The room was dark. Light struggled to claw its way inside, making the place resemble a grave without soil, isolated in a void where no sounds reached—save for the grinding of metal, the creaking of wooden doors, and the rhythmic thumping of a heart. It was the heart of a body ready for death, or rather, a lifeless corpse sitting on the floor, semi-naked, wearing only tattered trousers. He sat motionless, like a statue carved from ice, yet a pulse remained; with every beat, the man there could hear it clearly.
Who was he? A gaunt man with long, matted black hair that looked as if it hadn't touched water in an eternity. His body was a map of scars and welts, stretching from the crown of his head to the tips of his toes. It was unmistakable that he had been tortured in this tomb, a place that denied even the mercy of death. Yet, despite the deathly silence, another sound emerged… the sound of footsteps. Step… step… With every stride, the thumping grew louder.
The prisoner remained still. Then, with a sharp screech, the door swung open. It was the Head Guard himself, the man responsible for the scarred, skeletal prisoner. He approached, making loud chewing noises; he had just finished a meal, and the air filled with the scent of starch, wine, and heavy spices. He leaned toward the cell, spat what was in his mouth toward the prisoner, and sneered, "Don't you feel hungry?"
Silence. No response. No movement.
"Hmph. If your heart didn't beat, I'd have said you died a long time ago." The guard continued, "You're lucky today. It's the Annual Celebration, so the Boss decided to give you a break from the interrogation." The massive guard turned his bulk toward the door. Before exiting, he added, "Enjoy the rest of the night, for you might not survive to see the next celebration!"
BOOM. The door slammed shut with such force that the prison walls trembled. The prisoner stayed in his place, but his eyes shifted toward the object the guard had spat at him. "Ah… isn't this…?" It was a jagged, twisted piece of bone, but its color was a brilliant sky blue. He whispered with cracked lips, "The Ice-Blade Fish."
He turned his gaze toward his own arm, focusing on a scar—an old one, looking as if it belonged to another lifetime. His pupils dilated, then he closed his eyes and murmured, "Ah, yes… it was my first day."
Tap… tap… A beautiful blue eye opened, the color of fish and ice upon clear water. John was asleep in his bed when the tapping on his head woke him. A small bird, perhaps thinking it had found a home, was pecking at John's scalp. John waved his hand to shoo the bird away and tried to drift back to sleep, thinking it was still early. Then, he snapped his eyes open in shock and bolted upright.
He peered at the stars through the hole in his roof; they were fading. It was an hour before sunrise. "Oh no… I'm going to be late!" he hissed to himself. He remembered the drunkard, Captain Vlad, who had promised him a chance. Having lost his only job, working with Vlad was a miracle that wouldn't happen twice, and John refused to let it slip away. He scrambled out of bed and changed his clothes at lightning speed, wasting no time. He donned a thick jacket and grabbed an old, worn-out knife for self-defense.
Fully prepared, he turned to look at the bed on the floor. His mother lay there, sleeping deeply, but her skin was beginning to take on a bluish tint. John gripped the edge of the door so hard his knuckles turned white, but he steeled himself: "Let's go."
He burst from the house, sprinting toward the mission board where he was to meet the Captain. He ran and ran, a single thought echoing in his mind: Please don't let me be late. Please don't let me be late.
After a while of running, his breath grew heavy in the biting cold. He tied a cloth over his mouth to regulate his breathing, but it was of little use. The cold in this village, especially at this hour, was no joke; it was a frozen hell. Finally, he reached the mission board—a thick wooden slab cluttered with papers and tasks.
He stood there in the snow, waiting. Half an hour passed. He watched the sky transition from a deep black to a dark purple. Dawn was near. "I don't understand," he muttered, confused. "He told me to meet him here. Why hasn't he come?"
John remained rooted to the spot until snow began to pile on him, making him look like a wooden statue. Doubt crept in. He felt cheated. He analyzed it in his mind: A drunkard hiring a boy… maybe he only agreed so he could get rid of me. He tried to ignore the thoughts; if he indulged them, he might give up.
Then, he heard the sound of footsteps crunching through layers of ice. The sound advanced. A spark ignited in John's heart. Could it be? He turned, expecting the drunken Captain, but saw a different man—a stout, bald man who approached the board and pinned a new mission paper, ignoring John as if he weren't there.
