Hendrick's Advice

Adultery, false accusation, uninhabited island, shipwreck. It was like something straight out of a trashy tabloid novel. You must have had it rough... if that's all true.

Hyejin listened quietly to his tale, finding plenty of intriguing bits. Not just for the entertainment value, but across various matters.

"So, you found a shipwreck from a foreign land and saw a ghost there?"

"Not a ghost. A spirit."

"...Right."

Ghost, spirit. Yeah, sure. If he hadn't jumped straight into spouting such an absurd, unrealistic tall tale—bluster or actual apparition—she might have taken it better. How was she supposed to process this? She pondered deeply from every angle.

"Hey, don't interrupt. This is where it gets important. You might doubt the rest, but this part?"

Who did he think held the reins of this conversation? Still, she had no intention of reining in this grown man chattering away like an excited kid.

There were too many nagging details and suspicions swirling in her mind. She rested her hand on the armrest, propped her chin, and continued listening intently.

Hendrick van Demer. A sailor from a Spanish merchant ship out of Seville, now reduced to a ghost.

[Looking at you, you seem like you grew up comfy in some decent Middle Kingdom household. But you'd best get your head straight now. Survival on an uninhabited island ain't easy, even if it doesn't match seafaring hardship. Especially right after we washed up here—the island was...]

Roughly a dozen years ago, he and his crew had set sail from the Philippines for trade with Japan when they hit an unidentified storm and ended up stranded here. He boasted that he'd spent more time at sea than on land, so at first, he wasn't too worried. His homeland might be mocked as a has-been nation now, but he still believed his glorious, mighty Spain would come rescue them.

But the first things to find and board the wreck weren't rescuers—they were monsters.

[They instinctively hate alkaline stuff, so they rarely come to the beach. The salt stench, you see. But exceptions happen when prey's around—they sniff it out. And once you face them, those dumb brutes charge in blind, no sizing you up, life or death. Back in my prime, I could take down a dozen solo, easy.]

Recounting his exploits like some epic hero, Hendrick bragged about single-handedly smashing several of those monsters—the same kind Peng had just fought off. Take it or leave it.

Peeling back the bluster revealed solid intel worth noting, so Peng listened closely instead of letting it slide.

[By the way, I hear Middle Kingdom folk master cold weapons—slicing three times in one stroke, firing razor sword winds. Seeing you, though? Total bullshit.]

Typical sailor—rough around the edges, hooking into strangers without hesitation.

Yeah, well, rifling through his memories from his Yujin days, there were brothers and warriors pulling off bizarre feats like that. But martial arts tied mostly to bad memories for him, so he brushed it off with a light laugh.

More pressing lines caught his ear.

"...No, I'm Goryeo stock, like I said."

[Goryeo, Middle Kingdom—same difference, ain't it?]

Something about that rubbed him wrong. Was this the natural-born racist born of ignorance?

He tried laughing it off, but nah.

"Then Seville and Catalonia must be the same place too, right?"

[What? Hell no!]

"What's the difference?"

Nailed it. Peng didn't know history cold, but he'd picked up scraps—Madrid this, Barcelona that—and yeah, Spaniards blew up over comparisons.

Time for some manners and history lessons! Hendrick exploded.

"That's exactly how I felt. I know those places are different too."

Golden rule attack—people only get it when it hits home. Hendrick paused, mulling it over.

[...My bad. Sorry.]

He apologized straight up. Peng was the one caught off guard now. He'd planned to tease if Hendrick dug in his heels. Fine, prejudice aside, a Westerner without outright racism in this era? Top 0.01% material.

His attitude cooled Peng's ire, leading to mutual apologies and casual chit-chat. Respond a bit, and Hendrick spilled more eagerly: edible island plants, tree clusters, local monsters.

[You're damn lucky, kid. Grasping this ecosystem without sacrifice or suffering? Pure fortune.]

"...Haha."

Hendrick saw right through Peng's probing info-grab, bragging as he went.

Peng figured the guy must've been pretty affable ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠in life too.

—If not for that one nagging ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠thing.

