Charles pointed at the *Rat* beside them, then turned and walked up the steps.
Bandage, paying no mind to the wound still seeping blood on his face, gave Hook a Futan Sect salute and followed him.
Just as the two were boarding the ship, Hook stretched out his right hand, the bloody dagger plunging straight into the chest of the follower to his left.
"AAAAAHHH!" The scream echoed across the entire harbor. The other people at the port saw the black robes of the Futan Sect and didn't dare get involved, bowing their heads and busying themselves with their own affairs.
Charles turned to see the scene, his face full of disgust. This was exactly why he hadn't wanted to deal with the Futan Sect before. He turned to Deep, who had hurried over to watch the commotion, and shouted, "Stop staring! Weigh anchor—we're leaving!"
Hook yanked hard, and a beating heart appeared in his hand. Carrying it, he went to the side of the *Rat* and began smearing something on the ship's hull, all while whispering under his breath.
"Get lost! Don't you touch my ship with that disgusting thing." Charles instantly drew his revolver and aimed it at Hook's head.
"Captain Charles, with this, your ship will be protected by the Great Power."
"I don't need it!" Charles's finger rested on the trigger.
Seeing that Charles wasn't joking, Hook gave a faint smile, bowed slightly, and stepped back. "Captain Charles, we followers of the Futan God have always been polite and friendly. Why are you always so prejudiced against us?"
Looking at the bloody heart in Hook's hand, Charles couldn't even be bothered to answer.
As Hook watched, the *Rat's* smokestack began to billow black smoke, and the ship slowly headed into the darkness of the sea.
"Deep, take the helm," Charles called to the sailor chief, then entered the Captain's Room with Bandage in tow.
A yellowed sea chart, barely detailed, lay spread on the table. Only a few islands were marked out amid vast stretches of black. This was the only kind of chart available for purchase at the port; more detailed maps were controlled by the Explorer Association.
"Where is your objective? How far is it from Coral Island?"
His bandaged right hand pointed precisely to an unmarked spot lost in the darkness.
Unexplored territory, huh... Charles had expected this. There was no way an already-explored island would offer such a high reward.
"What does your Holy Relic look like?" Charles pressed on.
It took Bandage a while before he finally spoke, his words slow. "The Holy Master's... statue. Gold..."
The voice was halting, but it was much younger than Charles had expected, sounding like a teenager whose voice was breaking.
"Is that thing a relic?"
"..."
"What dangers are on the island?"
"..."
Pressed for more details, Bandage didn't answer, sinking back into silence.
"Go take the helm. Your shift is from noon until midnight. If you need to use the head or anything, have Deep cover for you for a bit. I've taught him how to steer."
Bandage stood up quietly and walked outside.
Charles tapped his fingers on the table, sorting through his thoughts. On paper, it sounded simple: find the item and bring it back. But if it were really that simple, the Futan Sect wouldn't have hired outsiders. The place was certain to be extremely dangerous. The fact that the first mate from the Futan Sect offered zero hints suggested two possibilities. One, he genuinely didn't know because everyone sent before had ended up on the seafloor, with no information making it back. The other possibility was that the dangers were so terrifying he was purposely hiding them to avoid scaring Charles off. Either way, it wasn't good news. For now, all he could do was play it by ear.
The sea voyage was suffocating. The *Rat* was horribly cramped, with hardly any room to move around. Luckily, except for the two new sailors, the rest of the crew had grown accustomed to it. At first, Charles was wary of the new first mate, quietly keeping an eye on him. But after a few days together, he found that the strangely dressed, slow-talking man named Bandage had no real oddities beyond his mannerisms. He steered with a stable and steady hand, and was clearly very skilled. Charles let his guard down a notch, though not completely.
As the navigational markers faded into the distance, the *Rat* slowly sailed into untrodden, unknown territory. Without the distant points of light to navigate by, everyone's nerves grew taut. There was a saying in the Abyss-Sea: when a ship enters unexplored waters, the seabed has already reserved a grave for every member of the crew.
But days passed, and the brutal encounters Charles expected never came. The waters were as calm as a lake. Standing at the bow and looking down, he saw only still, black ink. This calm was anything but reassuring; it was like the hush before a storm, its tension suffocating and oppressive. Charles remained on high alert, pacing the deck day and night, terrified something from the depths might crawl aboard. The ship's searchlight pierced the darkness like a pillar of light, its glow giving the crew a small sliver of security.
July 1st, Year 8 of my transmigration. Weather: Clear.
Everything was normal again today. This almost tangible pressure is about to drive my crew mad. Deep spends every spare moment kneeling on the deck, praying to any gods that come to mind. I stopped him. The gods of the Abyss-Sea are not to be worshiped lightly. A careless word can bring disaster down upon you.
Luckily, the chef found a litter of baby rats in the storeroom, which provided a welcome distraction. Watching them carefully and gently feeding the little things, I felt a pang of emotion. They have company. But what about me? Why was I the only one to cross over to this world? Being this alone is unbearable. I wish I had a companion.
Once the ink dried, Charles closed his diary and stowed it in the cabinet. From the bottom shelf, he took out a square glass bottle, about the height of his forearm and filled with a brown liquid. He tipped his head back and took a long swig. The dizzying sensation began to relax his taut mind. Charles had never understood why people liked to drink. The bitter taste was like horse piss. But now, he got it. A weary mind needs alcohol to numb it, but Charles didn't drink any more. A few sips to relax was one thing, but binge drinking would dissolve his resolve to get home.
Just then, cheers erupted from outside. Charles froze, hurriedly stashed the bottle, and rushed to the deck. Deep, the sailor chief, dashed up to him, gesticulating wildly with excitement, his face flushed red as he struggled to get a word out.
Charles peered out past the rail into the darkness. In the searchlight's glare, a colossal shape loomed directly ahead of the *Rat*. It was an island. They had arrived.
As the steamboat crept closer to shore, the cheering slowly faded. Along the coast lay eight battered steamboats of varying sizes. Judging by the corrosion on their hulls, the oldest among them had likely been there for two or three years. The ships were perfectly still, like coffins laid out on the sea.
"Why… why are there so many ships? Where are their crews?" Deep's anxious voice trembled. No one answered.
Now, looking at the island, a shadow fell over everyone's heart.
Charles didn't rush ashore. Instead, he took Deep and James with him, boarding the nearest steamboat. There were no bloodstains, no signs of chaos. Food and fuel were fully stocked. Everything was perfectly in order, except for the crew, who were missing.
Suddenly, a thought struck Charles. He burst into the Captain's Room, tore through drawers and cabinets, and found a stashed-away diary.