The hallway of the cruise ship was quiet save for the gentle hum of engines and the soft rattle of wheels. A steward in a pressed white uniform wheeled a silver-plated food cart toward one of the guest suites. He stopped before the designated door and gave it three polite knocks.
A moment later, the door cracked open. The one known aboard as Charlie stood there, smiling with impeccable politeness. His gloved hands accepted the handles of the cart.
"Thank you," Charlie said with an eerie softness that seemed almost too rehearsed.
The steward gave a slight nod, stepping forward to assist with the placement of the dishes. But as his eyes wandered briefly to the crimson-red suit slung over Charlie's arm, they widened.
Something was wrong.
For just a heartbeat, the steward saw its inner lining pulse, flesh-like and wet. It shifted, undulated. Viscous blood oozed faintly from seams that didn't exist a second ago. There were protrusions, things shaped like livers, lungs, hearts, indistinct but terribly organic.
His breath caught. The hallway lights flickered.
"Is something the matter?" Charlie asked, tilting his head, voice pleasant but empty, as if mimicking concern rather than feeling it.
The steward blinked rapidly. The grotesque vision was gone. The suit looked like any finely made red garment, tailored and flawless.
"T-The suit," the steward stammered, voice tight. "It, I mean... Is that... where did you..."
"Oh, this?" Charlie raised the garment slightly. "Just one of the Patron's older pieces. Bit eccentric in design, but fashionable, yes?"
He held it out with a serene smile.
The steward's mouth opened, closed, then opened again. "Yes. Of course. Very stylish."
He turned on his heel, nearly knocking into the wall with the food cart. The wheels squeaked as he rushed down the hallway, casting one last wary glance over his shoulder.
Inside the room, silence returned. Charlie gently placed the red suit onto a rack near the corner.
Then, with a shimmering, bubbly starlight, Jack appeared in the suite. Behind him stood Roselle's Projection, tall and poised, draped in a mantle that shimmered like woven sunlight, its strands glinting with traces of ink and gold, as if stitched with morning rays.
Jack exhaled, his lips curling into a satisfied smile. "Not bad for a test run."
He moved across the room, lifting the silver dome from the untouched dinner platter and setting it aside without so much as a glance at the food.
"The island..." Jack muttered, pacing. "Stunning, dramatic, and quite the entrance. But too damn expensive to keep up while in a fight."
Reenacting a myth demanded not just raw spirituality but narrative substance. The more storied or influential the reenacted myth, the more taxing it was to manifest and maintain. A floating island surfacing from the sea, complete with grandeur and legend, required a significant amount of spirituality. Even with an Angel's reserves and Roselle's support, it drained more than Jack was willing to part with for long.
"Not that I can't manage the cost," he added with a half-shrug, "but spinning myth under pressure while fighting? Not my preferred weekend."
Jack turned toward him and narrowed his eyes at the shimmering mantle. With a flicker of mental command, the golden fleece-like projection unraveled, its strands dispersing into radiant dust that floated briefly before vanishing entirely.
Roselle stood silently by the window, gazing out at the star-flecked ocean.
"One piece locked in."
From the tips of Roselle's fingers, slender threads of pure and complicated information stream exuded, drifting lazily toward Jack's outstretched palm. Each strand pulsed, the letters shifting with every second. They slithered through his fingers, looping like serpents made of ink and memory.
Jack's expression stilled as the information moved.
These weren't just spells or concepts. This was the architecture of knowledge itself, rituals, formulas, and rules stitched together by him.
"A Knowledge Emperor... It exceeded expectations," Jack murmured, his gaze still fixed on the information stream. "Not just an amalgamation of random useless information with a hefty status, but a true treasure trove of potential."
He flexed his fingers, the phantom texture of spiraling knowledge still tingling through them.
"However, his Knowledge Magister side can hardly be ignored," he added, in a more thoughtful and lower voice. "Profitably efficient"
Artifact forging, precision-engineering, and structured design, Roselle's projection held the opportunity for all of it. Jack could already see it: making high-sequence artifacts at a moment's notice, without the overbearing and troublesome process of third parties. With the finesse and the power of a Knowledge Magister, the means were already within reach; all he needed now was the resources.
"Convenient doesn't even begin to describe it," he muttered with a crooked smile. "It's a damn luxury."
The stream dimmed. The spiraling script vanished. Roselle's form rippled once more, then dissolved like mist in sunlight.
Jack crossed to the window, placing a hand on the frame, his eyes roaming the quiet ocean.
…
The cruise ship docked at Eskelson Harbor two days later. There was the usual bustle of disembarking passengers and unloading crews. Halsey and Lars descended the gangplank with alertness, their eyes sweeping across the waterfront as they took in their new surroundings with silent focus.
