The SS Grudwar rocked gently beneath my feet, the soft creaks and groans of the wooden frame blending with the faint lapping of waves against the hull. The salty tang of the ocean clung to the cool morning air, mingling with the faint, oily trace of mana-powered machinery humming faintly below deck.
I moved through the narrow corridors with practiced silence, my boots barely brushing the old planks. Each step was calculated, every shift of weight deliberate—I couldn't afford to leave even a whisper of sound behind.
Ahead, the low murmur of voices drifted down the corridor, growing clearer as I approached. I slipped into the shadows behind a stack of crates, my back against the cold wood, and tilted my head slightly to listen.
"Ugh, why do we have to set sail so early again? This shipment's not due until next week. Why the heck are we embarking at dawn?"
The voice carried a sharp edge of irritation, the kind that came from a long night with little sleep. Peering out, I spotted two sailors trudging along the walkway, a lantern swinging between them and casting jittery shadows against the walls.
"I don't know and don't care enough to ask"
The other sailor replied, his tone curt and tinged with authority.
"If the boss wants something, the boss gets it. Now stop complaining before someone hears you..."
"Yeah, yeah, I get it…"
The first man muttered, though his frustration was still palpable.
"Man, I'd at least wanted to rest and enjoy the cuisine at port a while longer. That stew at the inn? Top-notch."
The stockier sailor snorted, his irritation slipping into a low chuckle.
"You and your stomach. One day, it's gonna get you in trouble."
I stayed perfectly still, watching them pass, their steps heavy and unhurried. They didn't bother looking around—their guard down, their routine too ingrained to expect a threat. Their conversation faded into the groaning wood and rhythmic sway of the ship as they disappeared down the corridor.
((So the SS Grudwar is setting sail earlier than expected, huh?))
I thought, slipping out of my hiding spot as silently as I had entered it.
((This ship just keeps getting more suspicious by the minute))
I adjusted the hood of my cloak and pressed the white mask tighter into my face before moving forward, keeping my movements fluid and soundless. The path to the "empty" cargo compartment was etched in my mind, pulled from the ledgers I had glimpsed during my shift that morning. Something about that section of the hold didn't sit right with me from the moment I saw the shipment ledgers. A compartment meticulously documented but deliberately marked as empty? That practically begged for investigation.
The air grew denser as I descended further into the belly of the SS Grudwar. The faint hum of mana-powered machinery that accompanied me earlier faded into an eerie silence, broken only by the occasional creak of the ship's wooden frame. Shadows clung to the narrow passageway, the dim sway of lantern light casting jagged shapes that shifted and danced with each step forward.
The "empty" compartment was just ahead, its brass-plated door labeled "C-17" The label was tidy and inconspicuous, a detail carefully designed to deter attention. It was the kind of thing you'd glance at once and promptly forget, but I wasn't here to forget. I was here because something about it demanded not to be ignored.
I approached the door, my boots brushing the planks without so much as a whisper. Each step was a calculation, every movement measured. Gloved fingers brushed against the cold brass handle, testing its resistance.
Locked.
((Of course))
I crouched and retrieved my picks, the motion so fluid it was almost reflex. With practiced precision, I worked the mechanism, the faint click of tumblers the only sound in the suffocating quiet.
*Click!*
A soft click signaled success, and I eased the door open just enough to slip inside, careful not to let the hinges betray me.
The room was colder, the air weighted with a metallic tang that clung to the back of my throat. A faint medicinal sharpness mingled with it, creating an oppressive, unnatural scent. A single lantern swayed faintly in the corner, its dim light barely illuminating the space.
Rows of uniform crates lined the walls, their matte black-gray surfaces gleaming faintly under the weak light. The material was unmistakable.
((Noctilith...))
Known more commonly as 'oblivion stone', it was infamous for its unique property: magic did not coexist with it. Unlike materials that absorbed or resisted magic, oblivion stone destroyed it entirely, rendering it inert. To magic, it was an unyielding nothingness. Runes failed in its presence, enchantments dissolved, and even the faintest traces of mana collapsed into oblivion upon contact. It was, quite literally, the anathema of magic—a material that didn't repel magic but nullified it like the vacuum of space snuffing out a fire.
