As the mysterious man cloaked in fog spoke,
“What business do you have on my ship?”—an alarm bell rang in the minds of many. Among them, the captain and the bald man with the large beard were the first to raise their guard against this unknown figure.
Standing on a high platform, the stranger looked down at the uninvited guests who had boarded his ship like thieves and bandits. Still, as a form of courtesy, he decided to give them a chance to explain themselves.
“Who might you be, sir?” asked the captain of the ship docked below the deck, his voice collected but tense.
“I’m the captain of this ship. That should be obvious to you, shouldn’t it?”
This answer was unexpected. The group below had prepared for traps, or mechanical defenses—but none had considered the possibility that someone was still alive on this ship after all this time.
The captain’s mind raced.
“That can’t be the captain. The original one couldn’t have survived this long.”
“Think… maybe he’s just a lost wanderer who found this ship during a storm. That would explain his presence.”
“Yes, that makes the most sense. And he seems to be alone. If he had a crew, the ship would be active—lit with lanterns or gas lamps.”
“But when we first found the ship, it was completely dead. No activity. No signs of life. A ship this size would need at least six hundred people to keep it operational.”
With these thoughts swirling, the captain became increasingly convinced that the man on the upper deck was trying to deceive them. Maybe he’d found the captain’s clothes and weapons and taken them for himself.
“Yes… likely,” the captain murmured, staying alert for any sudden moves.
Then the voice from above echoed again, “Won’t you say something? It’s been a while since I asked why you’ve come to visit me in the middle of the night.”
The captain replied, “Apologies for disturbing you. We thought this ship was abandoned and came aboard to investigate.”
He remained wary. He was on unfamiliar territory, speaking to a man who claimed to be the ship’s captain, and still unsure whether he was friend or foe.
“Oh? Is that so?” the man said. “May I ask where you're from, and what faction you represent?”
Where I’m from? What faction I belong to?
Those two questions rang in the captain’s mind, reinforcing his theory. Either this man had no clue about the bounty on the head of the original captain of this ship—or he knew everything and was testing him.
“If he were a bounty hunter like me, he’d have recognized me instantly. Everyone in this line of work knows who I am.”
Resolved, the captain decided to be bold.
“I’m one of the ten great bounty hunters of the Storm Isles. Also one of the most renowned treasure hunters of my time. Many so-called myths about lost treasures have been proven or debunked by me.”
He hoped his reputation would clear things up and earn him some respect—or at least caution—from the man above.
But to his disappointment, it had the opposite effect.
On the deck above, the figure who had frozen everyone in fear ignored the treasure hunter part and focused only on "bounty hunter."
“Bounty hunter? That means a dog of the empire,” the man muttered.
Then he said aloud, “I see. Then you can leave now. And by the way—those people sitting on the ground? They're my crew. Don’t disturb their sleep.”
He pointed toward the scattered skeletons lying around the ship.
At this point, those below started to believe the man wasn’t in his right mind. Maybe isolation on the ship had driven him insane. Or maybe... this was a warning. Maybe he wasn’t alone.
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The captain thought,
“We’ve come this far. We’ve waited too long to turn back now. My crew won’t accept leaving. If I back down, I might lose their trust.”
Without much hesitation, he replied, “No. We’re taking this ship. My crew doesn’t care who you are or what you say.”
“Oh? So that’s your final answer?”
“Yes.”
“What a pity,” said the figure, sliding his hand across the railing as he moved toward the stairs leading down to the main deck.
All eyes watched the man cloaked in fog. No one noticed the subtle changes around them—the slight shifts in the skeletons' heads, the soft rumble beneath the deck.
As the figure reached the stairs, a sudden noise came from behind the captain and his crew.
They turned to see the man who had been standing furthest back impaled through the chest. A blade pierced his heart from behind.
He stood frozen, eyes wide, as if he hadn’t yet realized what had happened.
Everyone stared in horror. Slowly, their eyes drifted toward the source of the blade.
A pale, bony hand held it—belonging to a skeleton that had silently risen. It had plunged the blade with enough force to kill instantly.
For a moment, silence. No one could comprehend what they were seeing.
