"What the hell?" A thug spoke up, his voice trembling, betraying his unease. He turned, glancing at his crew as if expecting an answer.
"No ship should be docking at this hour."
No one answered. But neither did anyone have the mind to continue the unfinished brawl. Their feet moved in unison, drawn by an invisible force pulling them out of the filthy alley. Raizen stepped forward first, his worn-out shoes squelching in the dirty puddles as he trudged past rotting sacks and shattered glass. The gang followed in silence, the scrape of their shoes against the cobblestone producing a chaotic rustling, like rats scattering.
As they emerged from the alley, the sunset flooded in, drenching the sky and distant sea in ominous hues like blood seeping into the ocean. The salty air of the seaside now carried hints of charred wood or perhaps something worse.
Raizen stepped onto the mossy blue cobbled street, where a crowd was surging toward the port. Chaos reigned – barefoot fishermen with sun-darkened skin, fishmongers still clutching cleavers –everyone rushing in the same direction. A disheveled sailor stumbled past, a coil of rope slung over his shoulder, muttering something about a "cursed ship." A child wailed, dragged along by his mother, while seabirds shrieked overhead, circling as if sensing impending doom.
Raizen frowned, the unease in his chest deepening. He had seen townsfolk in an uproar when rare cargo ships arrived, but that was excitement – cheers, laughter. Now, there was only panic, as if the entire town had been dragged into a nightmare.
The Dark Elf shrugged, strolling lazily with the crowd. The gang still trailed behind him, looking more like a pack of stray dogs than anything else. Suddenly, he halted, whipping around.
"Why the hell are you lot tailing me? Want another fight?" he barked.
The burly thug, his neck smeared with a fading snake tattoo, chuckled before spitting onto the ground.
"Following you? Dream on, elf ears! We're here for that 'cursed ship' business. Might snag some gold outta this. Tagging along with you won't get us anything except expired coffee." The gang burst into rough laughter, some slapping their thighs, but their eyes never strayed from the port, where the shouting continued.
"Yeah. Like a bunch of mutts sniffing out a bone." Raizen muttered, turning away. He knew the rabble behind him was seething now – tattoo-neck growled something under his breath, but in the end, didn't dare make a move.
The road to the port was uneven, the cobbled stones slick from seawater and dried fish blood. The wind grew stronger, carrying the sharp chill of the ocean, making Raizen's tattered coat billow. As they neared the dock, the scene unfolded under the dying sunlight – a massive ship had arrived, its drenched wooden hull still dripping in sluggish streams of brine.
The Dark Elf took a few steps away from the crowd, his gaze fixed on the colossal vessel. It loomed there – a decaying hulk, sagging under the weight of the ocean's grip, looking more like a dying sea creature than a ship. One glance was enough. Something wasn't right.
The ship had once been crafted from black oak premium wood reserved for heavy warships – now waterlogged, cracked, its surface marred by deep claw marks as if torn apart by some monstrous force. Tattered sails swayed silently on a broken mast. The frayed fabric bore scorch marks and was coated in a thick, black sludge, a viscous substance that shimmered under the dying light, as though the vessel had just risen from a deathly abyss at the ocean's floor. The hull was covered in seaweed and mud, clumps of sickly green slime clinging to it like the rotting flesh of a decaying creature.
A gust of sea wind swept through, not the familiar scent of salt, but a rancid stench of decay and dampness, as if it had just drifted past the depths of some high-level dungeon. The Dark Elf grimaced, shoving his hands into his pockets, instinctively resisting the urge to inhale deeper. His gut feeling wasn't wrong: this wasn't merely a ship.
This was a warning.
"Damn it," Raizen muttered. The instincts of a seasoned adventurer screamed at him – this thing carried death, and that death had already rooted itself the moment its prow scraped the dock.
But then, he saw it. At the stern, barely visible beneath the layers of black slime and overgrown seaweed, a carved wooden relief of a shark's head, teeth bared in a grin that teetered between amusement and menace. Chipped, worn, barely recognizable, yet still unmistakable.
He had seen this ship before. Months ago, he had stood at this very dock, watching a boy depart with his voice ringing out with fiery declarations of "conquest" and "glory." A youth with neatly combed auburn hair, a sword strapped to his back, eyes ablaze like he was clutching an entire galaxy in his grasp.
The Dark Elf clenched his jaw, fingers tightening.
"Could this be the ship he set sail on...?"
