You Must Not Become Weak
The inside of the tavern sat heavier than usual, as if the air itself had thickened. The pirates who had been clashing glasses since noon now kept their mouths shut, hugging the walls.
One man had frozen while righting an overturned chair. Another simply stared at the wet floorboards. When the door creaked open, the sharp, briny scent of rain rushed in.
“What’s this? Did someone die?”
Tasha stepped inside, roughly shoving her rain-soaked black hair back from her face. Normally the pirates would have tossed back a sly joke, but today none of them even smiled at her. The master behind the counter kept wiping the same empty glass in silence.
Tasha walked up and leaned an elbow on the counter. “Where’s our little nun?”
The master’s rough hand stopped mid-wipe. Tasha’s eyes narrowed a fraction.
“Did she run?”
“No.” The master set the glass down slowly. “The Black Anchor took her.”
Tasha said nothing. The master added, short and flat, “Captain Grain herself.”
Only then did the last trace of a smile vanish from Tasha’s lips. Somewhere deeper in the tavern, someone swallowed hard. Outside, rain kept drumming on the eaves. The same sound had been falling all along, yet from that moment it seemed louder.
Tasha turned a glass on the counter with her fingertips. The untouched liquor inside swayed in slow ripples.
“…This is bad.”
The master offered no reply. Tasha asked nothing more. She simply spun the glass once again and muttered under her breath, “Of all people… that child.”
No one asked whether she meant Ria or Grain.
In the end Tasha never lifted the drink. She simply shrugged her wet coat back onto her shoulders.
It felt like I had finally carved out a place for myself on this ship. The navy sailors who once glared at the slightest eye contact now pretended they couldn’t refuse when I approached with my medicine box; they simply held out their arms.
The same thing happened with the pre-departure prayers. No one asked openly. Yet after I finished wrapping their bandages they would clear their throats for no reason, look away, or rub the backs of their hands under their noses. Then they waited for me to clasp my hands first.
Food appeared more often too. Hard crusts of bread. Dried fruit. A single candy, its edges flattened from rolling around in someone’s pocket for days.
“Keep the rest,” they would say, refusing to withdraw their hands until I accepted.
It wasn’t bad. The problem was Grain.
Grain was terrifying the moment you looked at her. Her words were curt, her gaze icy. Yet she paid more attention to me than I expected. She made sure I ate. When I looked frightened she would retreat with a stiff expression. She rarely asked if I was all right, but she always seemed to notice when something bothered me.
That same person had grown sharper ever since traces of Tasha began to surface.
Even after training ended, Grain refused to set down her sword. The other sailors drifted toward the water barrels one by one; someone draped a wet towel around his neck. The few cups left on the side of the deck emptied quickly. Only Grain remained standing exactly where she was. The tip of her blade pointed at the ground, but her hand never left the hilt.
I picked up a cool cup of water and trotted over. After a few steps her gaze flicked down for the briefest moment.
“Captain Grain.”
“…”
“I brought water.”
“Not needed.”
“You’ve been training without stopping.”
“Give it to the others.”
“They’ve already drunk.”
“Then drink it yourself.”
A small ripple stirred inside the cup. My fingers tightened for no reason. Grain lifted her sword again. Before I could say anything more, the blade sliced through the air.
Meals were the same.
“Leave it.”
“You’re not going to eat anyway.”
“Leave it.”
The door shut. When I returned much later the plate was almost untouched. The bread had hardened after a single bite; a thin skin had formed on the cooled stew. On the way back with the tray I found myself gripping the handle so tightly my knuckles ached.
The other sailors let things slide. They grumbled but still held out their arms. They pretended indifference while waiting for my prayer. They pressed food into my hands for no reason at all. Yet the highest-ranking person on this ship kept becoming more and more unreachable.
Had I done something wrong? Being hated by the highest superior was never good. No matter how kindly the others looked at me, the one who decided where I stayed was the captain.
At first it was pure stubbornness. Everyone else accepted me—why was she the only one growing more distant? After watching her a few more days on deck, I realized it wasn’t that simple.
Grain wasn’t pushing me away because I annoyed her. Every time someone reached toward her, she took one step back first.
“Your hand is bleeding,” I said from the edge of the training ground.
Grain didn’t even glance at the hand holding her sword.
