Time on the Grey Expanse was a confusing concept. Without a clear sun and with no stars at night due to the perpetual fog, day and night blurred into an endless grey cycle. The only markers of time were the copper bell struck every four hours for the shift change, and the pungent aroma of Grum's cooking wafting from the galley.
For Elian, the fifth day aboard The Banshee's Wail began not with light, but with a kick to the cabin door.
"Wake up, Lazy Rat!" Grum's voice boomed from the other side. "The kitchen needs hands! Unless you want to be on the dinner menu tonight!"
Elian opened his eyes.
The low wooden ceiling spun slightly before stabilizing. His body felt battered. The Ring of Weight on his left index finger felt as if it had absorbed the entire gravity of the ocean overnight. His right shoulder was stiff, the newly formed scar tissue itching and tight, restricting his range of motion.
"Go," Lunaria didn't open her eyes from her meditative pose in the corner. "Remember, you are not a guest here. You are breathing cargo. And useful cargo doesn't get thrown overboard."
Elian didn't answer. He climbed out of his hammock, put on his tattered tunic which now smelled permanently of salt, and walked out.
The ship's kitchen, or Galley, was a cramped room in the belly of the ship where the temperature was always ten degrees hotter than anywhere else. The smell of burning fat, spicy seasonings, and the metallic tang of fish blood filled the stagnant air.
Grum, the Half-Orc cook, stood in front of a bloody chopping block. He was sharpening his massive cleaver with a look that could skin a man alive.
"You're two minutes late," Grum grumbled, spitting on the floor. He pointed to a large wooden barrel in the corner. "Clean those. All of them. Before lunch."
Elian looked into the barrel.
It was filled with hundreds of Razorfin Tuna—small predatory fish with scales as sharp as razors and mildly poisonous spines on their dorsal fins.
"Use this knife," Grum tossed a dull, rusted kitchen knife at Elian.
Elian caught it with his left hand—the hand burdened by the ring. The knife's weight felt doubled.
"Just... this?" Elian asked, maintaining his mute role by speaking minimally.
"Sharp knives are for cooks," Grum grinned, revealing his yellow lower tusks. "Dull knives build character. Now work! Your princess hands are too soft. Rough them up a bit!"
Elian took a deep breath, swallowing his anger. He sat on a small stool in front of the barrel and picked up the first fish.
Razorfin scales were hard like thin steel. Scraping them off with a dull knife required extra force.
Scrape.
Elian tried to descale it. The knife slipped.
Slash!
It wasn't the fish scale that peeled off, but the skin on the back of Elian's right hand, sliced by the sharp fish fin. Fresh blood dripped, mixing with fish slime.
"Hahahaha!" Grum laughed from across the room while stirring a giant soup pot. "Blood adds flavor! Keep going!"
Elian stared at the wound on his hand. It stung. The salty fish brine entered the cut, creating a sharp burning sensation.
He wanted to throw this knife into Grum's neck. He knew the vital point of a Half-Orc was under their massive jaw. One precise throw, and that laughter would stop forever.
But Elian held back. Killing the ship's cook in the middle of the ocean was suicide. Captain Barossa would tie him to an anchor and drown him.
Focus. Don't use emotion. Use technique.
Elian closed his eyes for a moment. He ignored the pain in his hand. He ignored Grum's laughter. He activated his Nature Sense, focusing his attention on the dead fish in his hand.
Even though dead, the structure of this fish still followed natural laws. Its scales grew in a specific pattern. There were microscopic gaps between each layer of organic steel.
And this ship... this ship was moving.
Elian felt the rhythm of The Banshee's Wail. Ship up... ship down.
When the ship tilted to the right, Elian didn't resist. He let his body weight and the weight of the knife in his left hand fall with the tilting gravity.
Zip.
The dull knife slid into the gap of the scales, driven by the ship's momentum, not Elian's muscles.
The scales peeled off smoothly.
Elian's eyes opened. That's how.
He picked up the second fish. He waited for the wave.
Up... Down... Swipe.
The fish was clean in three moves.
Grum stopped stirring his soup. He narrowed his eyes, watching the "mute boy" work. At first slow and awkward, but slowly turning into a hypnotic rhythm. Elian swayed in time with the ship, his hands dancing over the deadly fish. Blood still dripped from Elian's scratched hand, but the boy's face was blank, without a trace of pain.
"Tch," Grum spat again, but this time there was no mockery. He returned to his pot. "At least you're useful for peeling trash."
***
Three hours later, Elian walked out of the galley with his hands destroyed.
His fingers were full of tiny cuts. His skin was wrinkled from being soaked in saltwater and fish blood for too long. He smelled like a walking fish market.
He walked toward the deck for fresh air.
The sky outside was darkening. The wind blew hard, battering the ship's sails. The crew ran around, tightening the rigging.
"Storm incoming!" shouted the Bosun, an old man with one wooden leg. "Secure the cargo! Don't let anything loose!"