I moved closer to one of the crates, crouching to inspect its surface. The faint etchings of mechanical locks stood out against the dull sheen, and I worked one open with deliberate care. The lid gave way with a quiet groan, revealing an interior lined entirely with Noctilith. Nestled within were smooth, metallic canisters, their surfaces devoid of markings except for the faint impression of a locking mechanism.
I removed one of the canisters, holding it to the lantern's light. A soft hiss escaped as I twisted the mechanism, cold air spilling out in a thin, misty plume. Inside, suspended in faintly glowing liquid, was an organ—a heart. But not just any heart.
((A reversed heart?))
Its structure was mirrored, clearly designed to fit on the right side of the chest instead of the left. Recognition clicked immediately. This wasn't a mistake of biology; it was a deliberate augmentation, one I knew well.
((No...it's a second heart))
The Executerii frequently implanted these in their soldiers, more specifically the GEN 7 which were modeled after the Maestro's design of me, they were made to take over if the primary heart failed. But its purpose wasn't purely redundancy. This augmentation increased blood flow, oxygen delivery, and toxin filtration, all to cope with the extreme physical and metabolic demands placed on their "super soldiers." It was a tool of survival and efficiency—one more weapon in the arsenal of their engineered soldiers.
I sealed the canister and returned it to its cradle, my hand brushing against the edge of the crate. The other canisters held similar grotesqueries: unnatural organs, bio-engineered with cold precision. Some were familiar—a reinforced liver, clusters of additional adrenal tissue—but others were unrecognizable, alien in their symmetry and function. The hallmarks of forbidden alchemy and advanced gene-crafting were etched into every grotesque detail. Alongside them were vials of compressed genetic material, extracted from monsters and sealed with arcane symbols.
""All Executerii assets. Class-6 or higher...""
I muttered as the cold light of revelation passed through my empty, red pupils.
((It's confirmed, this ship belongs to the 'Velvet Tide', I might be able to find information on the traitor Hanuman Orland here on this ship...))
My gaze lingered on the open crate for a moment, my mind coldly processing the implications. These weren't trophies. They were tools. Weapons. Orland hadn't just stolen from the Executerii; he'd taken some of their most sensitive, dangerous materials.
((He's either building an army or selling to someone who is. Either way, it won't end quietly...))
I sealed the crate, my motions mechanical and deliberate. My focus was already shifting to the next step, my thoughts calculating the best way to proceed. The dull hum of tension lingered in my chest, not from fear or anger, but from the cold clarity of understanding.
As I moved to retreat, the faint echo of footsteps reached my ears, accompanied by low voices. I froze, pressing myself deeper into the shadows near the wall, my breathing shallow and measured. The lantern overhead swayed faintly, casting erratic patterns on the crate-lined walls.
"…Why does the boss even care about this stuff so much?"
One voice grumbled, low and irritated.
"Do you want to ask him? Be my guest,"
The second man replied dryly, his tone dripping with sarcasm.
"No thanks!"
The first muttered quickly, a nervous edge creeping into his voice.
"You know how he gets with 'confidential matters.' He doesn't just bark orders—he bites"
"Then keep your trap shut!"
The second man said tersely, his words laced with warning.
"We're paid to lift, haul, and not ask questions. You want to keep your tongue? Stop wagging it"
Their footsteps grew louder, their shadows stretching toward me as I pressed closer to the wall, ensuring no sound betrayed my presence. The two men passed by, a lantern swinging between them, its flickering light casting jittery shapes that seemed to dance nervously across the crates.
"Still, this whole thing feels...off"
The first man murmured, lowering his voice.
"We've hauled some sketchy stuff before, but this? This feels different. Even mentioning the nickname gets everyone shifty-eyed"
"That's because you're not supposed to mention it!"
The second man hissed, his voice sharp.
"The boss doesn't like loose lips. You know what happens to loose lips on THIS crew"
I stiffened slightly, my ears straining to catch every word as they continued their slow, unhurried patrol.
"Yeah, but why risk something this hot on the Grudwar?"
The first man asked hesitantly.
"Feels like a bullseye painted on our backs."
