Chapter 0: The Island
A ship floated silently near a haunted island—its black rocks jagged like fangs, and in the center stood a massive skull, half-buried in the earth, as if time itself had tried and failed to forget it.
Mikael stood at the ship's rail, staring at the monstrous shape through the mist. His heart pounded, but he didn't look away.
"That's it," he muttered. "The place from the stories."
Beside him, a little red-haired girl clung to the rail. Her wide eyes never left the island.
"Is it true?" she asked. "That it's cursed?"
Mikael didn't answer. Not because he didn't know. But because deep down, he feared it was.
Below deck, the crew stirred with electric anticipation. They had reached the forbidden island—the one spoken of in songs and graveyard whispers. And for most of them, that was all that mattered.
But not for Azan.
In a dim wooden cabin below deck, Captain Azan stood alone. His white hair and wrinkled face. He was in confusion. He stared down at his palm.
A black circle, smooth as ink and utterly blank, had appeared in the center of his hand.
It pulsed softly. Cold, silent. Alive.
Azan stared at it, jaw clenched. His voice was low, meant for no one.
"I didn't come all this way to run. But if stepping aside means they live… so be it."
There was a knock.
Mikael entered quietly. He paused when he saw Azan's hand, then looked up at the captain's face. He didn't ask. He didn't have to.
"You're not telling them everything," Mikael said.
Azan turned slightly. "No one needs to know what this is."
Mikael's voice tightened. "They deserve more than silence."
Azan looked at him, the lines in his face deeper than ever. "Do you want to admit?" Azan said.
Mikael couldn't answer.
Azan reached into a drawer and pulled out a small object.
A worn silver ring.
He held it out to Mikael.
"Do you remember this?"
Mikael blinked. "That's… mine."
Azan nodded. "Found you with it. You were just a boy. I kept it… thought you should have it back. When you were ready."
He placed it in Mikael's hand.
"You're ready now."
A voice shouted from above: "Captain Azan! We're ready!"
Azan said nothing.
"Captain Azan!"
Finally, he spoke. "Tell them to gather on deck."
The sun was low when the crew assembled. Shadows stretched across the ship. The wind whispered something strange through the sails.
The crew thought he would talk about the danger of the island but…
Azan stepped forward, gaze far off.
"I, Azan, son of Ikhram… step down today as your captain."
Gasps. Confusion. Panic.
Mikael's heart sank.
"Captain, what—what are you saying?"
Azan raised his marked hand.
A wave of silence swept over the crew.
Their faces went pale, they started sweating in the rain.
The mark was visible to all now. Black, silent, terrible.
One pirate muttered, barely audible:
"That's it, isn't it?"
"No one survives that," another whispered. "No one ever has."
Clack.
A slam from above — Ibrahim, one of the seven grandmasters, dropped onto the deck like thunder.
He stood tall, coat flaring, black glasses glinting.
"Anyone who moves… dies."
The crew froze.
Azan walked forward and placed a calm hand on Ibrahim's shoulder.
"I believe my men," Azan said.
Ibrahim lowered his head and stepped back.
Azan turned to the sea.
"This ship needs a future. I won't be the one to sink it."
He looked over the crew. His voice dropped:
"One of the seven grandmasters will take my place before the sun sets."
Mikael wanted to speak. To protest. But something in Azan's eyes held him still.
Azan spoke again. "And for the last time my lions, my brothers, we will hunt together."
Without another word, Azan leapt to the island.
Followed by the seven grandmasters and the 18 commanders. The small boats paddled towards the island.
The jungle greeted them like a trap. Trees twisted unnaturally. The air burned hot.
Then they came.
Wolves — but not ordinary ones. Huge, black as tar, with glowing green eyes and no sound to their steps. Shadows in flesh.
They pounced.
Black Mask struck first — a flash of steel, faster than sight. Three wolves fell without sound.
Another came from the left — Elhaan raised his hand. Chains of light burst from his palm, wrapping the beast mid-air and slamming it into the ground.
Ibrahim leapt forward next, twin daggers spinning. He moved like water, cutting two more shadow-wolves down in a blur.