“No problem.”
“The inside of your glove is soaked.”
“Sweat.”
It was a lie. The black leather hid the red well, but the damp stain spreading toward her wrist was too dark, too viscous. The way it seeped out looked grotesque for mere sweat.
When I took out the medicine box, Grain pulled her hand back.
“Not needed.”
“I haven’t even said anything yet.”
“Don’t.”
The lid of the box stopped in my palm. Grain raised the wooden sword again. Boom. The sharp blade tore through the air—short, fast, precise. But one finger gripping the hilt refused to bend properly from pain and trembled faintly. Before the next movement could flow smoothly, fresh red blood welled from inside the glove.
Tasha’s name rose like a quiet rumor at first. The day word arrived that a black sail had been sighted in the western reefs, the noise on deck quieted. The laughing sailor closed his mouth. The sailor winding rope slowed by half a beat. The adjutant hurried past with a damp report.
Grain accepted the paper but barely looked at it. Her gloved hand crushed the edge. The sheet rustled once.
That night the sound of Grain’s sword swinging alone in the training ground continued for hours longer than usual.
Next came information coughed up by a smuggler. Black sail. Western current. Smiling female captain. The sailor delivering the report never once met Grain’s eyes. The moment he finished he bowed his head. Grain remained silent for a long moment.
That evening she broke three training swords. The first split near the hilt. The second bent in the middle. The third shattered at the tip and rolled across the deck. A sailor who tried to fetch a new one stopped in his tracks. Grain stared coldly at the broken pieces, then drew the real blade from her waist.
“Captain,” the adjutant said, voice low.
Grain did not turn. “Move.”
Until dawn the ring of steel rose from below deck.
At first I thought I had misheard it in my sleep. But the sound continued night after night—short, clipped footsteps, the blade cutting air, someone breathing low and hard. The closer Tasha’s name came, the more viciously Grain tore at her own body.
On days reports arrived, she stayed on deck longer. Evening meals were left silently at her door only to be cleared away later, covered in dust. The bread showed only the marks of a single bite; the stew had been stirred once and abandoned. Even deep into the night the sword never stopped. It would pause, then resume. The moment I thought she might be resting, steel sliced the air again.
By morning dried blood crusted beneath her gloves. Grain gripped the hilt as though her wounds were invisible and walked back to the center of the deck.
“She’s really going to collapse at this rate,” I muttered.
The sailor beside me glanced over but said nothing. His gaze drifted to the middle of the deck where Grain stood. Her black eyes stared straight ahead—at nothing more than a wooden post and wet ropes—yet she held her sword as if facing something far beyond them.
The rain began after the night had grown deep. At first the drops were light, pattering across the deck. Then they grew heavier. I woke to the sound and opened my eyes. The hiss of a sword cutting wind reached me. I thought I had imagined it. I had not. Short, broken sounds. Footsteps continuing. Heavy movement on wet planks.
I threw on a coat and stepped outside. The deck was already drenched. Rainwater streamed along the railings; ropes hung dark and swollen. Lanterns swayed in the wind. In the middle of it all stood Grain, still holding her real blade. Her wet uniform clung to her body. Rain dripped from the ends of her hair. Her gloves were soaked through, plastered to the backs of her hands. Yet the sword did not stop. Once. Again. Once more. Cutting rain, cutting darkness, driving even her own body forward.
A few sailors stood at the edge of the deck. One held a dry towel. Another had set a bucket of warm water beside him. None dared step into the downpour to stop her. The adjutant was among them, towel clutched in his fist.
I shook rain from my face and moved close to his side. “Aren’t you going to stop her?”
The adjutant gave no answer. The towel twisted tighter in his grip. Grain’s sword cut through the rain again. His lips parted.
“Captain.”
The word died there. Grain did not turn. The sword rose once more. The wet towel in the adjutant’s hand folded smaller. I looked toward the center of the deck. Grain’s blade remained precise. She was trying to be precise. Her wrist lagged by a fraction. Her left foot, bearing weight, slipped with a wet squeak on the rain-slick boards. Still she did not stop. She swung harder.
This isn’t enough.
Grain clenched her teeth. Rain streamed past her eyes. Her breath burned hot; her fingertips were ice. The wound inside the glove had reopened, yet she could not release the hilt. It was still not enough. Tasha’s shadow was drawing nearer. This might be the first and last chance.
