Lub-dub!
It hurts—! My chest… my heart is pounding like thunder smashing against my ribs.
Lub-dub.
Lub-dub.
Frye Feysilk's entire body trembled in pain, most of it radiating from his heart. One hand clutched his chest, the other gripping the side of a ship as waves slammed violently against its hull.
Lightning tore through the sky, followed by deafening cracks. The sea raged hard enough to flip the ship at any moment.
Why… why does it hurt so much?
The pain was too strong for him to think clearly. His body felt trapped between two extremes—calm and rage at the same time. Like a storm trying to swallow a rainbow buried somewhere inside it.
Minutes passed before he managed to lift his head. The pain slowly faded, but it dragged his strength out with it.
Through the heavy rain, his eyes scanned the ship's deck. The droplets fell like shards of ice, blocking most of his vision—yet what little he saw was enough to freeze his breath.
Bodies.
Lying everywhere.
Dead.
His thoughts blanked. Before he could even react, the sharp pain in his heart stabbed through his skull, ripping at his mind. It was too much. Too cruel. Too terrifying for a boy his age.
"No… no… Mother, this prank isn't funny… I have school tomorrow. I need to sleep… haha…" His voice cracked as he stared at the soaked wooden floor beneath him.
But no tears came.
His eyes were wide, pupils shrunk—like prey staring at its predator. His brain felt numb, yet emotions poured out uncontrollably.
He screamed. A raw, desperate noise swallowed by the storm.
"I want to go back! I don't like this dream! Wake up! Please—!"
His useless shouts drained the last of his energy.
The pain didn't stop. It crawled through his body like worms chewing him apart piece by piece—slow, agonizing, merciless. Enough to break even the mightiest creature.
Then, without warning, weak flames flickered to life across the ship's deck.
Fire? Now?
The pain suddenly vanished, but his consciousness dimmed with it.
Thud.
A small groan escaped his lips as he collapsed, flames growing around him while rain and tides clashed against the ship.
Yet the fire did not touch him.
The crackling of the flames eventually forced Frye awake again. He jolted upright, eyes wide, sweat dripping off him in bullets and forming a small puddle beneath him.
Breathing heavily, he rose unsteadily and explored the ship. It wasn't very large, but big enough to house a small crew—one that was now dead.
As he wandered, he stumbled upon a massive katana. Its blade gleamed even under the storm, and there was a carving etched near the hilt:
"Eternal Raging Tides, 164."
164? That can't be right… The year is 45!
Confused, he lifted the blade slightly, catching a faint reflection on its wet surface. A young male stared back at him—tan skin, long brownish-black hair, features mostly ordinary…
But the eyes were stuck in a permanent state of shock.
Those eyes…
He reached to wipe the raindrops off the blade—but froze.
His other hand moved at the exact same time.
Too perfectly.
He wiggled his fingers.
Cracked his knuckles.
Raised both arms.
The reflection followed every movement precisely.
Only then did the truth finally settle into his bones.
"Am I…" he whispered.
"…you?"