A sleepless night.
Rayan held the pistol tightly, listening nervously to the chaos outside. They had been searching for him all night, but as expected, they found nothing.
As for this ship, it would definitely not be searched again. Just as the captain had said, this ship was headed to paradise, and only a fool would hide on it. Thus, Rayan, the "fool" who willingly chose to go to paradise, naturally slipped into a blind spot in their thinking.
"Woo woo."
Finally, the whistle blew, and Rayan felt the world around him tremble. The ship had started moving. He could feel it slowly pulling away from the dock, the hull sinking slightly into the water as it carried him towards an unknown destiny.
At that moment, a few crew members came down to the storage room from above. They opened two wooden barrels, grabbed some bread, and left, probably to prepare breakfast. After they were gone and the room fell silent, Rayan cautiously pushed open the lid above him and crawled out of the barrel.
"Crack crack, crack crack."
His body made a series of sharp sounds as he stretched. After being curled up all night, his muscles ached horribly, making him grimace with pain.
Before transmigrating, Rayan had spent his days at home playing games, reading books, and lazing around. His biggest complaint had been his steadily increasing weight.
But now, after arriving here, he had been shot in the head — he could still remember the instant, the searing pain, and the terrifying moment his mind went blank. Then he killed a man. Then he spent the night hiding like a rat inside a wooden barrel. The suffering was overwhelming, far beyond what a former couch potato could bear.
Rayan sighed bitterly and recalled an old saying: A man may not enjoy endless blessings, but he can endure endless suffering.
Despite all the pain, despite the humiliation and fear, he still desperately wanted to live. Perhaps survival was simply a basic instinct etched into every living being.
Rubbing his sore eyes, he shook off his self-pity and focused on survival. He grabbed a piece of bread and a can of meat from one of the barrels and squatted in the corner to eat. All the while, his eyes never left the door, ready to dive back into hiding at the slightest disturbance.
"Mmm... so delicious."
The simple meal of rye bread and cured meat was a heavenly feast compared to the pig slop they had fed him back in the internment camp. It might not have been much, but in this moment, it was pure bliss.
After filling his stomach and regaining a bit of strength, he felt a little more alive.
When he had killed that soldier before, he had absorbed about one third of the man's physical capabilities. Combined with his own body, that gain gave his thin frame the strength of a fully grown adult, which also helped to deceive enemies who judged him by appearances. Still, if he could avoid fighting, he would.
Leaning against the cold wall, surrounded by rows of wooden barrels in the dark and windowless storage room, Rayan sank into a gloomy mood. He had no idea how long the journey from Marley to Paradis Island would take, but he was certain it would not be easy.
"Sigh..."
Day after day passed on the endless sea. Over time, Rayan learned the crew's schedule, especially when they would come down to retrieve food. Outside of those fixed times, he dared to stretch his limbs and move freely around the storage room.
In that dark little space, there were no clocks and no view of the sky. He could not tell day from night. The only way he could track the passage of time was by the frequency with which the crew came for supplies.
Luckily, he did not suffer from claustrophobia, or he might have gone mad. Even so, the frustration and anger building inside him grew heavier by the day, pressing down on him like a storm ready to explode.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity — more than half a month — the ship began to slow.
Rayan's senses sharpened. He stood up, pressed his ear against the door, and listened.
Footsteps. Talking. Crying. Pleading.
The Marleyan crew members were leading the Eldian prisoners off the ship. It was obvious what was about to happen.
He stayed put, biding his time. Only when everything outside quieted down did Rayan gently open the door.
Beyond the door was a narrow staircase leading upward. He crept up silently and peered around. The deck was empty. The crew members had all moved onto the stone platform that surrounded the island.
Through the porthole, Rayan saw the prisoners tied hand and foot with thick nylon ropes, kneeling helplessly on the high platform. The Marleyans laughed and joked as one of them opened a metal box filled with syringes and small bottles of spinal fluid.
Rayan's eyes narrowed coldly. He counted seven Marleyan crew members outside. But he knew that could not be all of them. Some must still be on the ship.
He pulled back from the window and began searching the ship carefully.
Soon, he found a resting room filled with bunk beds. Five crew members were sleeping soundly inside.
Because the ship sailed nonstop, and the world's technology had not yet developed autopilot systems, the crew had to work shifts day and night. These sleeping men must have been on duty the night before.
Glancing at the pistols beside their beds, Rayan drew his own pistol and quietly released the safety.
He crept to the first bed, leaned over the man, pressed the muzzle against the soldier's heart, grabbed the nearby quilt to cover his mouth, and pulled the trigger.
"Pfft."
"Mmmph."
The soldier jerked awake, but the shot stole his strength and breath. Within seconds, he stopped moving.
One by one, Rayan repeated the process. Silent. Efficient. Brutal.
Soon, five living men became five silent corpses.
Rayan had thought it would be difficult, that his hands would shake or his heart would fail. But it was surprisingly easy. Perhaps the long days alone in darkness had hardened him. Perhaps hatred and survival instinct had fused into something stronger.
Killing these men was no longer a matter of good or evil. It was a matter of life or death. No hesitation. No guilt. Only action.
The pistol now had only two bullets left, but that was not a problem. The weapons of the five dead men were his to claim. Not just pistols, but also automatic rifles.
Seven enemies remained outside. A pistol alone would not be enough, even in a surprise attack. He needed something better.
He picked up an automatic rifle. Although he had never used one before, it was not rocket science. He did not need to be a sharpshooter. He just needed to be able to pull the trigger and spray bullets at close range.
He stacked several quilts together to make a makeshift silencer, then studied the rifle carefully. He opened the muzzle cover, turned off the safety, and squeezed the trigger.
"Puff puff puff puff puff."
Bullets tore through the fabric. The recoil was much stronger than a pistol, jerking his arm upward, but he quickly adjusted. He shifted his stance and practiced a few more bursts, slowly getting the hang of it.
"Very good."
It was not too difficult after all. Satisfied, he slung the rifle over his shoulder, returned to the porthole, and prepared for what came next.
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