The old men of the prestigious family had never considered Grain a match for Tasha. They never even tried to place themselves before that name. Even if Grain stubbornly clung on, rose to captain, drenched herself in blood on the open sea to pile up fame and achievements—Tasha remained someone beyond her reach.
If she missed here, it was over. She would never be permitted again. She would never touch Tasha again. So more. More. More.
The tip of the sword seemed about to reach. This time, truly. Grain gritted her teeth and stepped deeper. She poured strength into her wrist until it stung. Yet Tasha was smiling. She had not even set her sword properly. A light twist of her wrist sent Grain’s blade sliding aside.
“Still far off, little one.”
A finger tapped her forehead lightly. Even then she could not reach. Not once. Not even on the day Tasha had complained it was bothersome and barely drawn her sword had Grain managed to brush the hem of her coat.
The Tasha of now would be even stronger. Grain was no longer the child she had been. She had earned the rank of captain and carved her name across the sea. Still it was not enough. It was never enough.
The sword cut through the rain again. Her breathing fractured. The blade drifted at an angle. Still she did not stop. Unable to bear it, I stepped forward.
“Captain Grain.”
No answer.
“Stop.”
The sword kept moving. I moved closer.
“The flesh on your palm has burst open. You look feverish. You’ll really collapse like this.”
Only then did Grain look at me. Her rain-drenched eyes remained cold as ice. Up close I saw her lips were bloodless.
“Step back.”
“I won’t.”
Someone nearby swallowed a sharp breath. Grain’s gaze lowered slowly. Beneath rain-heavy lashes her black eyes fixed on me.
“It is an order.”
Her voice dropped low. My body stiffened instinctively. Still, I could not retreat here.
“I’m not one of your sailors.”
Strength entered my fingertips the moment the words left me. Her cold stare was frightening. But if I stepped back now she would simply lift the sword again.
“At least let me give you a towel—”
Before I finished, Grain tried to move. Her foot slipped on the wet deck. Her body swayed. I reached out by reflex.
“Captain!”
Grain did not take my hand. She caught her own balance. In that brief instant I saw it—her hand was trembling. She straightened immediately, as though nothing had happened, and raised her sword again. The towel twisted violently in the adjutant’s grip. Several sailors took one step forward and stopped. The rain grew fiercer.
The next day Grain lay in the captain’s bed. No one spoke of collapse. The sailors outside the door lowered their voices. The adjutant simply swapped out wet towels. The window stood slightly open. A sharp, bitter smell of medicine filled the room. Beside the water basin lay a folded cloth with faint traces of blood.
Grain kept her eyes tightly shut, sweating cold drops and breathing in ragged, fevered gasps. I approached carefully with a fresh damp towel.
Several strands of black hair clung to her burning forehead, soaked with sweat. Her lips were dry. Her hands rested on the blanket, fingers still slightly curled as though gripping a sword hilt.
Grain murmured something. At first I thought it was only labored breathing.
“…Sister.”
My hand, reaching to wipe her forehead, froze. Grain’s lips moved again, just barely.
“Edel… sister.”
A single drop fell from the towel. Grain’s fingers clutched the blanket as if trying to tear it. I wrung the towel once more and reached toward her scalding forehead. At that moment a hand seized my wrist.
Clench.
My body went rigid. It was Grain’s hand. Yet there was almost no strength in it. The grip that would normally bruise now barely held on. Her fingertips burned; her arm felt heavy enough to drop at any second.
Grain’s closed eyelids opened slowly, with great effort. Her focus wavered. After a long moment her black eyes found me.
“…What is it.”
Her voice was parched. For a moment I forgot how to speak, my wrist still caught. Even someone this strong could become this weak. What kind of story could drive her so hard? The thought came first.
Right then the entire warship lurched.
At first I thought it was a wave. But the tilt was too severe. The water basin beside the bed scraped across the floor. Folded towels spilled onto the wet planks. A heavy, dull impact rose from the lowest hold, as though the hull had struck a massive rock.
The thick wooden walls of the captain’s quarters groaned horribly, on the verge of splitting. The lantern on the wall swung wildly. Someone outside the door swallowed a curse.
