Chapter 3: Mysterious Man
Two years had passed since the chaos of the island, the fall of Azan's crew, and the shadow of the Black Mark. In that time, Elhaan and Mikael had vanished from the pirate routes—swallowed by peace.
They opened a quiet inn on the edge of a high green hill, where sea wind whispered through long grass and the waves crashed far below. The place wasn't famous—but among pirates, it had become a hidden sanctuary. A place to drink, tell stories, and sleep without one eye open.
Elhaan spent his time training Mikael behind the inn, slow and methodical. The old mage, now gray and weary, still had enough fire to push Mikael harder than any storm ever could.
The red-haired girl had grown too—her trauma faded, her eyes brighter. She now worked confidently alongside them.
They'd also hired a local: skinny, dark-skinned, clever, and endlessly curious. He dreamed of swords and sea monsters, but never once dropped a tray.
One early morning, as the sky blushed over the horizon, Mikael trained shirtless in the morning chill. His body moved like a weapon—years of silent labor had turned him into steel.
That's when he saw him.
A hunched man, back slightly raised like a camel's hump, trudging up the hill. Rain-slick beard tangled with salt. Each breath rasped like dying fire.
He said nothing—just passed Mikael and entered the inn.
Mikael followed, hand still on his blade.
Inside, the man collapsed onto a bench. "Rum," he rasped. "And meat."
Mikael nodded, curious but silent.
As he placed the tray down, the man looked up—his eyes locked on the ring on Mikael's finger.
"A… drifter," he muttered.
Mikael blinked. "What?"
The pirate didn't answer. He flicked a gold coin into the air. Mikael, already turning, caught it without looking.
The man smirked faintly. Despite his pain, it was a look of recognition.
"I'll need a room," he said. "A few days."
A week passed.
The man never gave his name, but began to speak. When drunk, he told wild tales—skeleton ships, cursed tides, sea gods and hidden continents. Some were too wild to believe.
Others felt… uncomfortably familiar.
One morning, Mikael found him pale and sweating.
"Bring me the chest," the man whispered.
His voice was weak. His skin had turned paper-white. He clutched his ribs.
Mikael brought it.
The pirate took it like it was his own child—pressing it to his chest, breathing raggedly.
That evening, around sunset, he sat on a stone outside the inn. His gaze fixed on the horizon. The wind was cold. The sky, orange and bleeding.
He looked down at his hand.
And there it was.
The Black Mark.
Wind tugged at his coat. He gripped a worn locket in one hand, lost in memory.
Then he raised his voice toward the trees.
"What'll you gain by hiding, Faazil?"
A figure stepped out.
A man dressed like an outlaw—cowboy hat low, twin antique pistols at his hips, coat flaring in the wind.
"You won't last long," Faazil said. "Just hand over the chest, and I'll let you die peacefully."
The old pirate laughed, voice dry and broken.
"To think… a yesterday-born is threatening me."
The parrot on his shoulder echoed, "Yesterday-born!"
He stuffed a chili into the parrot's beak. It squawked in protest.
Faazil narrowed his eyes. "I won't make this long."
The pirate rose slowly. "Let's give the sea one last story, then."
His hand found the hilt of his talwar.
The sun lowered behind them, burning red.
Two silhouettes faced off.
Bang.
The parrot screamed and flew into the sky.
One figure stumbled—but didn't fall.
Blood dripped. But the pirate stood tall.
"This," he whispered, sheathing his blade, "is how heroes kill villains in stories."
He coughed—blood flecked his lips.
But not from the bullet.
Mikael burst outside, drawn by the gunfire. He saw the old man slumped at the stone, face pale, eyes distant.
"What happened?" Mikael asked, dropping to his knees. "Why the blood?"
The pirate didn't answer at first. Then he looked at Mikael—truly looked.
"So… Azan chose you. I see. I see."
His voice was fading.
"What's your dream, then?"
Mikael hesitated. "To sail the sea. With my crew."
The old pirate gave a tired smile.
"The only dream worth having."
He pushed the chest toward Mikael.
"I wouldn't have… but maybe it's fate. Maybe the white-haired storm is out there somewhere… living."
The sun dipped below the sea.
A faint orange glow lingered.
Then—time froze.
The wind stopped.
The waves paused.
Even Mikael sat mid-breath, unmoving.
Only the pirate remained in motion.
Above him, memories began to bloom—like a mirror hung in the clouds.
A younger version of himself, grinning with a blade in hand, roaring through the storm.
A ship with red sails tearing across cursed waters.
Laughter. Firelight. His crew beside him.
And a white-haired boy at the edge of it all, watching, dreaming.
"Captain," the boy had once said. "I want to be just like you."
The pirate exhaled.
His body broke apart—flaking like ash into the wind.
Time resumed.
The Black Mark slipped from his hand, landing on the ground like burned paper.
The man was gone.
Only the chest remained… and a memory that would follow Mikael forever.
[To be continued]