The dockside was packed, townsfolk swarming like flies to fresh blood, their murmurs blending into a chaotic hum. A scrawny sailor jabbed a finger toward the stone pier, his voice feverish as he recounted,
"I saw it from afar – the damn thing barreled straight for the dock like it was fleeing from hell itself! No signals, no flags, no one standing on deck. It slammed into the stone, cracked the pier wide open, sent splinters flying everywhere!"
He took a breath…
"That explosion...damn it, I thought the whole town was going to collapse!"
An old fisherman nearby nodded, fingers clenching the thick rope in his hands, adding,
"After the impact, the seawater shot up ten meters high, like even the ocean was trying to spit the damn thing back out. But it's still there, tilting, just barely."
Raizen glanced around, some stared in morbid curiosity, some with caution. But most held back, wary of whatever lay before them.
Moments later, young sailors and adventurers hesitantly moved in to "assist" the ship, though none seemed eager to approach the cursed vessel. Suddenly, the wind surged, sharp and furious, as if the sea itself were trying to wrench the ship free, to drag it back into the depths. Gales howled, making the tattered sails whip violently against the fractured mast, their hollow flapping echoing like the wails of demons in the dark.
A group of sailors – faces pale, whether from fear or exhaustion, hurriedly tossed ropes onto the deck, pulling with strained muscles, veins bulging, fighting to anchor the vessel before the wind could drag it away or send it crashing further into the fractured stone pier. Burly fishermen armed with hooks and coarse ropes clambered up the hull, boots slipping against the black slime coating its surface. They cursed under their breath, wrestling the ruined sails down to steady the ship, but their eyes darted warily watchful, as if expecting something on deck to lunge at them at any moment.
Several voices rang out, calling to anyone aboard:
"Is anyone alive? Say something!"
But silence answered, an eerie hush more unsettling than the waves crashing against the hull.
A young sailor, sweat-soaked hair sticking to his forehead, stepped further onto the deck, his boots slipping against the damp wooden planks. Something made him freeze mid-step. His face drained of color, his breath hitched as he muttered:
"Something's... not right... The whole deck reeks of rotting corpses!"
He clamped a hand over his nose, but then his eyes widened, his trembling finger pointing toward the ship's hold.
"Damn it! There's someone… someone alive!"
Under the crimson sunset, a few shadowy figures emerged on the deck, but they were nothing like ordinary survivors.
Dozens of sailors and adventurers lay sprawled across the planks, bodies twisted, eyes wide open yet empty, lips trembling as they mumbled incoherent fragments – whispering as if conversing with the darkness itself.
One of them breathed out a hoarse whisper:
"It's… below… It sees us…"
And then his head slumped forward, unconscious.
A chilling silence stretched across the ship, swallowing the muttered warning like a swallowed prayer. The wind slithered through, rustling the tattered sails, making them flap with a hollow, broken rhythm – like the distant cries of some lurking entity.
A sailor reached out, pressing his palm against the shoulder of the collapsed adventurer, only to jerk his hand back instantly, as if touching frozen stone.
The fallen man's limp finger still pointed toward a cluster of wooden crates stacked in the far corner of the deck – the only part of the ship that remained intact amidst the decay.
Another crewman followed his gaze, swallowed hard. He didn't ask questions, didn't hesitate. He simply nodded before turning, calling for more hands.
No one said much. Only the heavy footsteps echoed against the rotting wood, accompanied by the dragging clank of iron chains as each chest was carefully secured, slowly lowered onto the dock. Below, the crowd stirred again. Eyes filled with both caution and greed edged closer – like starving crows watching a pot of stew being uncovered. Someone nudged the person beside them, whispering with barely contained excitement:
"Must be treasure. Look at how they're handling it. Probably hauling the Devil's gold."
Raizen remained still. His eyes stayed fixed on the chests – not out of curiosity, but scrutiny. He studied the thick ropes wound tightly around them, the way the sailors fastened the locks… and the way some recoiled instantly after touching the wood, as if burned.
Something inside… was still alive.
Or at least, not quite dead.
A metallic clatter rang out as one of the chests was pried open, its wooden lid creaking under the blood-red sunset. The crowd fell silent in an instant. Light reflected off glimmering gold coins, jewels embedded in elaborate ornaments, and fist-sized gemstones, so brilliant they almost hurt to look at.
A few onlookers gaped. Others whispered, voices trembling with greed.