The last wolf lunged at a young commander—
Azan stepped forward.
No blade. No spell. Just one look.
The wolf stopped mid-leap. Its eyes dimmed. It whimpered… then turned and vanished into the trees.
Elhaan stared. "It submitted," he whispered. "To fear."
Azan said nothing. He kept walking.
They reached the skull.
It loomed like a god forgotten by time. The mouth sealed shut. Runes glowed faintly across its surface.
Elhaan approached, touching the barrier.
"This isn't a wall," he said, frowning. "It's a test. Layered spellwork. Illusion wards, death glyphs, and… something else. It's alive."
The air shifted.
A voice rose from the stone. Dry. Mocking.
"Hummmmnnn… what's this? A human with a ticking soul?"
The skull's presence pulsed through the air. It was aware.
"Ahh… you wear the dying hour," it said, directing itself at Azan. "How small your life is. Just one sun's worth of time. A flicker. A spark. Do you think such light can warm the grave?"
The crew froze.
Elhaan backed away. "This magic's beyond me."
Azan stepped forward.
He looked at the sealed stone, at the runes, at the glowing mouth.
He clenched his fist… and drove it straight into the center.
CRACK.
The barrier shattered. Magic ruptured like glass. Light exploded outward and died instantly.
The stone split.
The skull fell silent.
Azan muttered, "You talk too much."
And walked inside.
The crew followed in awe. The chamber beyond glowed faintly, revealing treasure—gold, gems, weapons pulsing with old enchantment.
Azan joked: "You guys will live quite a life."
The crew looked at him with hopeful and sad eyes. They knew what the Black Mark does.
Azan laughed to himself. He said, "Come on, what kind of pirates are we? Loot everything."
They made a fake smile and followed the leader's words.
Then a crewman stepped forward toward a pedestal. A golden crow sat perched. Its eyes—red jewels.
"Looks valuable," he said. "It's mine."
"Wait," Elhaan warned.
Too late.
The man grabbed it.
Click.
HISSSSS.
Black smoke poured from the crow's beak.
Not mist. Not magic. Something worse.
The smoke spread.
Elhaan paled. "You fool…"
Black Mask unsheathed his sword and struck.
It shattered.
The smoke lunged.
Crewmen screamed. Bodies dropped. The smoke ate through flesh, bone, breath.
Until Azan stepped forward.
The smoke hit him—and stopped.
No burn. No scream.
Just stillness.
The mark on his hand pulsed once.
Outside, the final sliver of sun vanished.
Everything froze.
Only Azan moved.
He looked around. Quiet.
"...Goodbye."
Memories flashed—Mikael, the girl, the fire, the sea.
Then the smoke twisted.
It launched at him.
The mark sparked—
BOOM.
Back on the ship, Mikael saw the light.
White. Blinding. Impossible.
He gripped the mast.
The girl asked, "Was that Captain Azan?"
He didn't answer.
Because he didn't know.
Three days passed. The sea was still. The island stood quiet.
Then Mikael went back.
He couldn't explain why—a pull, a feeling, a voice in the storm.
The island was fading. The jungle was thinning. The skull was crumbling.
He found them—three of the grandmasters, collapsed near the skull's eye.
They were alive.
Barely.
Their hair had turned white. Their bodies were thin, frail, flickering like smoke. Time had drained them.
They looked up as he approached.
"You came," one rasped. "Too late for us… but not for what we carry."
They stood slowly, hands trembling, and each stepped forward.
One pressed two fingers to Mikael's temple. Another to his chest. The third, to his spine.
"You'll feel it soon. Instincts. Flashes. You won't understand them yet."
"We are not giving you knowledge. We're giving you burden."
"The captain saved us. You must finish what he started."
Then they faded—turning to ash.
Only one grandmaster survived—limping, half-shadowed.
Mikael carried him back.
As they reached the boat, the island had faded almost half.
Vanishing for another ten years.
Far away, in a world of carriages and gas lamps, a man awoke in the dirt.
No sea. No sky. No magic.
His hand was empty.
A white-haired man opened his eyes.
And the new story began.