Warm sunlight spilled across my face, gentle as a mother's palm. The sea breeze slipped through the open window, carrying with it the familiar scent of salt and damp wood. Waves crashed softly in the distance, a constant heartbeat of this world.
"Kael! Breakfast!"
Lio's voice echoed up the stairs—energetic, impatient, already hungry. As usual.
I sat up, stretching lazily as the last hints of sleep faded. Fourteen years. Tomorrow, I would turn fourteen.
Fourteen years in this world… but not originally from it.
I washed my face, tied my hair back, and headed downstairs. Lio was already at the table, legs swinging excitedly as he waited. I served breakfast to the both of us—fried seaweed cakes and warm shellfruit slices.
"Mom's not here?" Lio asked, mouth already full.
"She's probably handling island matters," I replied. "They don't solve themselves."
He nodded. Our mother, Seris Valea—former treasure hunter, illusion-type awakener, and now the island's protector—was always busy. Her illusions kept our home hidden from pirates and unwanted explorers. Because of her, our island remained peaceful in a world where peace was a luxury.
And father…
Father had been gone two years now, out exploring the far seas as First Mate of the Mariner's Oath, the most renowned treasure-hunting crew in this region.
I wondered when we would hear from him next.
Lio didn't ask. He never did. Instead, he focused on eating with the determination of a warrior.
I smiled. Simple mornings like these… They were something I cherished more than I admitted.
When I first came to this world—when I first opened my newborn eyes here—what shocked me wasn't the magic.
It was the water.
This world was at least five times bigger than Earth, and more than ninety percent of it was ocean. Endless blue stretching beyond the horizon. No continents, no sprawling landmasses.
Only islands.
Some small as villages.
Some huge as countries.
A few, rare and fabled, almost the size of Australia.
And somewhere beneath the waves lay sunken empires—ruins of civilizations devoured by the sea. No life survived there. Only death, curses, and treasures.
Treasure… That was the lifeblood of this world.
Awakeners—those who unlocked talents—were the pillars of society. Healers, warriors, illusionists, navigators, beast tamers… every ability was born from talent, and talent was born from the ocean's will.
A strange system, but fascinating.
Still… everything else was unbelievably backward.
No real medicine.
No true sanitation.
No understanding of disease.
Herbal knowledge? Almost nonexistent.
Technology? One-step-above medieval.
Even guns were single-shot rifles carved from reinforced wood.
Healing? Entirely dependent on awakeners, and even they had limitations.
When I realized that, I had work to do.
I was four then. Lio was two.
Our island's healer was away on a month-long voyage, and one night Lio suddenly burned with fever, shaking, breath uneven.
Mother panicked. She tried magic—but illusions couldn't heal. Only distract. Only hide.
So I took over.
"Use boiled water for everything," I told her.
"Cool cloth on his forehead, change it when it warms."
"Keep him hydrated."
She followed every instruction, eyes trembling, lips shaking.
Three days later, Lio recovered.
Mother stared at me in confusion.
"How did you know what to do?"
I simply shrugged.
"I just knew."
What else could I say? That I had memories from a world where hygiene and basic medicine were common knowledge?
That wasn't something I planned to reveal.
After that, I began enforcing hygiene at home.
Bath every few days.
Wash hands.
Clean surfaces.
Don't drink raw water.
Dispose of waste properly.
Boil anything suspicious.
I even built the first real toilet on the island, behind our house, using simple Earth-style pit design.
Father noticed first.
Then his crew.
Then the captain and his family.
Soon half the shipmates were following our routines.
And then…
When I was six, an island-wide sickness spread. Fever, chills, cough, fatigue—everyone was falling ill.
Everyone… except a handful of families.
Our family.
The captain's family.
Crew's families who copied our habits.
Mother noticed.
She began spreading the hygiene practices quietly, respectfully. She never took credit. She only told people it helped.
Meanwhile, I brewed herbal remedies—secret "medications" using plants they hadn't thought to use medicinally.
Holy basil + ginger tea for antiviral support.
Turmeric milk for throat inflammation.
Steam inhalation to loosen mucus.
People thought it was magic.
Maybe it was, in a way.
Knowledge was the strongest magic I had brought from Earth.
After the sickness incident, I stopped being "just a child" in the eyes of the island's residents.
People nodded at me when I passed. Adults listened when I spoke. Mothers asked me for advice. Fishermen greeted me with more respect. Even the old aunties who once pinched my cheeks now looked at me like some wise spirit trapped in a small body.
I didn't dislike it—but it was strange.
By the time I turned seven, Father insisted I learn to defend myself.
So I started swordsmanship training under Captain Rhovan's guidance—slow, steady, disciplined movements along the beach, waves lapping at my ankles as I drilled my forms.
At eight, I surprised even myself.
With some help from the blacksmith—mostly supervising so I didn't melt my eyebrows off—I created the island's first collapsible spyglass. A simple design by Earth's standards, but revolutionary here. Lightweight, durable, and able to extend triple its length.
I made it for Father.
Something to help him on the sea, to spot dangers early.
He loved tools like that.
When I was ten, I took my biggest gamble yet. Two years of failed trials, wrong molds, rancid smells, and moldy bread experiments later—I finally produced crude penicillin.
Real medicine.
Actual antibiotics.
The healer was stunned. He didn't understand how or why it worked, only that it did. And that alone saved lives—especially among sailors prone to infection.
Three years passed.
By then, I had grown tired of the island's sundials and sand timers. So I decided to do what no one in this world had ever done:
Make a real clock.
It took THREE years.
Three years of carving prototypes, breaking springs, misaligning gears, cursing under my breath, and begging Mother to project illusionary gears so I could visualize movement. We even hired a runic alchemist—someone skilled in shaping mana-resistant alloys—to craft the smaller components.
And finally… success.
Not a giant grandfather clock.
Not a bulky mechanical monstrosity.
But a pocket watch.
Small. Precise. Beautiful.
And powerful.
Because by then, I had already learned a terrifying truth:
First inventions mattered.
The first of any kind—first compass, first firearm, first clock—
held immense weight in this world.
With enough influence, these could even become god-level treasures.
I had made the first clock in history… and I intended to give it to Father.
But he still hadn't returned.
So I moved on to my next insane project.
Firearms. Real ones.
Not the clunky single-shot rifles barely able to fire past twenty meters.
I wanted revolvers—repeaters—weapons that could change the very concept of combat.
After countless prototypes, failures, and long nights…
Last night, I finished them.
Not one.
A pair.
I made two identical revolvers, because I wanted to test a theory:
If two "firsts" existed simultaneously… which one would evolve into the treasure?
Or would they both?
No one had seen them yet.
No one even knew I was working on them.
Today, I was going to test them for the first time.
And if they worked—truly worked—then the world of awakeners, treasure hunters, and even empires…
…would never be the same again.