"Think about it"
The second man replied, his tone quiet and deliberate.
"The Grudwar's clean. Spotless trade record, no heat. It's the perfect cover. Nobody's gonna suspect such a reputable merchant freighter of smuggling anything, let alone THIS"
"Still…you'd think someone would keep the crew in the loop, at least a little..."
The first man muttered, unease thick in his voice.
"Even the navigation officer doesn't seem to know where we're heading half the time"
"That's not an accident"
The second man explained, his voice lowering further, as though the walls themselves might overhear.
"The nav room's locked down for a reason. Everything's in there—routes, contingency plans, drop-off points for the…deliveries. You know what I mean"
The first man whistled low, a nervous sound escaping through his teeth.
"That explains why it's sealed tighter than a miser's coin purse. Nobody gets in without the boss's approval"
"Exactly. And that's why you don't go sticking your nose where it doesn't belong. You think the boss is scary? Try explaining yourself to THEM if anything goes sideways. Not even the boss would dare show his face around Coastania if that were to happen. Heck he's too scared to even allow anyone on this ship to say their name"
"...Point taken"
The conversation trailed off as they moved farther down the corridor, the faint scrape of their boots blending into the ship's groans and creaks. I waited until their voices disappeared completely before exhaling softly, my mind already working through the implications.
((The navigation room. That's where they're keeping the key details—manifests, routes, and likely every breadcrumb leading to Orland's operation))
I straightened, the tension in my body releasing slightly as I recalibrated my route. The mention of the Velvet Tide—or rather, the deliberate avoidance of its name—spoke volumes. Whatever Orland was planning, it wasn't just big. It was calculated, and it was dangerous.
Slipping deeper into the ship's maze-like corridors, I adjusted my path. The navigation room wasn't far, and with the crew distracted by their routines, this was as good an opportunity as I'd get. My steps were silent, each motion deliberate, as I moved toward the next piece of the puzzle.
After another stretch of ghosting through the ship's dimly lit interior like some malevolent specter from sailors' fireside tales, I arrived at the double doors of the SS Grudwar's navigation room. The faint hum of magic resonated through the air—a subtle, rhythmic pulse that confirmed my suspicions before I even saw the lock.
""A six-layer barrier formation""
I murmured, my voice as quiet as the thought itself.
""As if it wasn't obvious enough how much you DON'T want me in here""
The doors were bound tight with a shimmering magical formation—a complex, intricate design that almost seemed to pulse with purpose. It was composed of six interlocking layers: at its core, a hexagram radiating faintly with mana, encased by a square etched with jagged runes. Surrounding that was a perfect circle, woven seamlessly into a star with twelve razor-sharp points. Around it all spun a wheel of glyphs, their glow alternating faintly between blue and silver, the movement hypnotic in its precision.
""Pretty complex...""
I muttered, leaning closer, my gaze tracing each layer.
""But manageable. Doesn't seem like it'll raise an alarm if I take the direct approach. Lucky me""
Whoever had designed this lock clearly wanted to keep people out, but they hadn't accounted for someone willing—or capable enough—to bypass the mechanism through brute force.
I held out my left hand, letting it hover just above the formation. The moment my fingers came within a breath of the glowing glyphs, the air around me seemed to change. The faint creaks of the ship, the distant murmur of water against the hull—all of it fell away into an oppressive silence.
It was as though reality itself had taken a deep, trembling breath and was waiting for what came next.
The formation resisted initially, glowing brighter as if aware of the impending violation. But resistance was futile. A dark, jagged rift tore through the layers of the spell, radiating from the center of my palm. The gnash didn't simply disrupt the magic—it erased it. Every line, rune, and shimmering thread of mana vanished, reduced to a nothingness so profound it was as if they had never existed at all.
The air filled with an inaudible hum, the absence left behind by the magic's destruction creating a hollow ache in my ears and chest. For a brief, unsettling moment, the world around me seemed wrong, like the very fabric of existence had been wounded and was struggling to knit itself back together.
""Haa~ haa~ still unpleasant...""
I muttered in between labored breaths, my voice betraying none of the lingering unease in my chest as I withdrew my hand. The gnash in reality sealed itself the moment I pulled away, the eerie rift being filled in like water rushing to occupy an empty vessel.
