The hidden port lay shrouded in a dense, clammy fog, its edges blurred as if the world itself had softened into a dream. The air was thick with the briny sting of seawater, laced with the damp, mossy scent of weathered stone and the faint creak of wooden planks underfoot.
Men darted through the mist, their figures ghostly as they hauled red-wrapped bricks from a ship to the pier, their grunts muffled by the fog's heavy curtain. The clatter of crates and the rhythmic thud of boots echoed faintly, like a heartbeat swallowed by the haze. At the center of this quiet chaos, two men stood, their voices low and sharp, slicing through the stillness like a well-aimed dagger.
Rane, 29, stood out like a shadow given form, his lean, athletic build honed for speed and stealth rather than raw power. His movements were fluid, silent, as if he belonged to the fog itself, a predator blending into the gloom. His jet-black hair, short and spiked, framed a pale face marked by a thin scar across his left cheek, a faint line that told of battles unseen. His scarlet eyes burned with a fierce, unyielding intensity, clashing against his dark attire and pale skin, giving him a gaze that seemed to pierce through lies and facades.
His sleeveless navy-blue vest, stitched with scale-like patterns, clung to his frame, designed for swift, unhindered movement. A long, thick scarlet scarf wound around his neck, its ends trailing down his back, ready to mask his face or melt into the shadows. Loose black pants, tucked into high navy leather combat boots, allowed agile steps, while fingerless black gloves ensured a deadly grip. Strapped to his back were two massive shuriken, their edges catching the dim light, an odd choice for the high seas but perfect for a man who thrived in the unconventional, his appearance a blend of danger and mystery, like a ninja from tales whispered in Krakenport's taverns.
"So, you're the one delivering?" Myke, the other man, said, his voice tinged with doubt as he watched workers unload brick after brick. His eyes narrowed, as if expecting a trick in the fog's embrace.
"That's how we operate," Rane replied, his tone cool, his scarlet eyes locked on Myke. "You pay, you pick the spot, we deliver. Three hundred bricks, correct?"
"Right," Myke said, offering a hand. He was tall, broad, his weathered face betraying years at sea. "If these sell as well as the rumors, I'll be back for more. I'm Myke."
"Rane," he said, shaking the hand briefly, his grip firm but fleeting. "You'll deal with others next time. I handle deliveries, nothing more. My crew's nearly done, and your order's complete." His voice was clipped, his focus shifting to the workers stacking bricks with mechanical precision, their red wrappings stark against the gray dock.
To most, the scene was mundane—a transaction in a misty port, nothing more. But to those who looked closely, truly looked, a phantom lingered in the haze. Odoho was there, unseen, a ghost among the living.
For three years, he'd infiltrated Rane's main ship, posing as a common worker, his presence so faint that even when he tried to carry bricks, others would snatch them away, as if they'd materialized from the fog. It was his curse, or perhaps his gift—Odoho was forgotten by the world. Since childhood, he'd slipped through Krakenport's alleys, taking bread from stalls or fruit from carts without a glance, never starving because no one noticed him. He'd once tried to be seen, shouting in a crowded market, but eyes slid past him. Women, catching him by chance, would scowl, mistaking him for a creep. It wasn't his fault; he was simply invisible, a shadow even in broad daylight.
His earliest memories were of solitude, scavenging in Brackmor's slums. Like most of the island's children, he'd grown up poor, eating scraps every few days, with no memory of a mother or father. Survival was his only guide especially eat the fruits that you find when you go to the forest to not starve to death, moving alone through a world that didn't see him.
Four years ago, he'd stumbled into his first real job, meeting Kael, Liro, and Toro. He'd tried to keep his quiet, unnoticed life, but their rough camaraderie drew him in. They worked together, harvesting Shadow coral in the ocean, though Odoho was often forgotten mid-task, left watching as they moved on.
It didn't break him. At the end of each job, they'd remember, laughing about his "vanishing act," clapping his shoulder. It was enough to make him feel tethered, if only for a moment, to a world that otherwise ignored him.
His work efficiency caught the eye of Kael Liro and Toro Boss, and Kael brought Odoho to meet him. He'd expected a grizzled warlord—scarred, towering, maybe with an eyepatch. Instead, he met a boy, barely 10, perhaps 11, whose presence filled the room like a storm. Olbap was small, his frame slight, but his posture was rigid, unyielding, exuding authority beyond his years.
His sun-bronzed skin glowed faintly, his spiky bright yellow-orange hair, His amethyst eyes, fierce and unblinking, held Odoho's gaze, a toothpick in his mouth mistaken for a cigarette by the careless.
His white three-piece suit, tailored to perfection, gleamed with an almost obsessive cleanliness, its purple silk shirt open at the collar, a vivid contrast. Black-and-white leather shoes shone, a thin metal chain dangled from his pants, and a purple pocket square peeked from his jacket. He looked different in Brackmor's gritty chaos, a beacon of order in a lawless land.
The room—Kael, Liro, Toro, Anna, Vanessa—fell silent as Olbap spoke, their respect palpable. Odoho stood still, unsure, until the boy's voice cut through. "So, it's true, Odoho. Your presence is nearly invisible. A pleasure to meet you. I'm Rabocse Olbap," he said, his tone calm but heavy with authority.
"Pleasure's mine, Rabocse Olbap," Odoho replied, steadying his nerves. "Why am I here?"
"No need for formalities," Olbap said, leaning back in his chair, his amethyst eyes glinting. "Kael, Liro, and Toro spoke of your… talent. I want you to work for me, formally, in my inner circle. Your pay increases, and you're family now. If you need anything, I'm here."
