Three days had passed since the group's encounter with Zeke, and they'd been hard at work repairing the Molten Ridge.
"This is... a lot harder than I thought it'd be," Renzo muttered, wiping sweat from his forehead as he nailed another floorboard into place on the deck.
The sky was clear, the sun beaming down. A cool breeze rustled through the air, and birds could be heard chirping in the distance as Silva, Zay, Renzo, and the commander continued their work. Every day, nine grueling hours were spent repairing the vessel—but compared to the ship's vast size and the extent of the damage, their progress was barely noticeable.
From the rooftops of the small town, a man stood watching. Cloaked in black, his sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, revealing strong, calloused forearms. Black leggings and dark boots completed his attire.
He jumped down from the rooftop and landed soundlessly on the dirt road. His boots made not even a whisper as he walked.
Without anyone noticing, he stepped onto the ship and spoke calmly.
"I know a thing or two about ship repairs... if you need some assistance. Free of charge."
All four heads snapped toward him.
"Free?" Zay scoffed.
"Nothing is free," Renzo added, narrowing his eyes.
"Besides, who even are you? Where'd you come from?" Silva asked, eyeing the stranger from head to toe, trying to read him.
"I come from a humble village. And if you're so certain there's no such thing as a free service... then call it a deal. I help you now, and in return, I'll ask for one favor from one of you—at some point."
He smiled and lowered his hood, revealing a face framed by a thick beard and bright green eyes. Despite the facial hair, his smile was clear—and strangely disarming.
The group exchanged glances. The man looked older, harmless even.
The commander exhaled slowly, studying him. "Alright. One hour. If you impress us with just an hour of work, we'll accept this deal of yours. Fair?"
The man nodded eagerly. "Yes! Of course."
Without another word, he grabbed pieces of lumber, pulled nails from a pouch hidden within his cloak, and got to work.
The four of them retreated into the helm—the control room—closing the door behind them.
"He seems pretty trustworthy, at least to me," the commander said, removing his helmet and setting it down. He stretched his back with a groan, exhausted from hours spent kneeling and hammering boards.
"Something about him seems... off," Silva said, peering out through a narrow crack in the wall to watch the man work. "He wanted to do this for free? I've never heard of anyone repairing a ship this size—for free. Something isn't right."
She stepped away from the crack and glanced at the other two.
Zay and Renzo sighed in unison.
As sunlight streamed through the glass of the control room, Zay looked at the others and leaned against the wooden wall.
"I mean, we did read that paper Zeke wrote… and now something like this happens just a few days later? If you ask me, I think this is another illusion."
Renzo glanced over at Zay before speaking up.
"If that's true, then we would've had to drink something he prepared… but I haven't even seen him. We've been boiling seawater for days."
Zay shrugged and gave a slow nod, the sun shining directly above them.
"You're right… but what if it doesn't require a drink? It could be activated by touch, or something else entirely. We have no confirmation on how his illusions work. Just be careful, everyone. Without Nova here… we're down a member, and Zeke might take advantage of that... I don't like whoever this dude is."
They all nodded silently and sat down to rest for the hour.
Outside, the rhythmic sound of hammering echoed across the ship's deck.
The man worked with a strange mix of precision and speed, each strike of the hammer echoing clean and true as the boards snapped into place smoother than anyone had managed over the past few days. Sawdust curled off the wood, catching sunlight as it drifted lazily through the air.
A low chuckle escaped his lips.
He didn't look up immediately, just kept hammering. But then—subtly—his eyes flicked toward the door leading to the control room. The grin on his bearded face widened faintly.
After a pause that lingered just a second too long, he went back to hammering, whistling softly to himself, a tune none of them would recognize—because it hadn't been heard in a very long time.
An hour passed quicker than expected.
The sun had shifted slightly, casting longer shadows across the ship's deck. The air was still, save for the steady sound of hammering that hadn't stopped once since the man began.
The four of them stepped out from the control room, stretching as they were about to make their way to the deck—only to freeze in their tracks.
Half of the deck… fully repaired.
Perfectly aligned boards, tightly nailed, sealed at the edges—work that should've taken at least three weeks with their current manpower, completed in a single hour. The smell of fresh wood hung in the air, mixing with the salty sea breeze.
The man looked up at them casually, wiping his brow before flashing that same warm, almost too-kind smile. He raised his voice so it carried across the ship.
"So, does this mean we got that deal?"
The four exchanged glances. Even Silva—still suspicious—couldn't deny what they were seeing. The speed, the craftsmanship… it was unreal.