((Careful...))
I thought grimly, flexing my fingers to shake off the faint tingling in my palm.
((If I overdo it, the [Oblivion Rot] will start eating at my memories...))
[Oblivion Magic]—the art I'd just employed—wasn't something to use lightly. It operated on principles similar to Noctilith but went far beyond its capabilities. Where Noctilith nullified only magic or other Mana induced phenomena, [Oblivion Magic] annihilated. Magic, matter, memories, even abstract concepts—it didn't discriminate. Whatever came into contact with its power ceased to exist entirely, as though erased from the ledger of reality itself.
But such power came with a price. [Oblivion Rot], the insidious toll exacted by the magic, didn't care for fairness or mercy. Each use shaved away at something: memories, identity, magical capacity, your ability to talk, emotions, even aspects of your consciousness. In extreme cases, it could temporarily or permanently strip a person of one or all of their senses, leaving them adrift in a void of deprivation like a sensory tank. It was not a power for the faint of heart—or for those with much left to lose, without sufficient Mana to feed the oblivion rift generated it WILL take something from you, sometimes it just takes something from you regardless of if you have enough Mana to feed the hungry rift or not.
I steadied myself, shaking off the lingering dizziness that threatened to creep in. The door before me stood unsealed now, an unassuming slab of reinforced wood that offered no resistance as I quietly turned the handle and slipped inside.
The navigation room greeted me with a faint chill, the cool air carrying a hint of the metallic tang left behind by the destroyed formation. The faint flicker of a lantern hanging from the low ceiling illuminated rows of charts, maps, and logs, their surfaces meticulously organized yet steeped in secrecy.
I exhaled slowly, regaining my balance and focus. Whatever secrets the Velvet Tide were hiding, this room held the key. And judging by the precautions taken to secure it, those secrets were worth uncovering.
The navigation room carried a faint, musty smell of old parchment mixed with the salty tang of seawater and the acrid bite of ink. Charts and maps cluttered nearly every surface—pinned haphazardly to the walls, strewn across the central table, and stacked precariously in uneven piles. The dim lantern light cast restless shadows that made the cramped space feel even smaller, almost suffocating in its chaos.
((This place is an absolute mess. For a room supposedly holding some of the Velvet Tide's most guarded secrets, you'd think they could've invested in a filing system. But no—chaos it is. Haaa~ absolutely perfect...))
I thought, suppressing a flicker of irritation. My blank expression and white mask hid my annoyance as I stepped further inside. My eyes adjusted quickly to the dim light, scanning the disarray for anything that stood out. The scattered charts and maps were more than they seemed—meticulously marked with routes, thin red lines stretching across sea charts in deliberate patterns. Some faded into obscurity while others looped back to familiar ports.
((This isn't just smuggling. The Velvet Tide's operation was calculated, a network of supply chains built with precision and efficiency))
At the central table, a larger map dominated the space, its surface marked with intricate details. Several routes were highlighted in red, leading to remote islands, abandoned forts, and nondescript ports dotting the coastline. My gaze locked onto one particular mark: a small, unnamed cove along the Marginot Line. Not too far from Garellia—three days' ride at most.
Beside it, scrawled hastily in a hand that practically screamed urgency, was the name 'Red Ember Anchorage'.
((Interesting. A base of operations? Or a drop-off point? Either way, it's worth checking out...))
I noted it mentally before turning my attention to a side table buried under a precarious stack of manifests. As I flipped through them, my focus sharpened. Most entries were mundane—grain, textiles, even ores—but scattered among them were pages marked with vague initials or alphanumeric codes.
One particular entry pulled me short:
""C-17: NVL-6 Assets""
I stilled, my chest tightening slightly.
((NVL-6. That's Executerii classification...These aren't just random smuggled goods that were absentmindedly taken just as Orland was leaving the organization. Orland must've SPECICALLY targeted these Executerii assets even before he left, and now he's deliberately moving them towards some kind of staging ground))
I traced my fingers over the codes, committing them to memory, along with their listed destinations. The manifests hinted at something bigger—a deliberate plan. A small note caught my attention at the bottom of one page, referencing a 'delivery schedule' stored elsewhere. My eyes flicked to a locked cabinet in the corner of the room.
