cohabitation, he found that aside from speaking slowly and dressing strangely, Bandage showed no other abnormalities.

He was steady at the helm, seemingly very skilled. Charles’ guard was lowered a notch, though not entirely dismissed.

As the navigation marks slowly disappeared, the Rat gradually entered an uncharted area, untouched by human feet.

Without the distant light points for orientation, the crew’s nerves began to tighten. There was a saying in the Sea of Earth: when a ship enters unexplored territory, the seafloor has already reserved a spot for the crew.

But several days passed, and the fierce battles Charles had anticipated did not come. The sea was as calm as a lake, and looking over the bow, the surroundings seemed like static ink.

This kind of calm was far from reassuring, resembling the tranquility before a storm, oppressive and suffocating.

Charles was on high alert, patrolling the deck day and night, fearing that something from the depths might climb aboard.

The ship’s searchlight pierced the darkness like a column of light, providing the crew with a semblance of security.

"Year 8 of the Crossing, July 1st, Clear

Today is still normal. This tangible oppression is driving my crew mad. That kid Deep spends every free moment kneeling on the deck, praying to various deities.

I stopped him. The gods of the Sea of Earth are not to be worshipped lightly; careless words can invite trouble.

Luckily, the cook found a nest of baby rats in the warehouse, diverting their attention. Watching them feed the little rats with care and precision, I feel a sense of emotion.

They have companions, but what about me? Why did I have to cross over alone? It’s really lonely. I wish I had a companion."

After the ink dried, Charles closed the diary and put it in the cabinet.

He took out a square glass bottle, the height of a forearm, filled with brown liquid, from the bottom of the cabinet, and took a swig. The dizzy feeling relaxed his tense brain.

Charles had never understood why people liked to drink, with its bitter taste like horse urine. But now he knew.

His exhausted brain needed more alcohol to numb it, but Charles didn’t drink any more. A couple of swigs to relax was fine, but drunkenness would dissipate his determination to return home.

Just then, sudden cheers erupted from outside. Charles was taken aback and quickly put the bottle away, rushing to the deck.

The boatswain Deep ran up to Charles, excitement written all over his face, his cheeks red as he struggled to find the right words.

Charles looked over the ship’s rail into the distant darkness, and under the illumination of the searchlight, a massive object appeared directly in front of the Rat. It was an island; they had arrived.

The steamship slowly approached the shore, but the cheers gradually faded. Along the coast of the island, eight old steamships of various sizes were docked, their hulls showing signs of decay, with the oldest appearing to be from two or three years ago.

The ships were motionless, like coffins placed on the sea surface.

“How… how can there be so many ships? Where are their crews?” Deep’s voice trembled with anxiety, but no one answered.

Looking at the island again, a shadow fell over everyone’s heart.

Charles didn’t rush to disembark. Instead, he took Deep and James and jumped onto the nearest steamship.

There were no signs of bloodshed or chaos, and there was no shortage of fuel or food. Everything seemed so normal, except for the missing crew.

Charles suddenly thought of something and burst into the captain’s quarters, rummaging through the place until he found a hidden diary.