Azan jumped from the longboat, his feet sinking into the wet sand with a soft squish. One by one, the rest of the crew followed, their boots leaving deep prints in the shore. The island stretched before them, deceptively beautiful—lush green trees swaying in the misty wind, white beaches wrapping its edges like a crown. But every pirate in the world knew what hid behind that beauty: sudden, horrible death.
The rewards, however, were worth the risk.
It was like a flower with thorns.
"This is no ordinary island," Elhaan muttered, his voice calm but edged with warning. The old mage's sharp eyes scanned the treeline, already sensing something wrong.
Black Mask led the way into the forest, his twin swords cutting through low branches and thick leaves to clear a path. One of the grandmasters of the seas, he was a man of few words—no one had ever heard him speak. But on the battlefield, his blade spoke louder than any voice could.
The slow, gentle rain continued to fall, its patter against the leaves adding an eerie rhythm to their march. The deeper they went, the more the island seemed… dead.
"Not even an insect," Ibhram said, narrowing his eyes.
Marda nodded in agreement. Another grandmaster, Marda's gift was unlike any other—he could draw mythical creatures and bring them into reality. Today, though, his hands stayed on his weapon, not his brush.
The peace didn't last long.
Somewhere in the depths of the forest, a sound rose—low, drawn-out groans. The kind of sound no man wanted to hear in a place like this. Even after years at sea, facing monsters born from the blackest depths, none of them had heard something quite like it.
Sikim grinned and called out, "Oi, Merchant of Death, what do you think it is?"
Elhaan's brow twitched. "Don't call me that, you bald, good-for-nothing king."
Sikim only laughed.
"They don't seem alive," Azan said, his voice steady.
A commander chuckled darkly. "If they wish for death, they've found the right people."
That earned a few smiles from the crew.
Then they appeared—shadowy undead, stepping out from the fog with weapons unlike anything the crew had seen before. They were strange, otherworldly blades and rifles, glowing faintly with a sick light. Each strike from them ended in explosions that vaporized everything in their path.
Ibhram didn't wait. He launched into the air, his curved blade cutting through the undead like a hot knife through butter. Black Mask was no less fierce, his swords flashing silver in the gloom. Marda fought with raw strength alone, hurling enemies aside without calling on his mythical drawings.
"They'll keep coming until their master is dead," Elhaan called over the clash. "A necromancer is hiding nearby!"
Azan heard him. Without a word, he charged forward, his fist tightening.
When it struck the ground, the blast shook the forest. The entire front line of undead was obliterated in a single, bone-crushing blow.
Ibhram and Marda returned, brushing dust from their clothes like bored warriors whose fun had been cut short. But there was no time to dwell—they had a greater prize to claim.
The trials that followed were no less strange. A dragon that could not be slain except by lies—its mind so gullible it believed anything spoken to it. Sikim, grinning from ear to ear, handled it easily, weaving a ridiculous story that brought the beast to its doom.
Through it all, Azan remained the same. Calm. Focused. Later, Elhaan would tell me that he never behaved like a man who thought death might claim him that night. He planned as though he would live to spend the treasure with us.
After countless obstacles—climbing a sheer mountain with nothing but a narrow ledge for a path, battling shadow snakes in dark caves, and facing the roaring lava hound in the depths of hell—they stood before it.
The Skull.
Its stone fangs loomed over them, the mouth a yawning entrance to the treasure of the Forbidden Island—said to be the greatest treasure in all the seas.
And now, they were only one step away.
The Skull. Rose over the jungle like the crown of some ancient god, half-buried in the earth, its gaping mouth sealed by glowing runes. Faint light pulsed across its surface, shifting over symbols older than memory—older than history itself.
Elhaan stepped forward, his eyes scanning every curve of the stone. Slowly, he raised a hand, stopping just short of touching it.
"This isn't just a barrier," he murmured. "It's a test. Wards, death glyphs… illusions. This thing is alive."
The air changed—heavier, colder.
A voice drifted from the stone. Dry. Mocking.
> "Hmmmnnn… what's this? A human with a ticking soul?"
The crew froze where they stood.
