Vortex of Despair
Allen's vision blurred into a chaotic mess. No, in truth, it was hard enough just to keep his eyes open. Whenever he sensed he wasn't underwater, all he could manage was a short gasp for air.
"Hah. Hah. Hah."
Even merfolk would struggle to hold their bodies steady in these waters. Allen's frame—frail and clumsy to begin with—was seized by the currents and dragged every which way.
The water was capricious and violent. Allen experienced firsthand why furious seas were listed in books as one of nature's disasters.
Water pressure and rushing flows squeezed his entire body. It was hard even to twitch his fingers or toes.
He barely managed to stretch out an arm, but all he grasped was formless seawater. There should have been wreckage from the ship shattered on the reefs, yet not even a straw to clutch at.
Am I going to die like this...?
Like an anchor tied to his ankle, his body sank lower and lower, and his mind, influenced by his flesh's state, grew distant.
Time was merciless. The more Allen labored in agony, the more it stretched on. The saying that life's memories flash by like a lantern show at the moment of death was a lie.
It just hurts too much.
In that instant, a spark ignited in Allen's mind. Pain was proof he was alive. He still drew breath. Giving up now might bring ease, but he couldn't end up as fish food.
Like laundry tumbling in a washing machine, Allen flailed and reached out. He hoped this feeble effort—like a straight line veering off at a tiny angle, destined to wander infinitely far—might become his lifeline.
Fortunately, his effort didn't end up in the trash. Allen collided hard with something. Ignoring the pain, he wrapped his arms around it with his whole body.
Oddly, the pain began to ebb. Allen clung to what felt like a reef and headed for the surface. Air to fill his lungs waited there.
"Pffah!"
Allen spat out the seawater in his mouth and sucked in briny air. He couldn't fathom where such strength had come from.
For once, Allen didn't plunge into his usual curiosity. Something far more important demanded his attention. Without hesitation, he dunked his head back underwater.
He tried to pry open his eyelids, but it was too difficult. He drew another breath and submerged again. With one hand, he forced his lids apart.
Ugh...
It hurt terribly, stung fiercely, but finding his parents came first. He had to find them, no matter what. Worries about his eyesight or wounds were shoved far aside.
But it wasn't easy. The fierce currents sucked up mud and silt from the seabed, scattering it everywhere and severely limiting visibility.
No. Please...
Allen kept plunging his head into the sea. Once, twice, three times... With each attempt, a heavier weight hung on his heart. Regret, sighs, sorrow—these formless anchors were unbearably heavy.
Hope sank into the depths, anxiety bubbled to the surface. The two emotions muddied Allen's mind.
As he steeled himself for another try, his body suddenly floated into the air. It wasn't some dreamlike tale of crisis awakening hidden potential.
Allen's body drifted out of the whirlpool. In that direction loomed a pirate ship. As it drew near, their voices carried over.
"At least salvage one properly!"
"Shut it if you're not helping!"
A pirate—wearing a helmet like his black headgear—gestured toward Allen.
When the man's arm swung right, Allen's body veered right. A quick flick, and his body shot along just as fast.
One goblin pirate saw it and cackled.
"You see that guy? Flailing at thin air."
"I said shut your trap."
"That's why you gotta buy quality Magitechwear, even if it's pricey. For telekinesis, just twitching your fingers looks cool and intimidates the enemy. Look at you now. That kid we're reeling in? He's probably laughing inside."
"No money, what can I do? No donation? Then just watch. Or I'll drop you in the drink."
The threat worked; the goblin clammed up. Still fuming, the magic-using pirate roughly slammed Allen onto the deck.
"Kuhk!"
Allen, who didn't even know proper falling form, hit back-first. The shock pierced his lungs, leaving him wheezing.
"Total log."
"Looks like he doesn't even need netting. He'd lose to a dwarf kid in a fight."
"How many times do I gotta shove it in your ear? Stop calling me that. I'm a proud citizen of the Goblin Kingdom..."
"Shut up and fetch the boss. Came for fuel money, but looks like a bust."
Disappointed that Allen offered no resistance, the pirates started chatting among themselves.
In the gap of their attention, Allen gripped the railing and stood. His movements wobbled like a baby's first steps.
"Ah..."
A sigh escaped his lips. All he saw was the whirlpool. The ravenous beast had swallowed every scrap of the fishing boat—including his parents.
His chest tore open. Allen's face brimmed with a heartbreaking tenderness.
The pirates, naturally, couldn't care less. A burly one kicked out with his boot.
Before Allen could groan, a pollock-headed merfolk jabbed a sharp needle into his shoulder.
"Move and you die."
The voice was coercive. Tension rippled through the pirates at the merfolk's appearance—like workers spotting the factory manager.
Moments later, a loud beep emanated from the rectangular device in the merfolk's hand.
"Was gonna use trash as shark bait, but..."
"How is it?"
"No Mana Heart, yet his mana density is off the charts. This for real?"
"Machine busted? Or some trick?"
"Nah. If he could fool this, we'd all be dead already. Plenty more than fuel value here."
The merfolk seemed pleased, easing the pirates' tension. The ones who'd stayed quiet buzzed with murmurs.
"Weird. No Mana Heart, yet that high?"
"Why send me? I got one."
"Yeah, yeah. So you slap on an EBI and cast spells, right? Hey, grab that one!"
