[Mad Hat Island, Year 1508]
The morning air at the southern harbor of Mad Hat was far more pleasant than the central part of the city. There was still the salty scent of the sea and the rusty tang from old docked ships, but it was no longer mixed with the stench of blood or the thick smoke from illegal burnings. This was where Bastien and Arthur spent their mornings—learning how to survive.
"Again," Bastien said as he tossed a wooden guard toward Arthur.
The boy winced, clutching his bruised left arm. "Do you even realize that's the third time you've said 'again' in ten minutes?"
"If you'd stop curling up every time you get hit, I could cut it down to twice," Bastien replied, a small grin on his lips.
In the backyard of the weapons warehouse near the dock, they trained under the watchful eyes of Gerald Lazhar. The former pirate sat atop an empty ammunition crate, observing his two students like an old hawk, while assembling a broken rifle with skilled hands.
Their training wasn't glamorous. No dojo, no personal instructor. Just wooden sticks, hard-packed sand, and daily challenges. Lazhar taught them how to strike and defend, how to spot weaknesses in an opponent's stance, and—most importantly—how to read a person's intent from the look in their eyes and the subtlest movements.
"Don't focus too much on the fists. Focus on the intent," Lazhar said as he wiped oil from his hands. "Knowing your opponent wants to hit you is good. Knowing when they hesitate? That's gold."
Training wasn't always physical. After their bodies were battered, it was their minds' turn. Inside the warehouse, Bastien and Arthur sat on the floor, disassembling old weapons to learn how their parts worked. Bastien was calm and meticulous, while Arthur... mostly dropped bolts and complained about how boring it was.
"My hands are stiff!" Arthur groaned, raising a screwdriver like a weapon. "Can't we just train to be swordsmen instead?"
"If you can block bullets with a sword, be my guest," Bastien said, chuckling softly.
Between drills and fixing scratches, they were occasionally sent by Lazhar to deal directly with petty thugs or cartel members stirring up trouble around the harbor. These tasks weren't just practice—they were lessons on how the world really worked.
One afternoon, after helping Lazhar replace a damaged rifle barrel, Bastien and Arthur sat on the warehouse roof, enjoying the ocean view and snacking on hard bread that had started to mold.
"You ever heard of the 'Salt Island'?" Arthur asked, mouth full of bread.
"The one that shows up in the fog and vanishes like a ghost?" Bastien raised an eyebrow. "That's just a fairy tale."
"Fairy tales can be real," Arthur muttered. "Maybe there's treasure there, or amazing food… or a ramen shop where we can eat for free forever."
Bastien laughed. "An unlimited ramen shop? Now that sounds more tempting than 'becoming strong'."
"When we set sail someday," Arthur continued, "I want to find all those weird places. Salt Island, the red lake, the sunken city... Every place people say 'doesn't exist.'"
Bastien nodded slowly, a faint smile on his face. "Me too. But don't forget one thing…"
"What's that?"
"We have to be strong enough to survive the journey."
---
That night, in one of the old bars in the southwest district, the atmosphere seemed normal—half-hearted music, sailor chatter, clinking glasses. But in a dark corner, a figure in a gray cloak sat silently, observing.
He wasn't the only one. In other parts of the city—the black market, gambling dens, even the small harbor—strange figures had begun to appear, always watching, taking notes, vanishing before anyone could identify them.
Mad Hat was being watched. But no one knew it yet.
Not yet.