A young, white-haired man, clad in viscous dark armor with a dragon emblem, was sleeping on the forecastle deck of a wrecked ship. He rested his back against the pillar at the center of the forecastle, which was attached to one of the ship's many nets and sails.
He had an almost healed, hideous injury on his forehead, dried blood on his skin, and a red cloth tied to his wrist. Multiple scars covered the armor.
Mason slowly opened his eyes as the sunlight from the jagged sky initially assaulted his vision. When he finally woke up, an unusual smile played on his lips.
"That was another well-deserved night's rest."
He stood up and began his everyday duties.
First, he checked the red cloth on his wrist and tightened the knot.
[You've failed to ascend in your mission for a certain amount of time now.] [Approximately one month, Mason Gray.] [Begin mission or you'll be classified as failed.]
Mason ignored the voice and the scroll in front of him, subconsciously dismissing them. Soon, he walked down the forecastle staircase and arrived at the main deck. Resting on a pillar that separated the main deck from a staircase leading to the quarterdeck was a medium-sized drum filled with water.
It wasn't still water, but the real deal: drinkable, clean water. The best part was that the water never ran out. The more he drank or used for mundane chores, the more the water magically refilled. Additionally, he could change the temperature of the water. He marveled that the magic maintaining it for centuries had not run dry.
Mason drank from the drum using a small bowl and then rinsed his face. He stared at his body and the armor in disdain. Dissatisfied, he started to plan a warm bath. He rubbed the side of the drum, and the water began to bubble. He stopped when it reached a perfect, warm temperature.
Noticing he was missing something, he cursed under his breath and shrugged. He reluctantly walked to the left side of the ship where five cannons aligned, their mouths protruding through circular holes drilled into the wooden hull. Near them was a wooden lever with a rope connected to it. He pulled the lever; the rope snapped taut and tightened. At the center of the main deck, wooden planks rose from the floor and immediately formed something similar to a pool.
He walked back to the magic drum and, with a grunt of effort, tilted the massive object. He pushed it closer to the pool and started pouring the warm water into it. An involuntary, rhythmic whistle played on his lips as he subconsciously studied the ship.
A month ago, on the night he had planned to sleep in the "large bone," things had started to look much harder. He had discovered that the so-called bone was actually an abandoned ship—a warship used by the Nightmare Army that somehow hadn't fully wrecked.
The ship itself was twice as large as a normal vessel. For that reason, the only parts Mason had explored were the main deck and its attributes. Anything aside from that was a mystery that did not need solving. The ship possessed unique qualities, like the never-ending water and the makeshift pool. All of this had made Mason's life much easier after the harrowing first week he had spent in this region.
That night, one of his hypotheses had been proven right. Some of the Nightmare Army truly found their way to the surface by falling from the sky. He had engaged one of them in a battle, which had resulted in the removal of the blade from his head. He definitely did not want to remember that painful and harrowing moment.
Furthermore, his search for the tree—the one Jumong had drawn with a traveler and a dragon—had proved futile. He was certain he had checked every tree in the region. Giving up on finding the tree, he had decided to gamble and leave the area, but that also proved impossible. No matter which route he took, no matter how long he walked, he always ended up back where the ship was located.
He was trapped in a three-mile radius of silver water, tethered to the ship by an invisible leash. He'd walked north for ten hours, only to find the bow of the ship appearing through the fog in front of him. He'd tried south, east, and west; the result was always the same.
After trying every way he could think of, he finally gave up and embraced his new life. He had a whole ship to himself and free, endless water. He had also discovered that boiled tree bark mixed with Yaoguai blood and flesh was exceptional. He had even discovered a love for cooking.
His only ingredients were parts of a tree and the remnants of a spectral army. He had discovered the Warden he battled wasn't actually real, but a manifestation of the war that had occurred. He had met two more of those types of Yaoguais. The rest were the spectral army, who had real... delicious flesh.