[Dunno about the rest, but I can't recall my end.]

His memories were spotty; beyond failing to escape the island, his death was a blank. Time faded it, or pre-death fog—fair enough. But instinct screamed he was hiding something. His face stiffened noticeably on the topic, unlike his rambling earlier.

He tried masking it, but it showed too much to ignore. Ground-bound spirits were often painted villainous, so even as a lifesaver, Peng eyed Hendrick's motives.

But beyond the hunch, his sloppy poker face and clear willingness to help—like pointing out the monsters would return now they'd scented him, and the piled weapons were rusted junk unfit for use—stayed judgment for now.

Any aid was vital.

"What should I do?"

[Hmm. Can't just tell a total greenhorn to whip up guns from scratch. Start with something usable now... Up for it?]

The quest popped up, confirming Hendrick as the Opportunity trigger.

An uninhabited island screamed slim odds for one otherwise.

"It's my survival on the line. If you help, I'll give it my all."

[Good attitude. In foreign lands, survival hinges on charging in without hesitation—just like that.]

This muscle-bound body would've been prime in modern times, but in the murim world, no internal energy made it cursed.

So his choice was simple: eat the rich or die trying.

Pleased by Peng's ready reply, Hendrick chuckled heartily, slapping his back—though like the handshake, it phased through, leaving a phantom sting.

Huh. Favorability with a bearded middle-aged dude? Weird phrasing, but whatever—he'd ignore it. Dwelling lost the game.

[Hmm, the powder up top should be decent. Less stable and efficient than new, but usable. Coastal but sunny spot means low humidity, and it was well-sealed.]

Hendrick muttered cryptically to himself before issuing instructions.

[First materials: bamboo and vines. Tomorrow at dawn, follow the outer island path. You'll gather everything there.]

Movement was good. But fresh monster memories made forest jaunts iffy. Reading Peng's worried face, Hendrick nodded and explained.

[Whoops, late on the key bit. Those beasts hate sunlight—hide in shadowed woods by day.]

Daytime meant monsters stuck to central forest; everywhere else was safe. Perfect—relief for tomorrow's forage. He could've said it once, but Hendrick hammered it home repeatedly.

[Just in case, hear me out: no matter what weird shit you see, never get ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠curious about the central forest! ...Please.]

Bitterness tinged his translucent face.

What happened to spark that? Curiosity nagged, but Peng held back. He'd spill if needed. For now, he nodded at the nagging.

[So how'd a guy like you wash up here?]

"Woke up here after waves knocked me out."

[Waves carried you here? No way—the distance... Or maybe? Been ages since I checked charts; memory's fuzzy.]

"Beats me."

Hendrick said invaders would flee to woods pre-dawn, so bunk in deck cracks tonight. They chatted idly till night deepened; the day's grind screamed for sleep.

As Peng lay back...

[So anyway...]

Guy must be starved for talk. Fine, a bit more.

[Couldn't take it, grabbed a bottle to intervene!]

"...Huh?"

Endless ramble-testing his limits like the storm—panic set in. Hendrick wasn't just chatty; he looped topics with fresh vocab—a true too-much-talker, denying even a lie-down.

[Back in the day, I roamed countless nations, unbeaten against so-called fighters!]

That cringe line elders avoid nowadays. Peng endured chills.

Made sense: eons alone after death? He'd have cracked. Pity hit—just bear it—then irritation surged.

[So I slugged him full-force. Flew back ten yards easy!]

Brag realistically or bust. Yards? British unit? Hating England but using it? Infuriating—setting slip or gag bait? Tags queued in his head, but he swallowed. Arguing meant endless extension. Vicious cycle.

Soften it.

"Hey, Hendrick. Know what time it is? You don't sleep, fine—but I need ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠rest."

Hendrick blinked.

[Oh, sorry.]

Surprisingly compliant. Realized the living-living gap late? Sailors seemed prickly, but smooth sailing—relief.

Finally sleep... sigh—

[But this part you gotta hear!]

'Argh.'

Favorability blocked snapping; madness.