Night had fully claimed the sea, and the Victoric moved through waters that seemed to shiver under the moonlight. Mist hung low, curling around the black hull like living smoke. Every splash of water against the prow, every creak of timber beneath the crew's feet, carried a weight that pressed on nerves already taut with fear. The glow of the Devil's Lighthouse shimmered faintly in the distance, barely visible through the fog, an unblinking eye.
Blackbured hovered near the prow, gripping a railing, eyes flicking nervously between the fog and the shadows beneath the waves.
Blackbured: "Him… I feel it. The currents… they're… wrong."
Him: "Then adjust. The sea is not yours to command, only to navigate."
The waves did not follow natural patterns. Swells twisted, splitting into jagged peaks before vanishing, leaving the Victoric to slide over deceptively shallow patches. Blackbured noticed shapes in the water that moved independently of the ship, dark forms that mirrored the Victoric's movement, darting beneath the surface like watching eyes.
Crew Member: "Something's under us… it's following!"
Him: "No. You follow the sea, or you drown."
The crew exchanged uneasy glances. Even the most hardened pirates muttered prayers, gripping ropes and railings with white-knuckled precision. Somewhere in the mist, a low, undulating hum rose, vibrating through the hull and sending shivers into bones. Blackbured felt it deep in his chest, a resonance that made the air itself seem heavier.
Blackbured: "It's… it's calling us."
Him: "Ignore it."
Suddenly, a wall of water rose ahead, a rogue wave that seemed to appear from nowhere. The Victoric's prow lifted, riding the swell like a wild animal. Crewmen shouted as the wave slammed against the hull, lanterns swinging violently, ropes snapping taut. The spray soaked men to the bone, carrying with it the faint scent of iron and something foul, almost rot.
Blackbured: "Him! What—"
Him: "Hold fast!"
The Victoric leaned into the wave, and Him moved along the deck, issuing sharp commands with an economy of words. Every sailor obeyed instantly, tying lines, adjusting sails, bracing against the surge. The rogue wave passed, leaving a strange luminescent trail in the water, greenish and flickering like fire beneath the surface.
Sailor: "I… I've never seen the sea glow like that…"
Him: "Then you've never sailed beyond reason."
The fog thickened again, curling around the Victoric, carrying whispers that were almost intelligible. Crewmen stiffened, eyes darting around the deck. The water beneath them rippled in patterns that defied logic, swirling into spirals and eddies, dark shapes appearing and disappearing with every swell.
Blackbured: "It's alive. The sea… it's alive!"
Him: "It has always been alive. Learn it, or it will learn you first."
A sudden crash echoed through the fog—a large shadow broke the surface near the ship, long and sinuous. It moved with intent, circling the Victoric like a predator testing its prey. Crewmen recoiled, some vomiting from fear and seasickness. Blackbured's hand tightened on the railing, knuckles white.
Blackbured: "Him… it's… it's a leviathan!"
Him: "Names do not matter. Only actions."
The shadow lunged closer, water spraying across the deck, and the Victoric groaned as it cut through the unnatural swell. Him moved effortlessly, issuing sharp commands, cutting through panic like a blade.
Him: "Brace yourselves! Every man at the rails! Ropes taut! Cannons ready!"
The crew scrambled, fear mixed with awe. The waves seemed alive, the shadows below sentient, yet the Victoric pressed onward. Lanterns flickered, casting long, dancing shapes across soaked wood. Every splash, every roar of the sea, echoed like a drum of war.
Hours passed. The first hints of dawn struggled against the fog, and the currents slowly began to settle. The glow of the Devil's Lighthouse became clearer, pale and flickering, almost like a candle through the mist. Yet even as the water calmed, the lingering whispers haunted the deck, and shapes beneath the waves followed, watching, testing.
Blackbured: "We… we made it through the first trial."
Him: "Only the first. The sea tests all who seek treasure. And the Devil's Lighthouse… it will test more than the sea ever could."
Crewmen murmured, shaken, yet inspired. They had survived what no sailor of Cryl Outpost dared to approach. Yet none forgot the glowing shapes beneath the waves, the rogue currents, or the whispers carried on the fog.
Him: "Check every line. Keep watch. No man sleeps until we pass the reef. The Devil's Lighthouse waits, and it answers only to those who endure."
The Victoric pressed forward, prow cutting the sea like a blade. Shadows beneath the water twisted and followed, silent, patient, as if aware of every movement on deck. The fog thinned slightly, revealing the faint outline of jagged cliffs ahead—the approach to the Devil's Lighthouse.
Blackbured: "It's… it's closer. I can see it."
Him: "Good. Keep moving. Do not falter."
As the first rays of dawn pierced the mist, the crew realized the journey had truly begun. The Victoric, dark and unyielding, sliced through cursed waters, guided by a captain whose silence weighed heavier than any storm, whose presence alone commanded respect and fear.
Blackbured: "Him… the lighthouse… it feels alive."
Him: "Then remember: only the living survive it."
The sea whispered around them, shadows followed beneath the waves, and the Devil's Lighthouse loomed, waiting for those who dared seek its treasure. The Victoric moved onward, every man aboard knowing that survival would demand courage, cunning, and the unflinching mastery of fear itself.