With practiced ease, I crouched and worked the lock. The faint *click!* barely disturbed the silence as the cabinet door creaked open. Inside were neatly bound logbooks and a single leather ledger, its spine embossed with the initials 'V.T'.
Flipping it open, I scanned its pages quickly but thoroughly. The ledger held everything—payment records, smuggling routes, and, most importantly, a list of prominent contacts. Each name was a piece of a puzzle, but one name in particular sent a chill of vindication through me:
""Hanuman Orland""
Beside his name, scribbled in shorthand, was a location: 'Red Ember Anchorage, ETA: 5 days'.
((Got you...))
I slid the logbook into my cloak, the weight of its implications settling heavily in my mind. This was more than just smuggling. The Velvet Tide wasn't just moving rogue Executerii assets; they were orchestrating something far-reaching, something dangerous. And Orland was at the center of it.
((Are they building an empire of some kind? A rival organization to the Executerii? Or something else entirely?))
The theories churned in my mind, but the fragmented information here offered no clear answers and anything I could come up with to explain this were all equally plausible. One thing was certain, though: this was bigger than I'd anticipated.
As I turned to leave, a small note pinned beneath a loose sheaf of paper caught my eye. It was a delivery directive addressed to the captain's private office—an order to handle specific cargo logs personally. The directive was brief, almost innocuous, but it hinted at something more.
((Huh. I pegged the captain of this motley crew as just another uninformed pawn in the operation considering how he's not even allowed to reference the Velvet Tide by name—turns out he might actually know something worth digging into. Worth a shot anyhow...))
The flicker of anticipation rose, unbidden, before I smothered it beneath the cold, calculated focus that had kept me alive this long. Emotional indulgence, even as mild as minor expectations, was a luxury I couldn't afford—not here, not now.
Sliding silently out of the room, I paused by the door, my gaze sweeping over the intricate patterns of the barrier formation that had once secured the navigation room. The moment I had erased it with [Oblivion Magic], the spell's entire structure had flowed into my mind—its layers, runes, and interlocking mechanisms laid bare in my thoughts like an open book. It was as if nullifying it had imprinted the essence of its design onto me.
((If they come back and find the lock gone, it's going to raise more questions than I need right now...))
With a quiet sigh, I crouched by the door, extending my right hand this time. The intricate patterns of the six-layer barrier formation began to reform in the air before me, like threads of light being woven back into place. The hexagram at the core appeared first, its edges sharp and gleaming faintly in the dim lantern light. It was surrounded by the square, each rune perfectly aligned to the design etched into my memory. A circle spun into existence, weaving seamlessly into the twelve-pointed star. Finally, the wheel of glyphs reassembled, spinning faintly as they locked into place.
The process required precision—copying not just the physical components but the very magical essence of the barrier. The faint hum of energy returned, resonating with a familiar rhythm that matched the ship's mana-powered machinery.
When the lock was fully reformed, it shimmered faintly, indistinguishable from its original state. I ran a gloved hand over its surface, ensuring the layers aligned perfectly.
((Good as new...or old, in this case. They'll never know it was tampered with))
With the magical lock reassembled, I rose and adjusted the hood of my cloak, the white mask pressing snugly against my face. My movements were fluid and silent as I recalibrated my route. The captain's office wasn't far, but getting there would require even more precision. The ship was alive with creaks and murmurs of activity, a subtle rhythm that I had to navigate without disturbing.
The logbook weighed against my side, a reminder of the stakes. Whatever the Velvet Tide was planning, the captain likely held the missing pieces. If he was personally handling the cargo logs, then he was more than just a cog in Orland's machine—he was a gatekeeper. And I needed that gate open.
With my next steps clear, I moved deeper into the ship, my footsteps soundless against the aged wooden planks. Whatever the Velvet Tide was planning, I would uncover it—piece by piece, if necessary.
The SS Grudwar's groans and creaks masked my approach through its narrow corridors. The captain's office loomed ahead, its sturdy wooden door marked with a polished brass plaque: "Captain E. Marrow." The faint flicker of lantern light glinted off the engraving, a subtle display of authority.