Among the stream of travelers, Alain Rouge stood out as always. The man in the crimson suit caught Halsey's glance and offered her a friendly wave as he stepped off the ship. Halsey simply nodded, returning her attention to the task at hand.
They made their way to the harbor's main ticketing kiosk to arrange the next leg of their journey. Their destination being Waypoint Island. But as they arrived, the tired, mustached ticket-seller behind the counter shook his head.
"Next ship's been delayed. Two days."
Lars frowned. "Delayed, why?"
The man rubbed the back of his neck. "Some kind of disturbance out at sea. Dangerous activity. That's all we've been told."
Halsey's eyes narrowed slightly. She glanced at Lars. "Not a good sign."
"Not at all," he muttered.
With no other option, they left the harbor and fully entered the city. As they walked, Halsey spoke lowly. "This was recent, so there will be rumors. People talk. Especially when it's strange or bloody."
As a Detective of the Reader Pathway, her mind was already mapping the possible leads. Her Sequence granted her an uncanny ability to read people, identify lies, and connect threads that others would miss. She'd spent years honing her instincts, and now they told her something dangerous lingered beneath the surface of Eskelson Harbor.
Lars nodded. "Right. We ask around. Keep it light at first."
They soon found themselves in front of a three-story inn built from gray stone and old timber. A hand-painted sign above the door read, "The Grey Gull."
Inside, the common area was modest but clean, with a few patrons seated by the reception area and a receptionist manning a polished oak desk. As they approached, Lars gave a subtle grin to the young woman behind the counter.
"Room for two, if you please. Preferably something cozy." He slid a few coins across with a wink.
Halsey didn't even turn her head. "Separate beds."
The receptionist blinked, then gave a small, amused smile and passed over a brass key.
"Second floor. Left at the end of the hall. Room twelve."
With everything settled, they climbed the stairs, unlocked the room, and entered. It was sparse but adequate, two beds, a washbasin, a writing desk, and a small window overlooking a side alley. Halsey set her bag down.
"I'll get organized here," she said, already pulling out her notes. "You go fish."
Lars gave a lazy salute at the door. "I'll bring back something useful."
He stepped out into the midday haze, the tang of sea salt mixing with the faint smell of smoked fish. As he made his way through the narrow cobbled streets, Lars kept his pace casual but his eyes sharp.
There was a tension in the city, coiled tight beneath the surface. Shopkeepers glanced over their shoulders more than usual. Dockhands spoke in hushed voices, gathering in tight clusters that broke apart the moment a stranger walked by. Even the children kept close to the walls, their laughter absent.
Something rattled this city severely. Lars thought.
Lars adjusted the collar of his coat, letting his gaze sweep the alleys and rooftops in practiced arcs. A group of workers passed him by, too quiet for their size. One of them muttered something under his breath, and the rest didn't respond. The whole place had the feel of a storm before lightning, something waiting to snap.
He narrowed his eyes. Whatever had happened, it wasn't small.
Soon, he reached the bar. A crooked wooden sign swayed slightly above the entrance, paint peeling from the letters that spelled out, "The Salty Rook". Its low ceilings, warped beams, and the ever-present scent of stale beer gave it that signature blend of every portside drinking hole Lars had ever known. He paused for a moment outside, listening.
Voices murmured from within. Low and uncertain.
He stepped inside, letting the door creak open behind him. The light dimmed as everyone inside shifted their attention towards him.
After a moment, a few of them approached.
"Oi," one of the grizzled patrons at the corner table said. "Ain't that the 'Drunken Reaper'? Thought you went and retired in Madar."
Lars smirked. "Still breathing."
"Barely," another added, raising a mug. "What's a man like you doing in Eskelson? Don't tell me you're chasing women again."
"Not this time," Lars said, settling into the seat beside them. "I'm chasing rumours. Heard anything strange lately?"
The mood shifted, the glasses were set down, and their voices dropped.
"Three days ago," one of them said. "Captain Berwin's ship, The Ash Gale, was found drifting near Blackhook Isle. Everyone on board was dead."
"They say the captain was found face-down on the deck… throat crushed, two bloody gold coins forced into his eyes.
Lars went still. "Babayaga."
"And on the mast," another added, voice barely above a whisper. "A mask. Nailed to the wood. Made of flesh and blood, stitched together, no eyes, no mouth, just raw meat. It's always the same. Like it's watching even without features."
Lars leaned back slowly, eyes narrowing. That ghost's crawling out again? Now? Lars didn't say it aloud, but the implications were already stacking in his mind.
"Why is Babayaga here?" Lars's thoughts tightened.
"You better tread lightly, Reaper," one man warned. "If he's hunting, it won't be pretty."
"When exactly did word reach the city?" Lars asked.
"Morning after it was found," said the bartender. "Navy got the wreck, took what they could, burned the rest. But the mask… people saw it and it spread like a plague."
