The sea was a vast, indifferent blue, offering two paths to Argentus.
To the northwest lay Shell Town—a major hub, well-stocked and close. But on his map, the symbol of the seagull loomed large. The Marine Base. With Captain Morgan rumored to be in charge there, it was a hornet's nest Argentus had no interest in kicking.
To the southeast lay Shimotsuki Village. A quiet place. A sword village that interested him.
Argentus turned the rudder southeast. It was the logical choice for a quiet start.
Day 1 & 2
The wind was favorable, and the little fishing boat cut through the waves with ease. Argentus felt the thrill of freedom—the first true taste of being his own master. He ate his dried meat sparingly and drank his water according to the schedule he'd set: three sips at dawn, three at dusk.
Day 3
The reality of navigation set in.
Argentus stared at the chart spread across his knees, then up at the endless horizon. There was no land.
He rechecked his calculations. He measured the knots he was traveling against the map's scale. His brow furrowed. The map... was optimistic. The distance to Shimotsuki wasn't a five-day trip as he'd thought. It was closer to ten, maybe twelve, depending on the current.
He looked at his water skin. Half empty.
He looked at his dried meat. Dwindling.
"Miscalculation," he muttered to the open ocean.
His first mistake at sea. In the forest, if you ran out of food, you hunted. In the ocean, if you ran out of fresh water, you died.
Day 4
The sun beat down without mercy, turning the boat into a wooden oven.
Argentus sat in the small shadow of the sail, conserving every drop of sweat. The hunger was a dull ache, but the thirst was sharp. He'd cut his rations in half.
He couldn't afford to touch the dried meat—it was salty, and salt increased thirst.
He picked up his fishing line—a simple hook on sturdy string. He baited it with a scrap of dried pork and cast it into the deep blue.
He waited.
Hours bled together. The boat rocked gently.
Tug.
Argentus didn't jerk the line. He pulled it in with steady, rhythmic hands. A medium-sized sea bass flapped onto the deck, gasping for air.
Argentus didn't hesitate. He killed the fish quickly with his knife, filleted it right there on the wood. The meat was raw, slimy, tasted of brine, but it was moist. It provided a tiny amount of hydration that dried meat couldn't.
He ate the raw fish slowly, staring out at the empty horizon. He saved the bones to boil for broth later—if he ever found land and fresh water.
He carefully corked his water skin, refusing to take a sip despite his parched throat. He had to save the fresh water for the absolute worst-case scenario.
He was alone. He was thirsty.
But he was surviving.
Day 5
The horizon remained a stubborn, unbroken line of blue until mid-afternoon.
Argentus was scanning west, eyes narrowed against the glare, when he saw it.
Not land. A ship.
A three-masted vessel, its sails billowing, cutting a path directly across his own trajectory. It was heading west while Argentus drifted southeast. He froze, hand instantly going to the small knife at his belt.
Pirates.
Even from this distance, the erratic course and the dark flag were unmistakable.
Argentus crouched low in his small boat, making himself as small as possible. He judged the distance. If they had a lookout with a spyglass, he was already spotted. If they decided to use him for target practice, a single cannonball would turn his fishing boat into splinters.
His muscles coiled. He calculated the leap into the water. If they fired, he would dive deep, using the boat as a decoy before swimming away underwater.
He held his breath, waiting for the puff of white smoke from a cannon port.
Seconds ticked by. The pirate ship drew closer, crossing his path ahead.
They didn't slow down. Didn't turn.
Argentus watched as the ship plowed through the waves, completely ignoring the tiny speck of wood bobbing in the vast ocean.
He let out a breath he'd been holding for a full minute.
As the ship passed, Argentus noticed something. They weren't sailing aimlessly. They were moving with purpose, tacking hard against the wind. And more importantly, seagulls were circling high above their mast.
Seagulls mean land.
Argentus looked at his own dwindling water skin. He looked at the endless blue to the southeast where he thought Shimotsuki was. Then he looked at the pirate ship heading west.
If they were heading to a base, there would be water. If they were heading to a port, there would be water.