John cleared his throat. "Excuse me!"
The man spun around, startled. "Who's there?!" He hadn't noticed John because the boy was frozen in place, covered in snow in the darkness.
John moved his hand and spoke with a shivering voice, "I… I am here."
The man recoiled in fear, having mistaken John for a frozen log or a rock. His eyes widened when he realized it was a child standing in the middle of the snow at this ungodly hour. "Boy! What are you doing here standing in the snow? You'll freeze to death!"
Ignoring the question, John asked, "Do you know Captain Vlad? I work for him. He told me to meet him here."
The man's expression soured at the mention of the name. "Ah… that old drunk? Yes, he does nothing but drink and fish." He sighed. "If you work for him, you should go to his house. He'll never come here."
John was stunned. "But he said to meet him here!"
"I'm sorry to break your hope, kid," the man interrupted, "but he's always drunk. His word is never steady. He's like a chicken with its head cut off!" He added, "If you want to work with him, you better hurry. He sets sail before the sun rises. Judging by the sky, he might be leaving right now."
John's face hardened. He stopped shivering; a pain sharper than the cold had struck him—the fear of failure. He asked firmly, "Where is his house?" The bald man pointed. "A few houses down that way, but move fast!"
John took a deep breath, forcing his frozen leg muscles to move. He gritted his teeth to stop them from chattering. He exhaled, a thick cloud of steam erupting from his mouth and nose, like an engine being cranked after a long freeze. With every step, his body felt the pressure, but he pushed until his blood began to circulate again. The walk turned into a jog, and the jog into a full-out sprint. Despite the agony in his limbs, he didn't stop.
After a frantic search, his eyes widened. He didn't know if it was happiness, resentment, or rage. Standing before him was an old man with a messy white-and-black beard and harsh features. He held a bottle of wine and was swaying on his feet. He turned toward John, raised a brow, and grinned. "Ooi, kid! You actually came!"
Vlad looked at John with a gaze that didn't seem to care that he had left a boy to freeze in the snow. Truly, human hearts were colder than the ice. John's face was grim; steam rose from his body from the sheer exertion of running through the snow. He regained his composure, knowing this was his only shot. "Yes," he said coldly. "Apologies for the delay."
The Captain let out a hoarse, wheezing laugh like a snake. "What are you waiting for? Didn't you say you wanted a chance? Come, let's head to the boat!"
John nodded and followed. They walked in a heavy silence until the Captain spoke up. "Ooi, kid… what was your name? Jan? Jace? I don't remember."
Through his drunken haze, he couldn't even recall a name. John replied flatly, "My name is John."
"Oh, right. Now I remember. Little John… haha! Your name is funny." He kept laughing a disgusting laugh. He was exactly as the bald man described: a drunken scoundrel. But John didn't care. His only goal was success.
Moments later, they reached the edge of the village. The sight was breathtaking. Clear waters overlooked the frozen sea, acting as a mirror reflecting the beauty of the purple sky as it began to bleed into the colors of dawn. Even John was momentarily awestruck.
Vlad noticed his gaze. "Seems it's your first time seeing the Aurora. Don't be too shocked, kid. Even in this hell, beauty exists." He then snapped, "We have no time to waste!"
They boarded a medium-sized vessel, old and dilapidated, smelling strongly of wine and rot. Once on board, John asked, "Captain, where are the oars?" Though he had never sailed, he wasn't stupid; he had learned the basics from watching foreign merchants.
The Captain smiled and said nothing. He pulled out a large sack filled with Red Stones. John's eyes went wide. These were like dynamite, used for mining or shattering thick ice.
"See that metal hatch under the boat?" the Captain barked. "Throw the stones inside!"
John obeyed, tossing three stones into the hatch. At first, nothing happened. The Captain took one last swig of his wine, tossed the bottle overboard, and yelled, "Hold on, kid!"
He grabbed a handle and yanked it. A powerful burning sound erupted from beneath the boat—a violent, roaring noise followed by a massive surge of momentum. The boat lunged forward, the wind whipping against their faces. John looked on in disbelief, wondering how they were moving without sails. He saw a red glow emanating from the hatch, radiating intense heat.
The Captain laughed maniacally. John didn't know if it was the alcohol or pure madness, but he had to hold on. The Captain roared over the wind:
"The hunt begins!"