The commander finally gave a short nod, stepping forward.
"You got a deal!" he shouted back from the helm.
The man offered a quick salute with two fingers, then turned back to his work, humming again as his hammer rose and fell in a steady rhythm.
The others returned to the control room, grateful for the rest—yet silently wondering just who that person was.
The commander stretched back in his seat, still eyeing the deck from the window. "I'll admit it. He delivered. That deck's fixed in no time. But you're right, Zay. Something about him… something feels off."
Silva nodded, her arms crossed. "Exactly. He's too eager to help. Too quick with everything. And who just offers free work like that? There's always a catch."
Renzo clenched his fists and stared out at the man still working on the deck, hammering away with unblinking precision. "We should have stayed out there. We can't afford to trust anyone right now."
Before Zay could respond, the tension outside shifted abruptly.
A distant crash broke the calm—the unmistakable sound of a violent impact against the ship's side.
"What the hell?" the commander muttered, leaping to his feet.
They rushed out again.
Then came chanting.
Low murmuring that was almost too soft to hear, but carried on the wind. Zay looked toward the town, his eyes scanning the horizon. His heart skipped a beat as figures began to emerge from the mist, moving toward the ship.
Clad in stark white robes, their faces masked, the strangers walked as though they had purpose, their steps synchronized in a slow, deliberate march. The strange chant became clearer as they approached.
Seven figures, all in white.
Renzo's senses were on high alert, his eyes narrowed. "These guys don't look friendly."
The figures reached the base of the ship, their eyes glowing faintly beneath their white hoods.
One of the figures—taller than the rest, and radiating a chilling presence—stepped forward and raised a gloved hand.
"We are the Cult of the White Dawn," the leader's voice echoed across the deck, his words cutting through the air with venom. "You are in possession of something we seek. You will surrender it to us, or we will take it by force."
Before anyone could speak, the leader of the cult gestured sharply to the others. Without a word, they raised their weapons, long blades gleaming under the sun, ready to assault the ship.
Then, the man—still casually working, still hammering—finally looked up.
The strange, almost amused smile crept back to his face as he set the hammer down.
"I'll take care of this, don't worry about anything." He said, his voice steady. Without another word, he strode toward the cultists with eerie calm, his green eyes flashing dangerously.
Zay and the others watched in silence as the man moved toward the attackers. A sword swiped down at him, but with lightning speed, he ducked under the blade and grabbed the cultist's wrist, twisting it to an impossible angle. A loud snap echoed as the man threw the attacker to the ground with brutal force.
The man picked up the sword from the cultist's hand and aimed it toward the rest.
The cultists exchanged uneasy glances before roaring in unison and charging at the lone man.
The man surged forward, meeting two members halfway. With a single slash of his blade, he cut through them cleanly, their bodies falling onto the deck, split in half.
He flicked blood from the sword and pointed it at the remaining cultists.
"I don't know what you want from these nice people... but LEAVE!" he shouted, the two dead cultists and one with a broken wrist lying at his feet.
The cultists exchanged uncertain glances, and the leader scoffed in irritation, clicking his tongue. "Just because you killed two, you thi—"
Before he could finish, the repairman surged toward him, his movements lightning-quick. The leader unsheathed his blade, meeting the attack with a sharp block.
The leader gritted his teeth, stepping back, pain flashing across his face. "Fine," he muttered under his breath. His robes billowed as he jumped back, glowing under the sunlight, before rushing in again.
The repairman charged in once more, their blades clashing in a burst of sparks. They danced across the deck, their strikes a blur of metal and fury. The leader's movements were precise, but the repairman's fluidity seemed almost effortless.
Out of the corner of his eye, the repairman saw one of the cultists attempting to flank him from behind. As the attacker lunged with a blade aimed for his back, the repairman collapsed to the ground, narrowly avoiding the strike. The leader, in his rush to strike, stabbed his own cultist by accident.
The repairman grinned, seizing the opportunity. He swept his blade toward the leader's foot, catching him with a sharp slash.
The leader hissed in pain, stumbling back. His face twisted with both fury and frustration.
With a final look toward his remaining followers, the leader clicked his tongue again in irritation. "This isn't over."
He turned sharply, motioning for the others to follow. The remaining four cultists rushed off, their robes flowing as they retreated, their footsteps echoing across the ship.
As they vanished into the mist, the leader shouted one last line, his voice filled with venom, "We'll be back—and when we return, you'll regret this!"
The repairman stood tall, watching them leave, his blade still in hand. With a flick of his wrist, he wiped off the blood, his expression unreadable.