Elian moved to the side, leaning against the cabin wall to stay out of the way. He saw Jax, the young sailor who had tripped him before, struggling to tie down a stack of wooden crates filled with smuggled rum in the middle of the deck.
"Pull harder, you idiot!" another crew member shouted.
Jax pulled the thick hemp rope with all his might. His face was beet red.
Suddenly, Elian's Nature Sense screamed.
Not because of the wind. But because of the sound of rope fibers snapping.
To ordinary eyes, the rope looked strong. But Elian could "hear" its material tension reaching the limit. Inside the fibers, there were microscopic weaknesses that would fail in seconds.
And above those crates, a heavy iron pulley block hung swaying wildly. If the rope snapped, the pulley would swing and smash Jax's head.
Elian didn't like Jax. The kid was a jerk.
But if Jax died or was critically injured, the workload on the ship would increase. And maybe Elian would be ordered to replace him climbing the mast in a storm—something impossible for him to do with the Ring of Weight.
Pragmatism.
Elian moved.
He didn't shout—he was mute. He ran. His footsteps were heavy but sure.
Just as the last rope fiber snapped with a loud SNAP!, Elian was already near Jax.
The iron pulley swung down like a pendulum of death.
Elian didn't try to catch the pulley—his hands would be crushed. He didn't push Jax with his hands either—he wasn't strong enough.
So, Elian threw himself down, sliding on the wet deck like a football player, and kicked Jax's legs from the side.
"Waaah!" Jax was startled, his legs swept out, and he fell sideways.
BLAM!
A second later, the twenty-kilogram iron pulley smashed into the spot where Jax's head had been. The wooden floor splintered into a thousand pieces. If Jax's head had still been there, its contents would have been splattered everywhere.
Jax lay on the floor, his face pale as he stared at the vibrating iron pulley next to his ear. He turned to Elian who was also lying panting a few meters away.
The other crew members who saw the incident fell silent.
It all happened so fast. To them, Elian looked like he had slipped and accidentally kicked Jax.
"You..." Jax stammered. "You saved me?"
Elian stood up, dusting off his wet cloak. He didn't look at Jax. He just stared at the iron pulley for a moment, then turned and walked away as if nothing had happened.
"Hey! Wait!" Jax called.
Elian didn't stop. He disappeared behind the door to the lower deck.
In the eyes of the crew, the figure of "Eli the Mute" suddenly became more mysterious. Was it luck? Or reflexes? No one knew for sure, but their disdainful looks began to mix with wariness.
***
That night, Elian sat in the cabin, applying Lunaria's herbal salve to the cuts on his hands.
"You saved the boy who insulted you," Lunaria said. She was knitting a fishing net—not an ordinary net, but one infused with Mana to catch magical fish.
"I saved labor," Elian replied flatly, wincing as the salve stung his wounds. "If he dies, I have to pull that rope."
"Good reason," Lunaria smiled faintly, her eyes glinting with pride. "That is the mindset of a leader, not a hero. Heroes save people out of kindness. Leaders save people out of utility."
Lunaria put down her net and tossed a small coil of rope toward Elian.
"Catch."
Elian caught it with his left hand.
"Tonight, your lesson is not meditation," Lunaria said. "You will learn Knots. The Dead Knot, the Living Knot, the Sailor's Knot, and the Binding Knot."
"What for?" Elian asked.
"This world is bound by laws, Elian. But at sea, your life depends on a piece of rope," Lunaria explained. "And for an assassin... a rope is a more flexible weapon than a dagger. You can use it to climb, trap, or strangle."
Lunaria picked up another piece of rope and demonstrated her rapid hand movements.
"With that Ring of Weight, you cannot rely on hand speed. So you must rely on preparation. If you can make a knot trap in three seconds in the dark... you can kill an opponent far stronger than you."
Elian stared at the rope in his hand. Rough hemp rope that scraped his already wounded skin.
He began trying to mimic Lunaria's knots.
Failed. His fingers were stiff and heavy.
"Again," Lunaria commanded.
Elian repeated it. Again. And again.
Outside, the storm began to howl. Waves slammed against the hull with sounds like cannon fire. The ship rocked violently, throwing Elian from his seat several times.
But he always sat back down, picked up the rope, and tried again.
He didn't complain. He didn't cry. The pain in his hands, the nausea in his stomach, and the fatigue in his body slowly became a constant background noise—like the sound of the waves themselves.
That night, under the swaying oil lamp light, Elian learned one important thing: Pain is an honest teacher. If it hurts, it means you are still alive. If you stop feeling pain, it means you are dead or you have become something else.
And in the distance, in the dark depths of the sea beneath them, a massive creature passed by again. Closer this time. Its dorsal fin sliced the underwater current, creating a vortex that made The Banshee's Wail vibrate slightly differently than usual.
Elian stopped knotting for a moment. He turned to the dark porthole.
There is something there, he thought.
"Focus on your rope, Elian," Lunaria chided. "If there is a monster, let Captain Barossa worry about it. You focus on becoming strong."
Elian looked down again, tying a perfect dead knot for the first time.