Of course, it was disturbing at first to eat a fellow human who had possessed a brain and thinking abilities. It did not matter if they were already dead and merely controlled by an unknown force of corruption; it was still disturbing. But he had no choice.
He finished pouring the water. The pool was now brimming with a steady, inviting heat that defied the cold, oppressive atmosphere of the realm. Despite its endless supply, the drum itself wasn't impossibly heavy; it felt as if the weight were tied to the concept of the water, not its volume.
Afterward, he returned the drum to its original position and started undressing. He sat on the edge of the pool, slowly peeling the heavy, viscous armor from his skin. The dark plates hissed as they were separated, and the dragon emblem on his chest seemed to glow with a faint, resentful light before going dull.
His bare skin was a map of the painful and harrowing moments he had endured in this hellish place. Across his chest and down his ribs was a jagged scar. All over his body were various injuries. The most prominent change, however, was his forehead. The blade was gone, having been wrenched out during the struggle, leaving behind a puckered, star-shaped scar that throbbed whenever he thought too hard about anything.
The armor hit the deck with a heavy sound. Without the weight of the dragon-crested plates, he felt dangerously light, almost as if he might float away into the jagged orange sky.
He stepped into the warm pool, the heat enveloping his scarred legs. He let out a long, satisfied breath, watching the steam rise toward the massive masts. He fully entered the water and let out a soft moan as his whole body was embraced by the warmth. He leaned his head back, letting the heat soak into his weary muscles.
He knew he was being lazy. He knew he was treating this Nightmare Army warship like a retirement home. But after the Stone Slums, where every drop of water was a fight and every sleep was a gamble, could anyone blame him? The ship was a fortress. It was silent, it was sturdy, and it was the only thing in this world that didn't try to kill him the moment he closed his eyes.
After a long, relaxing morning bath, Mason put his armor back on and pushed the lever. The water disappeared immediately as the planks snapped back into place.
He walked to a sack where he stored food ingredients. He pulled out a fresh lap of meat and used a blunt sword he had found on the ship to dissect it into bits. He also chopped the tree bark and leaves. He tossed the bits of spectral flesh into a blackened pot he had scavenged.
Then came the vegetables. The tree barks were white and brittle, tasting like almonds and ancient dust, while the leaves were thick, waxy things that turned into a rich, dark paste when heated. It was a bizarre, high-protein stew that looked like a bubbling cauldron of silver and green.
As the stew began to bubble, releasing a heavy, savory aroma that cut through the stagnant salt air of the Endless Ocean, Mason found himself staring at the quarterdeck again, studying the ship.
Mason's eyes traced the rising elevation of the quarterdeck, which sat perched above the main area. Higher still, the poop deck crowned the very back of the vessel, housing the navigation room where the army once steered this nightmare. Multiple cannons protruded from the ship, ready to fire at enemies.
The structural complexity below the surface was even more daunting. Beneath the main deck lay the orlop deck, a cramped, shadowy level situated just above the deepest parts of the hull. Towering above it all were the three massive pillars of the ship's power: the foremast stood guard at the front, the mainmast dominated the center where the ratlines clung like webs, and the mizzenmast held the rear.
Mason looked at the longboat secured on the deck, then back at the heavy iron-bound hatch leading down to the galley and the levels below. He had spent a month living on the surface of this leviathan, but the labyrinth of the lower decks remained a dark, untouched mystery.
A while later, the food was ready. He devoured it like a hungry, ravaged beast, and in seconds, the meal was gone. Belching, he stood up, grabbed the blunt sword, and stretched. He went to the side of the ship and stared at the view. The sword-blades were back; the war had ended, only to repeat at night. He was used to this madness.
A few minutes passed, and Mason did nothing except stare at the jagged sky as if expecting something to happen. Later, a figure fell out of the sky and landed a distance away from the ship.
Mason stretched again and yawned.
"Well, that's my cue."