Grain’s fingers tightened on my wrist, groping. There was no power in them. Yet her eyes had changed. The black pupils that had been unfocused now locked on the door.
Again. Thud. This time the whole ship was thrown sideways as if it would shatter. The floor twisted beneath us. My body pitched forward. Grain’s grip on my wrist nearly slipped.
“…What the hell—”
Before the words finished, a bell rang. Once. Then immediately again. This time there was no interval. The sharp peals tore through the room as though someone were yanking the rope in a frenzy. Footsteps thundered outside.
“Left railing!”
“Grab the ropes!”
Screams and desperate shouts overlapped, ripping at the ears. Fishy wind poured through the window crack. It was not the smell of the sea. It was thicker, stickier.
Grain tried to rise. At that moment something outside slammed into the deck. Bang! The basin on the floor leapt into the air and overturned. The walls shook. A sailor’s scream tore through the open doorway. Then a voice roared:
“All hands, weapons up! All personnel to the deck—battle stations!”
Before the words faded another voice ripped through the same command. It echoed into the room. Strength flooded back into Grain’s hand—or tried to. The fingers around my wrist trembled once. Hot fever pressed against my skin. Yet the grip remained weak. A hard twist would have freed me.
Grain’s eyes turned toward the door. Her focus was still hazy, but her body moved first.
“Sword.”
A dry, cracked voice.
I shook my head at once. “Absolutely not.”
“Sword.”
Grain tried to push herself up. The blanket slid away. A thin arm braced against the edge of the bed. Her fingertips missed once. Her upper body pitched forward. I grabbed her shoulder.
“You can’t move right now.”
“Move.”
“I won’t.”
“Ria.”
The voice that spoke my name was hoarse. It was not the usual low, solid command. It sounded as if sand filled her throat. Grain did not look at me. Beyond the door the bell rang again. Shouts drew closer.
“Hold the left railing!”
“Harpoons ready!”
The ship tilted sharply. The basin slid and spilled across the floor. Water spread to my feet. Fishy wind blasted through the open window. Grain’s hand searched for the scabbard. Even though it lay right beside her, her fingers missed once, scratching the bedframe before finally finding it.
“Sword.”
Her voice cracked.
I blocked her hand. “No. How do you expect to fight in that condition?”
Grain’s gaze stayed fixed on the door. Outside, bells and screams tangled together. The hull shook violently again; spilled water lapped at my feet.
“Move.”
“With that body?”
Grain tried once more to rise. Before her legs could reach the floor her torso swayed. I seized her arm. Normally she would have shaken me off instantly. This time she could not. The arm I held was burning and heavy.
“What can you even do when you can’t push even me away?”
Grain’s jaw tightened. She did not look at me. Her eyes remained locked on the chaotic deck beyond the open door.
“If the kraken seizes the ship, the operation ends.”
Her cracked voice continued, low.
“If we return… we will never sail again.”
Her breath hitched. Grain’s fingers clenched the scabbard until the tips turned white.
“The family opposed it from the start. My chasing Tasha. Coming this far.”
“…”
“I forced my way here.”
The words came out as if she were chewing and spitting them. Something outside struck the deck again. The wall shuddered; the doorframe groaned. Grain’s body pitched forward once more. I gripped her arm tighter.
“If I fail this time as well—”
Grain bared her teeth.
“I will never catch Tasha again.”
“But the adjutant and the sailors are still here.”
Grain’s gaze returned slowly. Fever-bright eyes brushed across me for a moment.
“Trust them?”
Her voice cracked lower.
“Me?”
The fingers on the scabbard turned even whiter. Bells and shouts poured through the open door. Water sloshed across the wet floor again.
“How can I trust that?”
Grain looked outside once more.
“How can I believe it?”
I had no answer. Grain twisted her captured arm. It was neither as rough nor as fast as usual, yet my grip gave way.
“Move.”
This time it did not sound like an order. Grain staggered forward one heavy step. I reached for the arm I had lost but only brushed wet sleeve. Her shoulder pushed my arm aside. My back struck the desk corner; the basin at my feet overturned. When I lifted my head, Grain was already heading for the door. One step. Another. Leaning on the wall, clutching the frame, refusing to stop.