I pressed a gloved hand to the door, feeling the faint vibrations of movement inside. Low murmurs, the scratch of quill against parchment—Captain Marrow was working late. Perfect.
I crouched, tools in hand, and worked the lock. The mechanism offered some resistance, but not enough to delay me. With a soft click, the door yielded, and I slipped inside, closing it soundlessly behind me.
Captain Marrow sat hunched at his desk, engrossed in a stack of ledgers. The faint scratch of his quill filled the air, blending with the ship's groans. His face was deeply lined, weathered by years of braving harsh seas and harsher decisions. A neatly trimmed beard framed his angular jaw, streaked with silver that matched his thinning hair. His captain's hat rested slightly askew on the desk, as though discarded in haste. Sharp, hawk-like eyes scanned the pages before him, oblivious to the figure that now stood behind him.
The office reflected his pragmatic nature—modest but functional. A broad, varnished desk dominated the space, cluttered with ledgers, navigational tools, and a half-empty inkwell. Charts and maps adorned the walls, their edges curling from the salt-heavy air. A ship's wheel, weathered smooth with age, hung as a decorative centerpiece on the far wall. A faint sliver of moonlight filtered through a porthole, cutting across the room and illuminating the brass fittings of a locked cabinet.
Despite the orderliness, faint signs of strain were evident—a mug of cold coffee abandoned on a side table, papers slightly askew as if rifled through in haste. Stress had frayed his otherwise controlled demeanor.
I moved silently, my boots brushing the floor without so much as a creak. By the time Marrow sensed my presence, it was too late. My gloved hand clamped over his mouth, muffling his sharp inhale. His chair scraped faintly against the floor as I pulled him back, pressing him firmly against the chair, my gravity knife glinting faintly in the lantern light as I brought it to his neck.
""Hello""
My voice was low and cold, barely above a whisper. Marrow stiffened, his breath hitching as panic flickered in his sharp eyes.
""Shhh~...""
I tightened my grip, tilting his head slightly with the blade.
""Scream, and you'll never scream again""
His body went rigid, instinctive survival suppressing any resistance. Slowly, I eased my hand from his mouth, though the blade stayed firmly pressed against his throat.
""If you're looking for an escape...""
I murmured, watching his darting eyes.
""...there isn't one""
Marrow remained silent, his chest heaving as his gaze settled on me. The mask, the blade, the cold stillness of my voice—it all told him the futility of trying anything rash.
""Let me tell you what's about to happen...""
I continued, my tone measured.
""You're going to tell me everything you know about the Velvet Tide and their operations. No lies, no half-truths. Because if you waste my time...""
The blade pressed a fraction closer.
""...you won't get any more of your own, and believe me...I'll KNOWwhen you're bullsh*tting me""
"I—I don't know what you're talking about!"
Marrow stammered, his voice rough and gravelly from years at sea.
I tilted my head slightly, my tone cooling further.
"'What did I JUSTsay about trying to bullsh*t me? The cargo manifest. The 'empty' hold that you were desperately trying to hide. The locked navigation room. Red Ember Anchorage. I suggest you rethink that answer""
His breath hitched, a bead of sweat tracing down his temple.
"You don't know what you're meddling with!"
He muttered, though his voice wavered.
""I know enough to be standing here""
My response was flat, detached.
""Now, last chance—what do you know?""
The defiance in his eyes faltered, replaced by grim resignation. He exhaled shakily.
"Alright, alright. But I don't know much—I'm just the captain"
""Start talking""
"The Velvet Tide…they're working with someone. An anonymous client in the Iron Ports of Fanoshia"
He said hurriedly.
"Orland's been in contact with them. They're supposed to meet at Red Ember Anchorage in a few days"
""For what?""
"A deal..."
Marrow admitted, his voice dropping to a whisper.
"If it goes well, the client's promised protection and resources. Enough to make the Velvet Tide a global operation"
""And what are they trading?""
My blade didn't move, my tone sharp.
Marrow hesitated, his eyes flicking briefly to a drawer in his desk.
"You already know"
He muttered.