Lars nodded. "Anyone else see him? Sightings?"
The older man shook his head, eyes narrowing as if reliving it. "Nothing. After they found the ship, it was a ghost. No survivors, no witnesses. Just the bodies and the mask. Not even a trail at sea."
Another voice added from across the room, this one lower and laced with unease. "The Church of Storms sent a batch of Mandated Punishers. They passed through Eskelson two days ago. They kept quiet, true professionals. But they didn't linger. They left quickly after, perhaps trying to chase him down."
The table went quiet.
Lars pushed back from his chair, the wood creaking faintly under him. He turned toward the door, shoulders squared.
He stepped out into the dim street.
The fog hung thick over the streets when Lars returned to the hotel. His steps were quick and unhesitating, boots thudding against damp cobblestone as if the very act of lingering outside carried risk.
Inside the hotel, the lobby was quiet, the front desk attendant half-dozing behind the counter. Lars ignored him and took the stairs two at a time. Their room was on the second floor, tucked at the end of a narrow corridor. He knocked three times, followed by one.
Halsey opened the door almost instantly, her hair pulled back and sleeves rolled up. She had been on edge, waiting.
"You're back." Her voice was even, but her eyes scanned him for signs of trouble. "What did you find?"
Lars stepped in, closed the door behind him, and exhaled. "It's worse than we thought." He moved to the small sitting table and leaned on it with both hands. "It's Babayaga."
The word alone made Halsey still.
Her breath caught, her gaze locking onto his. "You're sure?"
"Dead sure." Lars looked her in the eye. "Local pirates confirmed it. They found a ship three days ago, and the crew was wiped out. Skinned with no eyes."
Halsey paled slightly, her fingers tightening at her side.
"There isn't a soul out there who doesn't know that name," she said quietly. "Not even the ones who shouldn't." She glanced at Lars, voice low and grim. "People speak of Babayaga in the same breath as the Pirate Kings, sometimes with more fear. Because at least they want power. He just ends things."
"No one saw him," Lars continued. "Not even a shadow. Church of the Storms sent three Punishers in. They didn't settle; they moved on and fast, towards the east."
He paused before adding, "And the ship that got hit? Rumor says the captain was a Wraith. Possibly a member of the Rose School of Thought. Snuffed out like it was nothing."
Halsey sat down slowly on the edge of the bed, her brow furrowed in deep thought. "A Wraith… That's no coincidence. The Rose School's activity spreads near these waters; if Babayaga's moving against them, it means he's not just passing through. He's on a hunt."
Lars crossed his arms. "Exactly. Which raises the question: why now? Why here?"
Her voice dropped. "Could be connected to the Card."
He frowned. "You think he's after the Card?"
"I don't know," she admitted. "But if he is, or if he finds us... Then we're both on borrowed time."
Lars ran a hand through his hair, visibly agitated. "We can't keep jumping ships forever. Eskelson was supposed to be a pit stop, not a death sentence."
Halsey nodded grimly. "But we might still have a way forward."
"How's that?"
She stood, folding her arms, expression taut. "The Mandated Punishers. They're not going to leave the harbor alone, not after this. If Babayaga is prowling the region, they'll tighten surveillance. Send ships to monitor traffic. Which means..."
Lars picked it up, eyes narrowing. "We hitch a ride under their noses. It's the safest cover we'll get. They'll screen everything, but if we make it through their inspections..."
"They'll do the protection for us," Halsey finished. "But it'll come at a price. We'll have to lie low. Let them think we're nobodies."
"And the Card?" Lars asked.
"Sealed."
Lars exhaled, glancing toward the curtained window. "Passing through under Mandated Punisher scrutiny, with this much heat? It's damn near impossible. They'll be watching every ship, every name, every artifact trace."
There was a long pause between them.
Then, quietly, Halsey said, "I can't call for help. Not from Madam Judgement. Not from… anyone. It would compromise too much."
She hesitated, fingers idly tracing the seam of her sleeve. "But... there might be one option."
Lars raised an eyebrow.
"Alain Rouge," she said, glancing toward him. "We met on the cruise. Harmless enough on the surface, but something about him doesn't match the smile."
Lars frowned. "And you want to chase a stranger, now of all times?"
"I said it's just an offshoot idea," she replied. "But if I approach him, I might learn something. If nothing else, I'll test the waters."
Lars offered her a rare moment of silence, then nodded. "Then we go quiet. We observe. Move only when it's right. And if he comes…" He shrugged, almost lazily. "We make sure we're not the first ones he finds."
Her lips curled faintly. "Optimistic."
"No," he said. "Just practical."
They sat in that heavy stillness for a while longer, both of them aware that the shadows outside their window had grown just a little thicker. And in those shadows, something was moving and waiting.