"A real treasure hoard!" a thug near Raizen shouted, shoving his companion excitedly, eyes gleaming, likely already envisioning a future drowning in wealth.
The crowd swelled with restless murmurs. A few fishermen pressed closer, fingers tightening around their hooks, ready to dive in and claim their share.
Raizen stood apart, arms crossed, his gaze locked onto the ship. On the deck, the surviving sailors and adventurers continued hauling the wooden crates down, their shoulders hunched under the weight, sweat streaking across their hollowed faces.
As the last few chests scraped against the dock, the air shifted. The urgency, the excitement moments ago vanished in an instant, replaced by a suffocating stillness – as if something had just been uncovered, something that made the hairs on the back of Raizen's neck stand on end.
A young sailor, his face pallid, approached the final load, his hands trembling with exhaustion as he gripped the edge of the heavy tarp draped over it. The crowd held its breath, fixated on his every movement. He inhaled deeply, fingers tightening around the cloth before slowly pulling it down, the damp fabric rustling as it slid across the soaked wooden planks.
And then the tarp fell.
The entire harbor froze.
"Saint Ray have mercy… What the hell is happening?" the sailor stammered.
Beneath the cloth lay dozens of twisted, contorted corpses, stacked atop one another in grotesque heaps. Some bodies were torn apart at the abdomen, their organs spilling out, slick with thick, black mucus that reeked of rot. Others were little more than decayed skeletons, the flesh long since eaten away, skulls fractured, joints limp, as if they had been submerged in something corrosive.
Dark, coagulated streaks, the remnants of blood clung to the deck, hardened into jagged, uneven stains that glistened under the crimson sunset.
Some of the corpses still clutched their weapons: shattered swords, rusted muskets, splintered shields, but their eyes remained wide open, dull and lifeless. Their faces were twisted in agony, mouths frozen in silent screams, teeth clenched so tightly the enamel had cracked, as if they had been crying out in terror moments before death.
The air was thick with the stench of decay – a foul mix of blood, seawater, and rotting wood that seeped into every breath, forcing nearby fishermen to cover their noses, their faces drained of color.
The harbor drowned in silence. No one spoke. No one dared breathe too loudly. Only the quiet lap of the waves against the hull and the restless buzzing of flies disturbed the suffocating stillness.
A sailor near the pile of corpses suddenly staggered back, tripping over a coiled rope. He fell, cracking his skull against the stone dock, his final breath slipping out in fractured prayers before his body went still.
The crowd, moments ago buzzing with excitement over the treasure, now stood frozen with eyes flickering between horror and confusion.
Raizen clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms, yet his face remained unreadable. He was no longer an adventurer, but these piles of corpses, the suffocating grip of death – was something he had seen too many times before, deep within dungeons offshore or buried beneath the earth.
This was the ship from the Void Crypt expedition, the one carrying treasure beyond imagination… and something far worse.
But then, where was the boy? Raizen took a quiet step back, the soles of his worn-out boots brushing against the cold stone, his gaze never leaving the mound of the dead.
"Pointy ears," a thug nearby murmured, his voice unsteady, face pale as if he'd just glimpsed a ghost. His fingers clutched Raizen's sleeve, gripping so tightly the fabric crumpled beneath his hold.
"How the hell… did they die like that?"
Another man – thick-bearded, a tattoo of a courtesan smeared across his neck, swallowed hard, trying to feign toughness, yet his fingers instinctively brushed the hilt of the dagger at his waist. His eyes darted around, uneasy.
Raizen didn't answer. But something about this still gnawed at him.
His gaze flickered toward the survivors aboard the ship. None of them showed excitement for the treasure they had brought back or even the barest trace of a will to live. Instead, they resembled walking corpses, puppets with their strings severed – gaunt, hollow-eyed, drained beyond recognition.
One sailor stood motionless, his hand digging into his own shoulder, murmuring words too faint to make out.
In his life, Raizen had seen survivors emerging from dungeon depths – some screaming in triumph, others breaking down in grief over fallen comrades, collapsing from sheer exhaustion. But these men…
They felt nothing for the treasure. Did not mourn the dead. Did not fight to survive. They simply existed. Like puppets abandoned, waiting for an inevitable end they already knew was coming.
Then abruptly. A faint, ragged sound rose from the deck. A death-rattle of a voice.