Then, instinctively, they scanned every dark corner for more threats.
Two men raised their weapons and aimed at the figure descending the stairs—but before either could fire, a skeleton dropped from the mast above and crushed one of them.
At the same time, a shadowy hand burst from the floor, grabbing the second man by the throat and yanking him upward.
Both died within moments, in ways no one could explain.
Around them, skeletons began to twitch and move. Skulls turned. Bones clicked.
One by one, the dead stood, blades in hand.
It was a sight no sane person could endure. The crew—hardened men though they were—found themselves trapped in a nightmare.
More hollow-eyed skulls emerged from the shadows. Some climbed from the lower deck, others dropped from the sails above.
The masked figure reached the bottom of the stairs, his face fixed on the intruders.
Many crew members panicked and attacked the skeletons without waiting for orders. The captain was speechless.
It made no difference. The numbers were overwhelming.
Their blades did no damage. Their bullets passed through empty ribcages. These were enemies that couldn’t be killed.
Bodies fell one after another.
The captain—once confident, fearless—was paralyzed with disbelief.
He no longer cared who he was. Not about his title, his crew, or their faith in him.
He turned and ran for the rope ladder leading back to his own ship. The bald man beside him had the same idea.
But before they could reach the edge, the ropes across the ship came to life—whipping into the air like serpents.
In perfect coordination, they wrapped around the two men, binding them tight.
They were lifted into the air, mouths sealed by rope, bodies frozen like statues.
They were the last two left alive on the upper deck.
The masked figure walked toward them, then turned to the railing where they had boarded from.
Calmly, he asked,
“How many more of you are down there?”
But the two bound men could not answer.
Unbothered, the figure said,
“No need to tell me. I’ll find out myself.”
He looked over the edge.
Below, the rest of the crew had heard faint sounds and sensed something was wrong.
Panic spread.
“We have to leave! Something’s happened to the others!”
“Pull up the anchor!”
“We’ll die if we stay here!”
Then a booming voice silenced the chaos.
“Shut up! How dare you even think of abandoning your captain! If you want to run, jump overboard!”
It came from a grizzled middle-aged man—respected, loyal, and fearless.
“I’ll go up there. Anyone who wants to follow, come with me. The rest of you can stay put.”
He began climbing a rope leading to the Black Crown. Several others followed.
Among them was a young boy—one who had dreamed of stepping aboard the Black Crown his entire life.
The boy climbed behind the group. The man in front reached the final ledge near the main deck—when suddenly, a hatch in the wall opened.
A large cannon emerged—its barrel larger than the man’s head.
At point-blank range, it fired.
The man’s head exploded like a melon. His body collapsed, falling directly in front of the boy.
Stunned, the boy stood motionless. Then he turned and screamed:
“RUN! If you want to live—RUN!”
Chaos exploded on the deck. Some fled below, some tried to fight, others rushed for the boats hanging on the ship’s sides.
Behind the boy, a heavy thud landed. He turned.
A figure in a black coat squatted behind him, back turned.
Slowly, it stood and faced him. The mask had fallen off. A bare white skull stared into the boy’s soul.
The boy froze.
The creature looked past him and walked forward.
Screams erupted again. Blades clashed. Gunshots echoed.
The boy stood still, stunned, for several seconds. When he came to, he was alone on the deck. The screams now came only from below.
Looking around frantically, he saw a lifeboat hanging nearby, with a dead body inside—and a sack of ship biscuits.
A plan formed in his mind.
He ran to a barrel of harpoons, grabbed several, tossed them into the boat, then cut the ropes.
The boat plunged into the sea with a splash.
He looked once more toward the stairs leading below deck.
He thought of the friends he'd made—those who shared meals with him, laughed with him, even punished him when he misbehaved.
Now, they were all dead.
He jumped.
Splash.
He swam through dark water, reached the lifeboat, climbed in, and began to row.
He looked back once.
The masked figure stood at the ship’s edge, watching.
The boy froze.
“This is it. I’m dead,” he thought.
But the figure simply said,
“Go tell the world: Alaric Vane is coming back. And the Black Crown is not a treasure for anyone to claim.”
Then the fog closed in, and the ship vanished from view.
