"We didn’t know what we were getting into..."
Thunder cracked across the sky, the sea raging like a monster, throwing waves high into the air—one moment a mountain, the next a ravine that could swallow islands whole.
In the heart of this storm, a ship battled against the fury. Massive in size, its colors were mostly black, with a golden and silvery luster. The mast, thick and tall, stood in the center, supporting sails that threatened to tear apart under the onslaught of the wind.
Chaos reigned on the deck. People shouted orders, pulled at ropes with bleeding hands, and ran frantically across the slippery surface. Some huddled in the corners, praying for the nightmare to end.
Atop the upper deck, a man with a majestic figure stood watching it all—the captain of the ship, and the calmest man aboard. He wore a white shirt under a black leather jacket, pants that clung to his legs, and boots caked in layers of mud and grime.
His face was handsome, with a slight beard and mustache. His skin was lightly brownish, with a golden undertone. His black pupils and thick eyelashes gave his eyes a certain charm.
He appeared to be in his thirties, his face marked by experience.
He stared at the chaos before him, dazed, until a bolt of lightning struck the mast, snapping it in two. The upper half, supporting the main sail, toppled left but was held back by the cables still attached to it.
...
The scene shifted.
Inside the captain’s cabin, bright light shone through the windows.
The man sitting in the main chair stirred, as if waking from a deep sleep. His vision slowly cleared, revealing a familiar sight.
"What happened? Where am I?"
This was his cabin—the place he had spent countless hours at sea. Nothing seemed out of place, yet his head ached. He couldn't recall how he had ended up here.
Slowly, he stood and stepped outside.
Bathed in the afternoon glow, the ship came into view. But everything was unnaturally silent.
"Where did everyone go?"
He looked up at the mast—the one he remembered being snapped in two. Now it stood tall and whole. No signs of damage, no signs of repair. As if the destruction he remembered had never happened.
His memories returned.
In the midst of the storm, a shadow had approached from beneath the water. It was vast, countless times bigger than the ship—like a tiny fish facing a great white shark.
The shadow surged upward, unnoticed by the frantic crew, until it leapt out of the ocean and revealed itself.
A colossal, whale-like creature, monstrous in size. Large enough to fit ten ships in its mouth. Powerful enough to create tsunamis with the flip of its tail.
For a moment, time froze.
No shouts, no panic—only silence as everyone stared at the impossibility before them. Then, the creature crashed back into the sea, sending massive waves and screaming winds toward the ship.
The force slammed into them like a shockwave against glass, toppling the ship and hurling bodies through the air or slamming them into the deck.
As the ship slowly sank into the depths, the captain floated among the wreckage, watching.
People swam desperately toward the surface. Barrels floated; sea creatures swam past.
But he made no effort to survive. He accepted his fate—to sink alongside the ship that had defined his life.
Water filled his lungs as he sank. His vision blurred. He saw the mast, torn from the ship, sinking alongside him. Upon it flew a flag:
A white skull adorned with a crown befitting of a king. The background was entirely black—something of an oddity in this world.
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As he gazed upon it, darkness swallowed him. His senses faded.
In that muddled state, he dreamed.
An island appeared, isolated in the vast sea. Tropical trees swayed in the wind. Deep in the heart of the island lay ancient ruins—and within the ruins, a hidden chamber filled with treasure and artifacts.
At the center stood a tomb, covered in strange symbols and engravings.
Before he could glimpse what lay inside, the dream ended.
He returned to the present, standing on the silent deck under a burning sky.
"Nothing here makes sense... I need to find the others, or at least figure out what happened to them."
As the thought crossed his mind, the scene shifted.
Beneath the waters where the ship floated, something stirred.
Something had latched onto the hull.
A hand—skeletal, devoid of flesh and life—emerged from the depths.
Then another. And another.
Countless ghostly figures rose from the sea, some pale, some gray, some black. They soared into the sky, circling the ship as if caught in an invisible hurricane.
On deck, skeletal hands pulled themselves up, revealing full bodies. Bones clad in tatters of cloth. Some slim, some burly with wide rib cages.
None seemed to know what was happening.
The skeletons eyed each other warily, searching for answers in empty sockets.
On the upper deck, a figure watched them from a place of authority.
In his mind, only one thought echoed:
"What is happening on my ship?"
The figure drew a pistol, aimed at the sky, and fired.
The crack of the shot froze everyone—those on the deck, those circling above.
Their gaze turned toward the figure standing where the captain once gave commands.
He wore the captain's hat and clothes, but something about him was wrong—familiar, yet different.
Despite their confusion, every skeleton gave a slight bow and lined up neatly. Because even if they didn't recognize the man, the aura he carried was unmistakable.
The figure looked over them with mixed feelings. Somehow, all of this felt... normal.
He glanced at his left hand.
Slowly, he pulled off the glove.
No flesh. No blood. No veins.
Only bare bone.
He understood then: he had met the same fate as the rest.
...
Somewhere else on the open seas.
"Captain, where are we heading now?" asked a boy who didn’t look older than eighteen. His skinny body was marked by scars. His face was wrinkled but still held a trace of youth.
"To the south," said the captain, an older man, scarred and hardened by years at sea.
"But captain, the southern waters are deadly. The storms there are worse than anywhere else in the world," the boy protested, reasonably.
"We're not going far. Just along the edge of the safe waters," the captain reassured him.
The crew sighed in relief. No one wanted to venture into truly uncharted waters chasing an old myth.
The boy stared at the setting sun, wondering if all this was worth the risk.
He had been at sea for six months, and they had found no trace of the legendary ship of the Pirate King.
Another crew member, a friend of his, came to his side and asked quietly, "Do you think we'll find it?"
"How should I know? I've been at sea less time than you. Everyone in the world is looking for that ship."
He broke a ship biscuit in half, handing a piece to his friend.
Muttering to himself, he said, "The ship of the Pirate King... A first-grade ship, comparable to a royal flagship of the Northern Empire. No wonder they called it the Black Crown."
...
At night, a black flag with a crowned skull waved in the wind.
In the captain’s cabin, a man stood before a mirror.
But the reflection staring back was not his own.
A skeleton, clad in familiar clothes and hat, gazed back at him. Empty eye sockets, a hollow ribcage—a mockery of the man he once was.
"Knock, knock."
Before he could study the reflection further, a knock came at the door.
"Come in," he said.
The door opened to reveal a figure in elegant clothes, wearing glasses balanced on a skeletal face.
"Demono," the captain said, recognizing him immediately. Despite the lack of facial features, the attire gave him away.
Demono—the personal butler, accountant, and secretary of the ship. A man known for his wisdom and impeccable sense of fashion, even at sea.
"Finally, someone I can trust in this situation," the captain said, slumping into a chair.
"Let’s figure out what’s going on."
