Deacon leaned against the side of his small wooden rowboat, which swayed gently on the ocean, one arm hanging loosely over the edge. Wind whipped through his inky-black hair as the sky shifted between ripples of gold and overcast gray, curling even around the Echoform Reliquary resting beside his head. For the first time since he began climbing the Tower, he felt truly at peace.
The rhythmic thudding of waves against the hull of the rowboat, the occasional creak of the boat, the gentle digging noise of his metal wire rubbing against the wooden frame of the boat, and the seagulls squaking above... He loved it all.
He could see how people chose their Class to be fishers, with how calm and relaxing it was to be in the water. Even being atop a boat brought back some childhood memories he'd forgotten about when he went out fishing with his father. He'd remembered almost falling into the river because a fish tugged at his string too hard, and remembered how panicked his father had been when that had happened.
A thin metal wire, glinting dimly in sunlight, bent in a gentle curve from the boat's rim into the sea. Its other end was held tightly around his arm, buckled high on his right bracer leather and bicep.
Deacon relaxed forward, releasing tension from his shoulders, his mind running over the path he'd taken. Instead of making a direct beeline to the remote island he'd scouted from the beach of the central island, he had instead rowed the long way, weaving around the far edge of the Isles of the Damned.
It was the best idea he had in mind to ensure that if anyone was currently watching him would assume that he was traveling to an island beyond the one he actually intended to travel to.
"Come on," he muttered under his breath, readjusting the coil of wire on his arm, trying to entice a bite from a fish.
The boat creaked again as it drifted slowly, carried by the rolling sigh of the ocean along with the occasional row of the oars that were being moved by his mana strings.
Deacon let out a soft exhale through his nose and let his gaze fall to the horizon, where the sky met the ocean in a hazy smear of bright blue and gold.
"This looks like something you'd see in a painting... now it reminds me of that movie Esmerelda showed us a year ago during our camping trip," he muttered to himself. "All its missing is some random big ass boat sinking or some sort of tornado of fish that shot out fish everywhere."
The metal wire he was using as an improvised fishing line tugged gently at his arm, but it was nothing more than a passing bump of a fish with no interest in the worm he used as bait.
With his eyes slowly starting to droop, Deacon felt his mind drift back to what happened three hours ago, when he first set foot on the northeast shore of the central island.
The beach had been... crowded. Not with people, but with boats. Albeit there were a couple of others getting into a boat, but no one followed nor tried to attack him.
There were dozens of rowboats that were dragged inland and half-buried in sand. Some were splintered. Others still had dried, sun-bleached seaweed dangling from their bows. Sixty by his quick count, maybe more tucked further into the tree line. Most were basic wooden rowboats, likely deployed from ships too large or too valuable to risk coming close to the cursed perimeter of the Isle of the Damned.
He remembered crouching in the shade of a palm tree, scanning the hulls to understand what they came from and their purpose – insignias, carvings, flags. A few had faint etchings of crests or arcane symbols burned into the stern. While he didn't know what they meant or what they stood for, it wasn't a stretch to believe the elaborate-looking crests belonged to nobility, which soldiers probably used, symbols for the arcane, such as storm and fire, were probably for witches and sorcerers, and plain boats were for exiles and prisoners.
"I wonder if they'll come to the island?" he had murmured to himself, crouching low in the brush, but still able to see the northeast beach of the central island. "If they do come and we complete the Floor, does that mean they also become integrated with the Tower because of the Floor Map?"
After all, that was the history of how many of the major racial factions came to be a part of the Tower. The Fallen Angels were on Floor 13, the people of Murim were on Floor 19, and the Angels were on Floor 29. None of them were of the original six races that were identified when the people of Earth found themselves in the Tower.
Rather, they were discovered and integrated into the Tower when previous generations found their civilization while completing their Floor Quests.
However, maybe the wording of the Floor Quest was a teaser for the next generations of cadets who will uncover the next major continent on the Floor Three Floor Map, as he'd yet to see any of the natives of Floor Three so far.
The only signs of anyone even being on the central islands were the rowboats.
Still, a part of him hoped they were real and were either in the Isles of the Damned or were coming to the Isles soon. He'd love to learn and pick apart the various magics and techniques they use for both combat and leisure.
Well, assuming that they weren't going to try and kill him the moment they saw him and thought him to be some islander native or something like that.
His lips curved into a faint smirk as something nudged the wire for the nth time in the past three hours.
"Well," he murmured to the sea, "if they do appear, I hope that they're half as good as I wish them to be."
He reached behind him, took another bite of jerky, and let his gaze settle once more on the misted silhouette of his chosen island that was slowly drawing closer now, quiet and still, and untouched. For now, at least.
Suddenly, the wire snapped taut in a blink, fast enough that Deacon's arm jerked forward with it, the muscles along his bicep coiling with surprise. It had almost pulled him out of the boat by how sudden it was.