The crowd flinched, eyes snapping toward the lone adventurer standing near the railing – a towering figure, his tattered coat hanging off his shoulders, a broken sword dangling loosely at his side.
Moments ago, he had stood motionless, his gaze empty. But now, his hand slowly rose to his throat, fingers digging in, nails piercing flesh, black blood seeping from the wounds. A low, strained whimper escaped his lips. Then it grew louder. Louder. Until it erupted into a scream that shattered the silence.
"Arghh!"
The entire harbor froze.
The adventurer staggered, his steps faltering as his boots slipped on the soaked wooden deck. He collapsed, knees slamming against the boards. His hands clawed at his throat, nails ripping through skin, red and black blood spilling, dripping onto the deck, drop by drop. His body convulsed, shoulders trembling violently. His mouth gaped open, spewing forth crimson liquid until it darkened, thickening like tar, coating his chin, seeping onto the deck, mingling with the seawater pooled beneath him.
The crowd recoiled in horror.
Nearby, a sailor dropped his coil of rope, the fibers unraveling as they splashed into the filthy water below. A fishmonger gasped, her trembling hands flying to her mouth, the cleaver slipping from her grip, clattering against the cobbled stone.
Even the survivors aboard – gaunt, lifeless – turned to watch, their hollow expressions betraying no surprise, as if they had already foreseen what was to come.
And then, without warning – His convulsions ceased.
His body stiffened, fingers still latched onto his throat, nails caked with blood. A slow, thick trickle of black liquid seeped from the corners of his eyes, trailing down his cheekbones. His pupils, now stark white, bulged unnaturally glaring wide, as if staring into something beyond mortal comprehension.
Then, without resistance, he crumpled. His head struck the railing. A sickening crack. His lifeless body tumbled overboard, sinking into the abyss below lost to the sea.
Raizen clenched his jaw. He knew far too well. This was no treasure. This was a curse, wrapped in wooden chests reeking of greed. A part of him wanted to turn away, not out of fear, but out of sheer exhaustion.
Thirty years had passed. He had abandoned everything: his reputation, his friends, his enemies, and the naive dreams of heroism from his youth. Enough. He was no longer the Raizen who had driven his blade through the throat of a four-headed beast deep within the Nighwick Dungeon, nor the Dark Elf who had single-handedly carried a betrayed adventurer party through the poisonous swamps. He was just a man, hiding from the world, living above a creaking attic, drinking stale coffee, and ignoring the chaos beyond his doorstep.
Then why…
Why was he still standing here?
Why hadn't his legs obeyed, despite his mind screaming, "Leave. This isn't your concern anymore."
Because his eyes were still searching. Scanning the panicked crowd for a figure that should have been there. A human boy, now a man in his thirties with autumn-red hair, armor polished to the point of a mirror sheen. The boy he had once taught to tie his boots, to hold a sword without dropping it, to heed every warning before watching him step aboard that damn ship – chasing the dream of becoming a hero, setting off to conquer the ocean's crypt.
The crowd had their own priorities, their own horrors to gawk at. But Raizen… He simply kept looking. Searching, restless. Like a man displaced in time, untethered from his own purpose.
But there was no one. No flash of red hair among the sea of faces. No voice whispering "Uncle Raizen" like before.
The dock lay cold and still, a decayed ship resting in its berth, and the survivors looking far worse than the dead. Raizen pressed his lips into a tight line.
"Damn it."
The curse slipped from his throat, dry as gravel. His hand clenched in his coat pocket, knuckles cracking from restraint. He had spent thirty years telling himself: no involvement, no entanglements, no one dragging him out of the solitude he had built around himself.
And yet...
The old instinct stirred. The part of him that refused to die. The part that screamed for the boy he had once considered his own. All he wanted… was confirmation. That the kid was alive. That decades of guidance, patience, and relentless lessons hadn't ended with a corpse rotting in a crate.
But as time passed, no one emerged. No familiar face stepped off the ship. No voice rose above the sea of strangers to call his name. Raizen exhaled, deep and heavy, like breathing out thirty years at once. Perhaps he had already known how this would end.
"Let's go. Best not linger."
Raizen turned, resting a hand on the shoulder of a thug beside him. The man flinched at the unexpected touch.
Then... From beyond the entrance to the port, hurried footsteps echoed pressed, frantic. A small figure burst from the street above, running as if her very life depended on it.
Meredith.