"The assets from the 'empty' cargo hold. Bioengineered organs, tech, and wetware. Stuff that can't be found anywhere else. They want to reverse-engineer it. I don't know where Orland got his hands on that kinda merchandise but it's undeniably valuable. That drawer over there has all the letters and notes that he's written to me"
I followed his gaze and swiftly yanked the drawer open. Inside were papers—scraps of correspondence and notes scribbled in shorthand. I pocketed the promising ones and turned back to him.
""Anything else?""
I asked, my tone sharp and cold.
"That's all I know, I swear!"
His voice trembled with desperation.
"I don't ask questions—I just follow orders!"
I studied him for a moment, the cold blade still at his throat. He wasn't lying; his fear was raw, his words too scattered to be rehearsed. He knew no more than he'd shared.
""Good...""
Before he could react, I pressed my gloved hand to his forehead. A faint silvery-blue glow emanated from my palm as the memory-altering spell took hold. His body went limp, his eyes fluttering shut as his consciousness slipped away.
By the time he woke, he'd believe he'd fallen asleep at his desk, exhaustion overtaking him during a late-night review.
I eased him back into his chair, adjusting his posture to appear natural. Just as I began to step away, a rumbling *rrrrrrrr!* reached my ears, sharp and unnatural in the oppressive silence of the room.
((What now?!))
I froze, my eyes narrowing as I scanned the captain's chest. A faint metallic glow caught the edge of the lantern light, visible beneath the open collar of his uniform—a small, intricate rune etched into what appeared to be a technomantic implant. My mind worked quickly, recognizing it as a failsafe trigger.
((A technomantic alert? You've got to be kidding me! Why didn't I notice it before? I should've picked it up instantly if Marrow installed such a thing into himself...unless...he DIDN'T put it on himself. Sh*t! Sh*t! Sh*t! I should've been more careful!))
The realization hit like a punch to the gut. It was an advanced security measure, likely designed to activate upon the captain's incapacitation or any abrupt interruption of his vital signs. The trigger was clever—silent, unobtrusive, and apparently unknown even to Marrow himself. But now, it was active, and I had seconds before the ship's horns would blare, alerting the entire crew. It had no Mana trace until AFTERit was activated hence why I didn't sense it
""Haa~ my luck strikes again...""
I muttered under my breath, the exasperation seeping through my usually stoic tone. My muscles tensed as I recalibrated my options.
A shrill, echoing *BWWWAAAAH!* reverberated through the ship, loud enough to rattle the brass fittings on the captain's desk. The sound was deafening, the unmistakable call of the ship's warning horns. Footsteps thundered overhead and down the corridors as the crew scrambled into action.
((No time...))
I pivoted sharply, dashing out of the captain's quarters and slipping into the shadows, weaving through the narrow corridors with precision. Every step was deliberate, my movements fluid and silent despite the urgency of the situation. The ship's creaks and groans were drowned out by the cacophony of boots pounding against the planks and muffled shouts of confusion and alarm.
As I approached the outer deck, I retrieved a small, black crystal from within my cloak—a magic Marker attuned specifically to the Executerii. The artifact pulsed faintly in my hand, its glow subtle but potent, ready to transmit its signal the moment it was activated.
((At least this trip won't be a complete waste!))
I thought grimly as I planted the Marker in a concealed crevice near the ship's central mast. Its faint pulse quickened as the activation runes flared, invisible to the naked eye but unmistakable to the Executerii's trackers.
((They'll know exactly where to find this ship—and its cargo))
The deck was a flurry of activity as sailors poured out of every hatch and doorway, their lanterns swinging wildly as they searched for the source of the disturbance. I stuck to the shadows, my movements blending seamlessly with the chaos around me. My cloak billowed briefly in the cold sea air as I approached the edge of the ship.
Lantern light flickered dangerously close, illuminating the area where I crouched. I pressed myself low against the railing, my breathing steady as I waited for the beam to pass. The sailor muttered something inaudible before moving on, his attention elsewhere.
((Now or never!))
I vaulted silently over the side, the icy wind biting at my face as I fell.
*SPLASH!*
The black waters of the sea rushed up to meet me, and I slipped beneath the surface with a splash. The frigid cold clawed at my skin, but I ignored it, swimming with smooth, controlled strokes away from the ship.