Allen, clinging unsteadily to the railing again, toppled backward. Telekinesis seized his nape, rolling him head over heels several times.
Too drained to groan, Allen blacked out. The merfolk rushed over, panting, to check his pulse.
"Handle him gently, you idiot! Value drops if he hurts. Since you piped up, you're on watch duty."
"Captain, with newbies here..."
"Bonus pay."
At that, the pirate grinned eagerly and carried Allen carefully below deck, into the cleanest cage with the other "harvest."
Allen woke to a foul stench of filth. He'd smelled it often enough in Ranka to have some tolerance, but for some reason, it was unbearable now.
Thinking of home only worsened it. The dump where curios sometimes surfaced, the train wailing miracles at dawn, the shanty swaying in the wind.
And two warm shadows.
"Hic..."
Allen clamped a hand over his mouth. The magic pirate slept in a hammock slung from the ceiling; he couldn't make noise.
Emptiness gnawed. Despair swelled to fill hope's void, feeling oppressively vast. After long tears, Allen's vision faded to black.
Waking, Allen tried to recall his dream. Memories before the ship broke—especially the vivid final shapes of Robinson and Mary's lips.
Don't give up.
I love you.
Allen shed no more tears. Instead, he redirected his energy. First, he listened to the ship's sounds.
So quiet.
Worlds apart from the fishing boat's engine he'd escaped on.
Pure mana engine, probably.
No need to ignite fuel like an internal combustion engine; the drive motor itself was astonishingly silent. Plus, mana's energy conversion efficiency crushed fossil fuels.
Now he used his eyes. This was a dank, filthy hold. Brown stains mottled the cage floor.
Allen's gaze hit the bars. A light tug revealed their heft. A troll might bend them; no ordinary human could.
Finally, his eyes met the pirate's. Allen called out to the dazed guard.
"Mage sir?"
The pirate didn't catch it at first. Several cages lined the lower deck, packed with captives like Allen. Their Saldos speech carried Ranka's thick accent.
Like my family... Family...
Allen's thoughts froze. He shook his head hard, pressing his eyes.
...Refugees fleeing the civil war.
The pirate yelled at them to shut up. When sobs intensified, he'd slap cheeks with telekinesis.
"Mage sir?"
"Huh?"
Response came on the second try. The pirate shook his head, fixing on the sound's source.
"You talking to me?"
"Yes. You're the mage, right?"
"Ha! Got an eye for talent."
A smile ghosted his grimy face. Allen's word choice and politeness stroked his ego.
"One more cry, and I'll fillet your thigh for supper. No joke—keep quiet."
After threatening the others, the pirate squatted smirking before Allen's cage.
"What do you want with a busy mage?"
"Didn't expect to see one down here. Like a pearl in the mud."
The pirate went quiet awhile. Allen wondered if he'd offended, glancing warily.
"Pearl, huh..."
Just nerves. The pirate savored the word, repeating it.
"I like you. Would've taken you as new blood, but you're merchandise."
"Ah, merchandise..."
"Don't fret. Good master means good food, good life. You'll fetch a high price—rich folks'll buy ya."
Not the sort of thing a captor should say, but Allen listened quietly. Every word was intel.
Thus, he learned the headgear's purpose. Magitechwear encompassed worn or implanted parts and gear; the headgear was one.
Precisely, an EBI—artificial brain. It let non-mages wield magic.
Allen bombarded with questions like a madman; eventually, the fed-up pirate plugged his ears and ignored him.
In that timeless place, after what felt like ages, Allen sensed the ship docking.
Pirates herded the people out like sausages on a string. Dockworkers, used to the sight, didn't glance over.
A sizable port. Warehouses clustered right, stacked containers towered left.
The pirates led their captives deep in. Suppliers meant demanders. Their buyer: a slave trader.
Allen burned the pirates' faces into memory. No matter how long, he'd never forget.
"Gonna get revenge?"
A potbellied elf, puffing a cigarette, flicked the butt to the ground.
"Dream on."
"..."
"Playing dumb? Everyone dragged here thinks the same. But time scatters feelings. Like it or not, if you wanna live."
The elf demonstratively gripped an exterior drainpipe. His fingers left dents with a mere touch.
"Do this, and still clueless? Tough luck."
Grinning, he twirled a finger; underlings appeared, dragging slaves underground.
Allen was treated as premium goods. Labeled "unique constitution," he got better handling than most.
"Unique" meant rare. Thus, a buyer appeared sooner than expected—before 24 hours passed.
A gray-haired old man in a suit. Unlike his wrinkled face, his back was ramrod straight, his build imposing.
He personally inspected Allen's body, then handed a heavy pouch straight to the elf. Allen followed his new master down an alley.
"Lucky you."
The old man turned abruptly. Unlike before, his lips quirked up.
"Idiots with no eye couldn't price you right. Snagged a gem cheap. Call me Boss from now on."
"Yes, Boss."
Allen's quick reply lifted the Boss's short mustache.
"Heard Mana Excess Syndrome rots the brain sometimes. Not you, though."
"Mana Excess Syndrome?"
"Don't know it? Across the sea, they call it mana deficiency syndrome. Oh, almost forgot. A gift."
The Boss seemed uninterested in satisfying Allen's curiosity. Instead, his burly hand gripped Allen's shoulder, fastening a thick black collar around his neck.
"Like it? Hate it or not, keep it on. Fool around trying to remove it, and boom. Careful now."