> "Ahhh… the dying hour walks among you. So small. So brief. You carry one sun's worth of time… and think it can warm the grave?"
The runes pulsed, and a cruel intelligence seemed to stare out from the skull itself.
Elhaan took a step back. His voice was steady, but his hands were not.
"This magic… is beyond me."
Azan stepped forward without hesitation. His gaze swept over the barrier, the runes, the glowing mouth. Then, without a word, he tightened his fist.
And punched.
CRACK.
The seal shattered like brittle glass. Light ruptured and vanished in a blink. The stone split apart with a sound like bone breaking.
Azan muttered, "You talk too much."
And walked inside.
---
The chamber beyond breathed with dim light, fed by veins of ancient magic that ran through the walls. Piles of gold, heaps of jewels, weapons from forgotten wars, and artifacts humming with strange power littered every corner. The air was heavy with greed.
Azan glanced back at his crew. "You guys are gonna live one hell of a life."
They forced smiles, but the truth hung over them like a storm cloud. They all knew what the Black Mark meant.
Still, they followed.
At the center of the room stood a pedestal. Upon it rested a golden crow, its ruby eyes glimmering in the low light.
A young crewman stepped forward, eyes wide.
"Looks valuable," he said, grinning. "It's mine."
"Wait," Elhaan warned, but the words came too late.
Click.
HISSSSSSS.
The crow screamed—not a sound, but smoke.
Black smoke.
It wasn't mist. It wasn't magic. It was something older. Hungrier.
The crew staggered back as it poured from the crow's beak, moving with purpose. The temperature dropped. The gold seemed to lose its shine.
Elhaan's face went pale. "You fool…"
Black Mask swung his sword, but the blade shattered on contact.
The smoke moved like thought—darting, choosing, killing.
Men screamed. Flesh tore. Bones cracked. And then the screams stopped.
Azan stepped forward.
The smoke lunged at him—
—and froze.
No scream. No pain.
Only stillness.
The Black Mark on his hand pulsed once.
Outside, the final sliver of sun dipped below the horizon.
The world stopped moving.
Only Azan remained.
He stood in the quiet, looking around at the frozen scene.
"…Goodbye."
Memories flared. Mikael's smile. The girl's laugh. The sound of the sea. The heat of fire. The roar of battle.
Then the smoke shifted. Twisted.
It lunged again.
The Mark flared—
BOOM.
---
Back on the ship, Mikael gripped the mast as a flash of white light ripped through the clouds. It was blinding, silent, and impossible.
The red-haired girl beside him stared at the horizon.
"Was that… Captain Azan?"
Mikael didn't answer.
Because he didn't know.
---
Three days passed.
The sea was calm. The island stood still. No birds. No wind. Just waiting.
Then Mikael anxious he could not wait any more and decided to go look for them him self .
He swim towards the island and started his search .
He found those monster his crew had defeated. Gaints .. dragons..wolfs of the size of ships and many more .
He felt.
He didn't know why. Only that something called him back—a pull deep in his bones, a whisper buried under the sound of rain.
The jungle was withering. The skull was crumbling. He had climbed all his way to here .
And then he found them.
Three grandmasters, lying near the skull's hollow eye. Alive, but barely. Their hair had turned white. Their skin hung loose, drained of strength. They looked as if years had been carved out of them in moments.
One lifted his head as Mikael approached.
"You came," he rasped. "Too late for us… but not for what we carry."
They rose with effort. One pressed two fingers to Mikael's temple. Another, to his chest. The last, to the base of his spine.
> "You'll feel it soon. Flashes. Instincts. You won't understand them yet."
> "We are not giving you knowledge…"
> "…We're giving you burden."
Their bodies turned to ash before his eyes, drifting away into the wind.
Only one grandmaster remained—half-shadow, limping, barely clinging to life.
Mikael took his arm and helped him back to the boat.
Behind them, the island faded, piece by piece, until it was gone.
It will not return for another 100 years.
---
Far away…
In a world of carriages and gas lamps, a man awoke in the dirt.
There was no sea. No sky. No magic.
His hand was empty.
A white-haired man opened his eyes.
And somewhere, a new story began.