“Captain…”
My voice came out small. Grain did not turn. Another roar erupted outside. Rain and fishy wind blasted through the open doorway. The deck was already ruined. Black water hammered the ship’s side. Waves climbed over the railing and licked the planks. Ropes lashed madly; broken wood spun across the surface.
And beyond it waited the kraken. Black tentacles coiled around the hull. Several harpoons jutted from its slippery hide, yet its movements never ceased. One tentacle swept across the deck. Crack. Part of the railing tore away; a sailor tumbled across the boards.
“Third line!” the adjutant’s voice cut through the rain. “Pull!”
The sailors moved. They dragged the fallen clear, seized empty ropes, wrapped wet lines around their shoulders. When feet slipped, the man beside them filled the gap instantly. Grain’s hand moved to her scabbard. Her fingers slipped once, then gripped again. She meant to draw the blade. But the sword would not come free.
Grain’s gaze had locked onto the deck. The angle at which they hauled the ropes. The speed with which they closed ranks behind those pushed back.
The way they dragged the fallen aside and immediately filled their places. All of it was familiar. All of it was something Grain had drilled into them again and again. On the rain-drenched deck, the formation held even without her voice.
A black tentacle slammed into a shield. Bang! The sailor in front staggered. Two men behind braced him. He did not fall.
Grain’s hazy eyes remained fixed on the battlefield before her. The fingers on the scabbard tightened, then loosened a fraction. Rain-soaked hair clung to her cheek. Her lips were dry. Her breathing came rough from fever. The hand holding the scabbard trembled faintly. The sheath shook.
The adjutant shouted again. “Push the main body!”
At his command a massive steel harpoon flew with a roar. The heavy metallic sound tore through the storm and pierced the kraken’s enormous form. Black fluid sprayed across the deck. The sailors hauled on the connected ropes with everything they had.
When one man collapsed from exhaustion another grabbed his collar and pulled with him. If the rope slackened in the rain, someone wrapped it around his own waist and hauled it taut again. When tentacles surged forward, shields met them and backs braced from behind.
It was not perfect. Men slipped, swallowed curses, and blood-mixed rainwater flowed beneath their boots. Yet the ship held. The black tentacles were gradually forced back beyond the railing. The kraken’s body was dragged upward. The harpoon lines sang taut. The adjutant lowered his hand at last.
“Now!”
The ropes pulled together. The kraken’s body twisted violently. Black flesh slid down the hull. One tentacle drooped limply onto the deck. Others sank powerlessly into the sea. Rough breathing sounded between the raindrops. One sailor collapsed where he stood. Someone spat a short curse.
At that sight Grain’s eyes wavered. It was a truly fleeting, minuscule change—something one might miss with a single blink in the rain. The hand that had been reaching for the sword stopped. The strength that had drained from it. The eyes watching the deck no longer moved with their former sharpness.
Then the adjutant raised his hand. “Do not lower your guard. Keep the lines—”
Before he finished, a black shadow surged from beneath the ship. A tentacle that had been hiding below the railing. Wet flesh rose without sound and lashed toward Grain at the edge of the deck.
Grain reacted. She tried to draw. But the blade followed half a beat too late. Her fingers slipped on the sheath. In that gap the tentacle coiled around her waist.
“Captain!”
The adjutant’s scream tore apart. Grain’s body was dragged toward the railing. There was no time to think. The hand that had gripped my wrist earlier flashed through my mind—hot, powerless, yet refusing to let go. My own hand moved first.
“Damn it.”
I seized Grain’s wrist. Only after I had done it did I realize it was already too late. The tentacle was falling beyond the railing. Grain’s body was pulled with it. The deck slid beneath my feet. Cold water struck my ankles.
“Let go,” Grain said. Her voice was low. There was no strength in it.
“Let go.”
With what little power remained she tried to push my hand away. Her fingers slipped across my wet skin. Yet her hand would not open.
I saw the adjutant running. His reaching hand. But the tentacle fell first. Our bodies were dragged into open air. Rain seemed to rise upward. No—we were falling downward.
“Ria!”
Someone shouted. Grain’s hand caught my wrist again. Hot. Weak. Desperate. Seawater splashed into my mouth.
“It’s too late.”
The moment the words left me, black water closed over our heads. Sound, light, the deck—everything vanished in an instant. The sea dragged us down.