Odoho blinked. "I thought I was already working for you. What's the difference?"
Olbap smirked, crossing his arms. "You're not just a grunt anymore. You're one of us. I don't let my people work for free, and I take care of my own are you in.?"
Odoho didn't have to think about it much. He knew he had no other place and why not accept it? He liked Kael, Liro and Toro when they worked and on the contrary, his lonely and empty life could perhaps stay in the past, so he nodded.
"good any question?"
"Got a special job for me?" Odoho asked, curiosity piqued.
Before Olbap could respond, a deep voice broke in. "Odoho, relax. Olbap plays the tough boss, but he's not that serious. I'm Popeye, nice to meet you. Need anything, just let me know." Popeye, a mountain of a man at Olbap's side, grinned, his presence warm despite his size.
"Hey, Popeye, who said you could ruin my image?" Olbap said, punching him playfully. The room erupted in laughter, the tension dissolving.
"You broke it yourself," Anna said, her crimson hair catching the lantern light as she grinned. "I'm Anna, nice to meet you, Odoho."
"Same here. I'm Vanessa, Anna's twin," Vanessa added, her identical red hair tied back, her voice softer but kind.
"You know us already, Odoho. Welcome aboard," Kael said, clapping his shoulder.
That meeting marked Odoho's entry into Olbap's core group. He soon learned why Kael, Liro, and Toro had shifted to Coral collection, aiming for leadership roles in the Red Tide.
He helped where he could, often unnoticed, until a private summons changed everything. In Olbap tavern, the air thick with stale ale, roasted fish, and polished wood, Olbap sat alone, no Popeye at his side. A crystal glass gleamed in his hand, the amber liquid catching the flicker of lantern light.
The distant hum of Krakenport's docks seeped through the walls, mingling with the clink of glasses and muffled laughter.
"Good evening, Olbap," Odoho said, approaching cautiously. "What do you need me to do?"
Olbap took a slow sip, savoring the drink's burn before setting it down with a soft clink. "I told you, drop the formalities, Odoho. Sit." He gestured to the chair across, his amethyst eyes locking onto Odoho's with unnerving focus. "I'm placing a lot of trust in you. I hope your loyalty holds. Are you ready for what's coming?"
Odoho nodded. He'd always given his all, and Olbap, like the others, had earned his trust over time. "I'm ready."
"Good," Olbap said, leaning forward, his voice dropping to a whisper. "You've probably wondered why I'm not the top boss instead of Barrakuda Silco. The truth is, I can't be—not yet. Not until I uncover the final ingredient for the Red Tide's creation. I'm high-ranking, and Silco trusts me, but not enough to share that secret. It's nearly impossible to get it from him. But there's someone who might know: Rane."
"Rane?" Odoho asked, his brow furrowing.
"You don't know him, and I barely do," Olbap said, his tone grim. "He's the most dangerous man in this organization. He's been spying on me for who knows how long, and I've had to stay low because I can't tell when he's watching. He has Silco's full trust. I was pulled from leading deliveries to focus on improving Brackmor's economy, and Rane took my place. I need you to infiltrate his crew, watch him, and gather every scrap of information you can. But be careful—Rane's a master at espionage, and he's closed off. You can't befriend him. Understand?"
"So, my mission is to join his crew, find out about the third ingredient, and dig up anything else, but stay cautious?" Odoho asked.
"Exactly," Olbap said, his eyes narrowing. "You're valuable to this family, Odoho, even if you don't see it. If it gets too risky or you think you'll be caught, pull back and wait. Clear?"
"Clear, Boss Olbap. When do I start?" Odoho asked, his resolve hardening.
That was how it began. For three years, Odoho had shadowed Rane, blending into his crew as a faceless worker. His knack for going unnoticed was tested—Rane was always on guard, locking himself in his cabin or choosing spots where stealth was nearly impossible, like open decks under blazing sunlight.
Odoho studied his patterns, learning to move closer, but the third ingredient remained a mystery. He did uncover one critical truth: only Silco knew the final step of the Red Tide's creation, performing it in secret, with no one allowed near. Odoho relayed this to Olbap, who urged him to stay patient, keep watching, and report anything unusual.
The years transformed Brackmor. Each time Odoho returned, he was stunned by Olbap's impact. The streets, once teeming with starving children, were quieter now, filled with the chatter of markets.
Fewer people stole food, their faces less gaunt, their eyes less desperate. Merchant ships docked regularly, their holds bursting with goods—spices that stung the nose, fabrics soft as sea foam, tools gleaming with promise—things Odoho had never seen in his youth.
The island no longer relied solely on fishing; vegetable fields bloomed, wells flowed with clean water, and fishing boats gave the jobless purpose. Olbap's vision was reshaping Brackmor into a thriving hub, hunger fading like a bad dream. Odoho felt a quiet pride in following him, a man whose path—dangerous, often bloody—was the only way forward in a place with no soft options. Helping the island was their reward, a give-and-take that justified the risks, a balance of sacrifice and hope.
Back at the foggy port, Odoho lingered in the shadows, his breath shallow, his presence a whisper in the mist. The clink of bricks, the creak of the dock, the muffled shouts of workers—it all blended into the haze, a world that didn't see him.
Rane's scarlet scarf swayed as he turned, his eyes scanning the scene, never resting long. Odoho's heart beat steady, but he knew the danger. He was a ghost, but Rane was a predator, his instincts honed to catch the slightest misstep. One wrong move could unravel three years of work. For now, Odoho watched, waited, and wondered what secrets Rane carried—and how long it would take to pry them loose in the fog-choked silence of the port.
End of the chapter.