Mark forced himself to snap out of it. No matter what, he had to figure out how to survive in this world.
Staring at the broken-down pirate ship in front of him, Mark began to calculate his next steps.
"First, I need to check if there's anyone still onboard. Then I'll scavenge supplies—flint, food, weapons, clothes. Judging by how wrecked and half-sunk the ship is, it's probably useless for sailing. I'll have to dismantle the wood and use it to build a shelter on land. Gotta pick a solid location."
The reason he didn't want to stay on the ship was simple: it was unstable. If a storm or tidal wave hit and dragged the whole wreck away, being on it would be suicide.
He circled around the wrecked vessel. The hull stood four or five meters tall, far too high for him to climb directly. Clutching a small knife, Mark found a gaping hole low on the right hull, maybe a meter above the ground—probably caused by the ship running aground. Seawater was still seeping out of it.
"If there's anyone inside… I'll kill them. Pirates can't be trusted."
That's what he told himself—but as Mark attempted to climb in, he trembled uncontrollably. He failed several times.
SPLASH— water sprayed everywhere.
Mark tumbled headfirst into the ship. The entire lower level was flooded, nearly a meter deep. He almost choked, but thankfully he knew how to swim. Not an Olympic athlete, sure, but he could manage twenty meters or so.
Kicking and paddling with his short arms and legs, Mark made his way through the water. Luckily it was daytime; sunlight streamed through cracks in the hull, allowing him to see. If it had been nighttime, he'd be knocking his head on everything.
After swimming about ten meters, Mark clambered up a flight of stairs, dripping wet.
"This must be the first basement level. The place I fell in from… that must've been B2."
He scanned the area—not a deck, but clearly a storage hold. Scattered everywhere were black cannonballs, rough-cut lumber, iron nails about an inch long, and all kinds of materials. He even spotted a few flintlock pistols—tech that hadn't existed on Earth until the 16th century.
But all of it had been soaked by seawater. The cannonballs and pistols were probably useless now.
"So this is the storeroom."
Mark shook his head and crept forward cautiously. The waterlogged planks were slippery, and there were no stairs up from here.
After some time, he found a door. On the other side was what looked like a barracks—hammocks and beds scattered everywhere, along with blankets, toothbrushes, towels, shattered mirrors, broken crates, and damaged weapons. The place was a chaotic mess.
And then there was the blood.
On the blankets, towels, and walls—it was everywhere. But there wasn't a single body. Not even a corpse. Mark's scalp prickled. His body, which had finally stopped shaking, started trembling again.
Gulp.
Mark swallowed hard and picked up a dagger. Given his small frame and limited strength, it was the perfect weapon—compact and easy to handle.
Finally, he spotted a staircase. Relief flooded through him.
This dark, claustrophobic lower deck was driving him insane.
"God, that was terrifying. I'm just a shut-in nerd, man. Do I really deserve this?"
Thud thud thud— he scrambled up the stairs as fast as his short legs could carry him.
"Phew… I thought I was gonna die. Sunlight! Yes!"
Reaching the deck and seeing the blazing sun overhead, Mark sighed with relief. The oppressive darkness below had nearly broken him. If not for the shafts of light from above, he really would've felt like a prisoner. Light. Light was salvation.
From his vantage point on the deck, Mark surveyed his surroundings. The mess continued here—scratched-up surfaces, bullet holes, shattered wood everywhere. The aftermath of a fierce battle, judging by the volume of dried blood—far more than below.
What stood out most was the main mast—over a meter thick and clad in iron. Dozens of deep gashes covered it, from slashes and bullet impacts. The worst of them looked like it had been struck by an axe, the chunk taken out at least a third of the way through.
On a ship like this, especially in naval combat, the main mast is vital. Lose that, and you're dead in the water. That it took this much damage… this fight must've been brutal.
"What the hell happened here? Judging by the damage, it was an all-out war… but where are the bodies? Even the mast got wrecked this badly!" Mark frowned, deeply puzzled.
"I need to find the captain's quarters. Maybe there's a journal inside that explains what went down."
He pushed his questions aside and started searching for the captain's room. Suddenly, at the entrance to one of the rooms, something caught his eye.
"Is that… a severed hand? Ugh, gross!"
A bloated, pale hand floated in a puddle, its skin sickly from waterlogging, a gold ring still on one finger. The sight made Mark gag.
"Damn… movies really don't do this justice. This is straight-up nauseating."
"No. I have to get used to this. No matter what world I'm in, most pirates are violent scum. And this island… whatever's happening here, it's dangerous. Whether or not this is the world of One Piece, I need to adapt. I have to adapt."
He turned his head away and muttered repeatedly, then suddenly spun back to face the hand—staring it down as if to steel himself.
Barely three seconds passed.
"BLEH—"
Mark turned away and vomited.
Having eaten nothing, all that came up was stomach acid.
He dry-heaved for a while. When nothing more would come out, he wiped his mouth, straightened up, and turned his attention away from the gruesome hand.
He looked into the room. The door had been shattered inward by some heavy force, fragments strewn all over the floor.
Inside was a relatively tidy space—oddly untouched compared to the rest of the ship. His gut told him this was it.
This had to be the captain's cabin.
Without hesitation, Mark stepped inside, his stubby legs carrying him across the spacious room—easily 80 square meters. There was a large bed, an armchair, a bookshelf, a desk, and a mirror. The bookshelf had taken the worst of the damage, split into three pieces by some bladed weapon. Torn pages littered the floor.
Ignoring the paper mess, Mark made straight for the desk. Scattered across it were a lamp, a few books, a map, a quill, and—most important—a black leather-bound notebook.
"There it is. This has to be it…" he said, standing on his toes to grab the book.
Just as he was about to open it, a terrible thought struck him.
"Wait a sec. Can I even read the language of this world?"
"…Whatever. Doesn't matter. I'll give it a shot anyway."
He shook his head and opened the journal.
A moment later, his eyes went wide.
"No way… this is Japanese?"
He was stunned. The language confirmed what he'd started to suspect.
Luckily for him, Mark could read Japanese.
Back in high school, he and his buddies used to watch Japanese adult films together—ones without subtitles. Most of the ones with subtitles were translated horribly, which drove him crazy. That frustration sparked a resolve:
"I swear I'll learn Japanese, no matter what!"
In the end, despite years of Mandarin classes, Mark's Mandarin vocabulary barely cracked twenty words. But Japanese? In less than a year and a half, he'd mastered it. His friends practically worshipped him for it.
So now, he stared at the captain's journal—ready to uncover the truth.
-------
Access 40+ chapters in advance on my Patreon: patreon .com / JuanFiction