A calculated risk.
Argentus shifted the rudder. He abandoned his southeast course.
He waited until the pirate ship was a safe distance ahead—far enough to be a smudge on the horizon, but close enough to track. Then, he turned his small boat west.
He stayed in their wake, using the disturbance in the water to mask his own small ripples.
Day 6
The thirst wasn't an ache anymore. It was a scream.
Argentus lay in the bottom of the boat, staring at the pirate ship ahead. His vision blurred at the edges. His tongue felt too big for his mouth, swollen and dry as felt.
He looked at the pirate vessel. He could see sailors on deck. He saw a man tilt a bucket, splashing water over his head to cool off. The sight made Argentus's hands tremble with violent need.
I have to take it.
He gripped his knife. It was madness. One boy against a crew of thirty. But dying of thirst was a slow, passive death, and he refused to die passively. He began to uncoil, preparing to row frantically, to board them, to fight for a single cup of water or die trying.
Just as he braced his legs to move, his gaze lifted past the ship.
A shadow.
It wasn't a cloud. It was solid, dark, rising from the sea.
Land.
Argentus scrambled for his map, fingers fumbling with the parchment. He traced his estimated path, factoring in the drift. He looked at the shape of the coastline on the horizon—jagged peaks, dense jungle.
He matched it to a small, isolated ink blot on the map.
Kumate Island.
Argentus let out a raspy breath, his grip on the knife loosening. He didn't need to raid the ship. He just needed to reach that shore.
He watched the pirate ship ahead. They'd spotted the island hours ago. They sailed straight for the main sandy beach, dropping anchor with a loud splash and running their gangplank down with zero concern for who—or what—might be watching. They behaved like they owned the sea.
Argentus didn't share their confidence.
He steered his small craft away from the open beach, aiming for a jagged line of coral and rock jutting from the southern tip. It was treacherous—one wrong wave would tear his hull open—but it offered a natural wall against prying eyes.
He guided the boat into the calm water behind the reef, the coral scraping loudly against the wood as he wedged it into a narrow crevice.
After ensuring his boat was secured, Argentus crouched low, his body moving like a phantom through the dense underbrush.
The thirst was a claw in his throat, driving him forward. He kept his eyes locked on the pirates gathered on the beach, plotting the path to the nearest water barrel. He was just about to make his move when movement from the jungle edge stopped him cold.
He froze behind a thick fern, watching as a group of people emerged from the trees.
Argentus blinked, silver eyes narrowing in confusion.
They were bizarre. Every single one had the exact same nose—bulbous, pink, and identical in shape. Their hair was styled uniformly: shaved almost entirely, leaving only a long, antenna-like ponytail sprouting from the top and a small patch at the back.
They moved in sync, dressed in identical striped shirts and torn skirts, with long scarf-like cloths tied around their necks and grass necklaces rattling against their chests. On the backs of their hands, Argentus could see a tribal symbol tattooed in dark ink.
It was like looking at a fractured mirror—carbon copies of one another.
As the tribe stepped onto the sand, they didn't scream or run. They threw their arms wide, faces splitting into wide, uncanny smiles.
"Welcome!" they chanted, stepping toward the armed men.
The pirates didn't return the gesture.
Shing. Clack.
A dozen cutlasses were drawn instantly. Flintlocks were cocked. The pirate captain leveled his blade at the lead tribesman's chest, face twisted in a snarl.
"Back off, freaks!" the captain shouted, expecting fear.
But the tribesmen didn't flinch. They simply stood there, smiling their identical smiles, welcoming the steel as if it were a gift.
The confusion on the beach lasted less than a second.
Thwip-thwip-thwip.
A black rain of arrows erupted from the treeline. It wasn't a warning volley—it was an execution. The pirates, standing in the open sand with their swords drawn, didn't stand a chance. They were cut down where they stood, shafts of wood piercing chests, throats, and eyes.
The Captain tried to fire his pistol, but three arrows took him in the shoulder and neck before he could pull the trigger. He collapsed, gurgling, into the surf.