She nearly stumbled headlong into the dock, windswept strands of fiery orange hair flying behind her. Her breath hitched, her face pale from the sprint. Her dress was smeared with dust and damp patches – likely from bolting out of the inn without caring about anything else except getting here.
Raizen wasn't surprised to see Meredith appear. The name she was about to call had likely been hovering on her lips from the moment her weary gaze landed on the ruined ship. And just as he expected, Meredith charged straight into the cluster of adventurers, her frantic eyes latching onto one exhausted face after another before she seized the arm of one of them.
"Where is Arcadith?!"
The question sliced through the stagnant air like a blade against still water. The woman Meredith clung to stiffened, her lips parting, murmuring something inaudible, yet no coherent words came forth.
Silence lingered, heavy and suffocating. None of those who had returned offered her an answer.
Meredith's eyes darted across each face, confusion deepening in the crimson of her gaze.
At the mention of Arcadith's name, some turned away. One man tightened the bloodied bandages around his arm, as if it had suddenly become the most important thing in the world. Another dropped his gaze to his sea-stained boots, biting his lip hard enough that it looked ready to draw blood.
Raizen didn't need words. He already knew the truth. And Meredith knew it too.
Her breathing hitched, sharp and uneven. She shook her head, her grip tightening around the sleeve of the frozen man before her.
"No… That's impossible."
Her voice cracked, dry, strained, as if something heavy had lodged itself in her throat.
"You must be mistaken. He's strong! There's no way he could be…"
The adventurer Meredith clung to swallowed hard. He didn't look at her, just gave a slight shake of his head. His lips moved, forming a muted "I'm sorry" – too soft to be heard, yet enough to make all strength drain from the girl's hands.
Meredith let go.
Her eyes widened – empty. Her lips trembled, as if searching for words, yet none came. Then, suddenly, she turned bolting toward the ship.
"Meredith."
Raizen's voice was cold. He didn't raise it, but it wasn't a plea, it was a command.
She didn't stop. She didn't hear him. Or maybe she refused to. She kept running, slipping through the murmuring crowd, heading straight for the wooden crates piled at the docks.
Raizen narrowed his eyes. He had no intention of interfering. But the way the adventurers remained silent unsettled him.
It wasn't the silence of unwillingness to speak. It was the silence of fear of speaking. And that was always the kind of silence that led to the worst things.
Near the ship, Meredith was suddenly blocked by a Black Orc – woman thin, battered, her dark skin riddled with wounds.
"There's nothing left up there."
The woman held her severed right arm in her grasp, regarding Meredith with an unreadable stare before jerking her chin toward the pile of bodies littering the docks.
"Look for him there."
"If you're lucky, maybe his body's still intact."
Meredith froze. No one stopped her. No one pulled her back. No one even pitied her. They just stood there, silent, avoiding her gaze. As if afraid that if they met her eyes for too long, they too would be swallowed by the abyss of her despair.
"No… No way."
Meredith swallowed hard, forcing herself to breathe.
"Arcadith… He can't be in that pile."
Her steps wavered, her legs almost numb beneath her.
The stench of death hit her the moment she got close – a suffocating mix of seawater, dried blood, and something so decayed it clung to the air itself. The nausea surged, bile rising in her throat. Instinctively, her hand flew to cover her mouth, suppressing the urge to retch.
But she didn't stop.
Step by step, she knelt, peeling back the heavy tarps concealing the grotesque remains.
The first face. Not Arcadith. Just a middle-aged man, eyes frozen wide, mouth agape as if still screaming in his final moments.
The second. A woman. Her features twisted beyond recognition, half of her face torn apart by something that was not a human weapon.
The third. Not him. The fourth. Not him. "Not him. Not him. Not him!"
Meredith clenched her fists so tightly that her nails dug into her skin, hard enough to draw blood, yet she barely felt the sting. She kept searching. Kept uncovering. Kept drowning deeper in despair.
But… He wasn't here. Arcadith wasn't here.
Under the sweltering glow of the crimson sunset, amidst the relentless buzzing of flies over decaying bodies, she stopped. Dropped to her knees among the corpses, her vacant eyes staring into nothingness.
She should feel relief, shouldn't she? If he wasn't here, it meant he was alive. If Arcadith wasn't among the dead, it meant hope still existed.
Then why… Why was the only thing she could feel an overwhelming, suffocating terror? Because the absence of a body didn't mean survival. Because there were things worse than death. And she had seen it etched into the haunted gazes of those who had returned.