The horns blared again, their echoes chasing me across the waves as I surfaced briefly to catch my breath. The Grudwar's lanterns glimmered in the distance, a faint orange glow against the endless darkness of the sea. I exhaled sharply, pushing myself further into the obscurity of the night.
((Haa~ not my proudest moment I'll admit...but at least I got what I came for))
I adjusted the cloak around me, its material heavy with seawater but still serviceable. The Marker would do its job, and the Executerii would come for their stolen assets. For now, I had the stolen documents, safely protected in my [Item Box], and with them, the next step in the hunt for Hanuman Orland was clear, make my way to this Red Ember Anchorage where this 'deal' between Orland and his 'client' is taking place, murder everyone there and retrieve or destroy the stolen Executerii assets and if possible ascertain the identity of this mysterious 'client'.
40 minutes later...
The waves lapped against the rocky shore as I hauled myself out of the freezing water, my soaked cloak clinging to me like a second skin. Each movement was deliberate and slow, my body protesting against the biting cold. My boots found purchase on the jagged stones, and I pushed myself upright, water streaming from my clothes in rivulets.
""Haa~ what a mess...""
I muttered, brushing wet strands of hair from my mask. The distant glow of the SS Grudwar's lanterns disappeared into the fog, it was still docked at my morning workplace, leaving only the sound of the sea and my labored breaths.
I quickly discarded the mask burning it with fire magic and dropping it buried somewhere in the sand, it was a customary thing to do since I could always get more masks like those.
The small port town of Garellia felt eerily calm compared to what I just went through earlier, its dim lights twinkling faintly against the inky black horizon. My steps squelched against the muddy ground as I made my way through it, the cold air biting at my skin. I adjusted my cloak to keep the worst of the chill at bay, the rhythmic sway of my movements a silent mantra to keep going.
The streets were quiet, save for the occasional bark of a dog or the muffled voices of late-night revelers. Tucked away near the edge of the town was a small, open bar—a shack-like structure with a corrugated metal roof, faint yellow light spilling out from within. It wasn't much more than a food cart permanently affixed to a building, its walls plastered with peeling posters and faded signs advertising cheap drinks.
The bartender, a wiry man with a balding head and a perpetual five o'clock shadow, stood behind the counter. He was wiping down a glass, his expression one of mild disinterest as he glanced up at me.
"You look like you've been through hell."
I ignored the comment, my boots scuffing against the wooden floor as I approached the counter. My hood was still in place, and I kept my head low to avoid drawing unnecessary attention.
""One beer, if you don't mind""
I said, sliding a few coins across the counter.
The bartender hesitated, squinting at me suspiciously.
"How old are you, kid?"
""I didn't pay you to ask questions. I paid for a beer""
The words came out flat, cold, and final, leaving no room for argument.
The bartender raised an eyebrow but said nothing, his hands moving to grab a bottle from the shelf. A moment later, he slid the drink across the counter, the glass clinking faintly against the wood. I took it without a word, moving to the farthest corner of the open bar where the light barely reached.
The first sip was bitter and cold, the taste biting and grounding. I let the alcohol burn its way down my throat, a quiet warmth spreading through me as I leaned against the counter. The distant hum of the town mixed with the quiet murmur of the sea, the world settling into a kind of muted calm.
I couldn't really get drunk considering my physiology nor do I have a consistent relationship with alcohol but right now a bitter drink was exactly what I needed. And also seeing Emrys and the others drink earlier got me curious.
((Not the quiet I wanted...but it'll do))
I took another sip, my gaze fixed on the horizon as I let the events of the night play out in my mind. The stolen documents, the captain's cryptic admissions, the marker left on the ship—it all churned in my thoughts like the waves against the shore.
The bartender eyed me occasionally, his curiosity evident but unspoken. I preferred it that way. Words weren't necessary. All I needed now was the beer, the quiet, and a moment to collect myself.
((Tomorrow's going to be worse. It always is...))
I thought, draining the last of the drink before setting the empty glass back on the counter. The faint clink echoed briefly in the stillness, a punctuation mark to the end of a long, grueling night.