The fight—if it could even be called that—was over in moments.
Argentus watched, holding his breath, as the "welcoming committee" dropped their friendly facade. They moved with terrifying efficiency. They didn't cheer. Didn't loot the pockets for gold. Didn't strip the weapons.
They grabbed the ankles.
Dragging the heavy corpses across the sand, the tribesmen retreated into the jungle as quickly as they'd appeared. They took every single pirate body.
Strangely, amidst the chaos, one of the tribesmen had fallen—struck by a lucky, dying swing of a pirate's cutlass. His body lay twisted on the sand. His kin ignored him completely, stepping over his corpse to drag the pirates away.
The jungle swallowed them. Silence returned to the beach, broken only by the lapping waves and the flies beginning to gather on the lone dead tribesman.
Argentus waited ten minutes. Then twenty.
When he was sure the forest wasn't watching, he moved.
He didn't run to the dead tribesman. Didn't run to the abandoned cutlasses.
He sprinted to the water barrel the pirates had left sitting in the sand.
He pried the lid off with trembling fingers. It was full. Crystal clear, cool freshwater.
Argentus didn't bother with a cup. He plunged his face into the barrel, drinking greedily, the cool liquid flooding his parched throat, revitalizing his blood. He drank until his stomach hurt, then pulled back, gasping for air, water dripping from his chin.
He wiped his mouth, his mind clearing instantly.
He looked around the beach. Only deep, furrowed tracks in the sand leading into the dense, dark mouth of the jungle remained.
They took everything. Even their own dead... except for one.
Argentus's eyes narrowed. They only take what they want. And what they want is...
He looked at the drag marks again. At the complete absence of looting.
They don't want gold. They want meat.
He moved into the treeline. The jungle canopy blocked out the sun, plunging the world into humid, green twilight. He followed the drag marks—wide swathes of crushed ferns and smeared blood that cut a clear path through the undergrowth.
The deeper he went, the louder the sound became. It started as a low hum, a rhythmic buzzing that vibrated in his chest.
Drums.
Doom-doom-doom.
He crept forward, moving from shadow to shadow, breathing shallow. The air grew thick with the smell of smoke... and something else. The scent of roasted meat. Rich, heavy, undeniably metallic.
Argentus pushed aside a massive palm frond and looked down into a natural amphitheater in the center of the island.
The blood drained from his face.
Below him, lit by the roaring flames of a massive central bonfire, the tribe was celebrating.
Hundreds of them—all with the same bulbous pink noses and antenna-hair—danced in frantic, jerky circles. But they weren't dancing with each other.
They were dancing around massive iron cauldrons that bubbled with thick, red broth.
Argentus watched, stomach churning, as they sat on logs, tearing into the "fresh meat" they'd dragged from the beach.
He saw a pirate's boot lying discarded near the fire. He saw a familiar captain's hat resting on a rock, while a tribesman gnawed enthusiastically on a roasted bone that looked disturbingly like a humerus.
The cheerful chanting he'd heard on the beach had turned into a guttural, wet sound of feasting.
Cannibals.
The gold, the ship, the weapons—none of it mattered to them. They only cared about the flesh.
Argentus gripped the bark of the tree, knuckles white. He'd seen death in Gray Terminal. He'd seen starvation. But this... this primal, organized consumption of humanity was a horror that froze him to the marrow.
"Kumate Island," he whispered, the name tasting like ash.
He slowly, carefully, took a step back. The water in his belly suddenly felt heavy, threatening to come back up. He needed to leave. He needed to get back to the beach, get to his boat, and—
Snap.
His boot came down on a dry twig.
The sound was small, but in the momentary lull of the feasting, it echoed like a gunshot.
Down in the pit, the chewing stopped.
Hundreds of heads snapped up in unison. Hundreds of identical eyes locked onto the spot where Argentus stood frozen in the shadows.
A slow, identical grin spread across hundreds of faces.
"More..." one of them whispered.
"MORE!" the tribe roared.
(END OF CHAPTER)
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