His eyes lit up instantly.
"Oh-ho," he breathed, teeth flashing into a grin as he went from lounging to kneeling to standing upright on the rowboat, twisting his torso to brace against the pull and calling back his manastrings that were rowing the boat toward the back end of the island. The boat rocked sharply in response, and an inch of ocean water flowed inside it. Salt spray caught the edge of his jaw as he dug his boots against the base of the boat to stabilize himself.
The line trembled violently in the water.
This wasn't just a passing nudge; this was not a curious tug from a passing fish, this was a strong one.
Deacon gritted his teeth and leaned back with a sharp breath, both arms engaged now as he reeled the metal wire in bit by bit. "C'mon, you slippery bastard…"
Whatever was on the other end of that line had weight behind it, enough to strain his 45 Strength stat to the point where he could feel the tension burn across his forearms and shoulders. The metal wire whined in protest as he pulled, the tightening of the wire across his bicep and triceps from atop his leather armor, further incentivized him to not fuck around.
The boat shifted again, harder this time. One side dipped, and the bow jerked slightly toward the water.
It had been three hours.
Three hours of nothing but sun, sea, and the occasional seaweed snag.
But now?
Now something big was on the hook.
He planted one foot against the rowing bench, shifting his weight, and gave another hard yank. "Let's see who or what I'm facing in this tug of war."
The wire cut through the water, sending rippling vibrations with every twitch and thrash of whatever beast of a fish fought at the end of it. Deacon's boots dug deeper against the wood as he leaned back once more, sweat beginning to bead at his brow despite the sea breeze.
"Damn, you're stubborn," he muttered, arms coiling as he gave another powerful yank.
The surface broke.
Water erupted in a splash several meters from the boat as the thing finally crested, a shimmering, scaled mass whipping side to side in protest. It was huge. A broad-bodied fish with jagged fins and a set of eyes too intelligent for comfort. It thrashed once, violently, the wire hissing through Deacon's grip before he could lock it again.
But then, just beneath the fish, dragging behind it, was something else.
"What the hell?"
A box, rectangular in shape and about the size of a backpack. It bobbed awkwardly behind the fish, tethered to its back by a crude net of barnacle-crusted rope. The box itself was made out of metal, old, but somehow not rusted. Seawater sluiced off its surface, as it was also covered in a thick sheen of algae, as it floated to the surface behind the fish.
Deacon's eyes narrowed.
He adjusted his grip, easing the fish closer rather than forcing it straight into the boat. "Well now… what exactly are you hauling, fishy?"
The creature gave another vicious twist, nearly tipping the edge of the rowboat into the water, but Deacon didn't flinch, rather, his balance was solid, legs acting like shock absorbers.
A final pull brought the fish and the box just within reach.
With a swift motion, he lunged his left arm forward and grabbed the fish outright before pulling it out of the ocean and began getting the hook loose from the fish's mouth and dropping it to his feet, keeping its flopping form still under his boot.
Deacon wasted no time as he reached for the box next to it, grabbed the barnacle-crusted rope around it, and pulled it toward the edge of the boat with both hands. It was heavier than it looked, and cold to the touch, even after hours in the sun-warmed sea. And engraved faintly across its top panel was something he didn't expect: an insignia.
The Tower's Insignia.
"Holy shit!" Deacon shouted as he stared at the box. "I got a fucking loot box!"
"Alright…" he muttered, crouching low and carefully unwinding the metal wire from around his arm, rolling his shoulder once to ease out the ache. The fish flopped a few more times beneath his feet before going still.
He turned his attention back to the barnacle-crusted rope around the box. It took him a minute to work his fingers through the tangled mess, scraping off the barnacles between the crusted knots in order to loosen them, and muttering curses under his breath as he was too excited to open it and see what lay inside it.
Finally, with one last tug, the rope gave way, fully revealing the loot box's algae-covered form. Wiping off the algae atop it, he could now see it properly, and he was able to identify that the metal it was made out of was regular steel, but he knew what it contained would be far more valuable than regular steel.
"Let's see what you've got for me," he said, hovering his fingers over the clasps of the loot box. And with a metallic click, the lid unlatched.
Inside, resting atop a tightly coiled cushion of black foam, was a single article of clothing – a dark navy blue cloak.
He reached in, fingertips brushing the cloak, and immediately a System Notification appeared in front of him as he used Identify.
Item Name: Cloak of the Iron Shade
Type: Armor – Cloak
Rarity: Rare
Description:
A dark navy-blue cloak designed for both durability and strength. It empowers the wearer's body with a boost of resilience and strength. The Cloak of the Iron Shade is favored by all manner of knights, soldiers, and all those who are heading out for battle.
Effect: +5% Strength, +5% Endurance.
Requirements: Humanoid, Lv 5+