Chapter 175

Chapter 175

Evan tapped his fingers lightly against the edge of the bone china plate, the cool sensation spreading through his fingertips, dampening the faint unease stirring inside him.

He looked down at the half-eaten lobster on his plate; the rich, buttery tenderness still seemed to cling to his tongue, yet the sudden Ghost Ship interlude had killed the taste. Lifting his eyes, the sea outside had fully settled into dusk, with only the ship’s navigation lights casting a faint halo in the darkness, just like that ghost ship's blurry, creepy outline from a minute ago.

He never thought a simple ocean crossing would put him face-to-face with a legend he’d only read about in novels and records—the Ghost Ship. It only made him realize more how many unknown dangers lurked beneath the seemingly calm sea.

“Oh, what an intriguing experience.” Gray chimed in, sounding impressed, carrying a hint of casual excitement, a sharp contrast to the others still shaken up in the dining room.

He leaned back in his chair, totally at ease, while a waiter set down warm soup and crusty toast in front of him. Then he grabbed a bottle of bourbon from the cabinet beside him.

The amber liquid flowed slowly into a crystal glass, no ice added, the straight whiskey glowing warmly under the light. The air filled with a rich oak smell, mixed with a hint of caramel.

He took a sip, letting it roll over his tongue, savoring it as his Adam's apple bobbed. A satisfied look crossed his face as he turned to John, who was busy cutting into a fillet mignon.

The steak was seared perfect—crispy on the outside, tender inside. As the knife cut through, pink meat oozing bloody juices. John’s movements with the knife and fork were crisp and efficient, clearly not bothered by the whole ghost ship thing.

“Oh, my dear John, you ought to try some whiskey,” Gray said, swirling the liquid in his glass with a teasing tone. “Isn't that sweet, fizzy champagne more for kids or ladies? Times like this call for something strong to shake off the creepiness of that scene.”

John didn't look up, his wrist steady as he sliced the steak into even pieces. He rolled his eyes hard and shot back without missing a beat, “Detective, for the sake of that smart brain of yours that brings in the Gold Sala, you'd better watch your drinking.”

He forked a piece of steak into his mouth, chewing as he added, “Last time you got drunk and mixed up the evidence, I had to stay up all night straightening it out. I don’t want a repeat of that hassle.”

Gray laughed out loud, not bothered by John's jab, and took another sip of whiskey.

The mood in the dining room was slowly getting back to normal.

When the ghost ship had appeared, some had knocked over their glasses in shock, others had ducked under tables on instinct, and a few had rushed to the windows to gawk. Now, most of those panicked looks had faded. Some, annoyed by the interruption, quickly paid up and headed back to their cabins; others stayed, though their fork-and-knife work slowed down, their attention no longer on the food, as they whispered to the people at their tables.

“That ship was terrifying, right? It looked like it was falling apart—how was it even still floating?”

“Maybe it's a 'sea phantom.' My grandpa used to say when he sailed that some ships sink in storms, but their ghosts drift on the sea, following passing ships.”

The murmurs rose and fell, mingling with the clatter of utensils and the soothing music the band had resumed playing, yet the earlier ease and comfort were gone.

Evan picked up his glass of red wine, swirling it gently, listening to the speculations around him. His mind, however, drifted to a pirate’s diary he had once found in a shop in the harbor district. The diary’s owner was named Hill Bird, and the Sea God’s faith coin had been discovered in the diary’s lining.

So, this Hill Bird was worth Evan’s time. And since he was now at sea, could he perhaps seek out other things mentioned in the diary?

August 8, Year XX, Strong Winds

The Captain has not returned today. I couldn’t sleep from hunger, so I ventured alone deeper into the cave. I don’t know how long I walked; even my torch went out. Just when I thought I would die here, I saw a glowing tree. On it were some red fruits. Eating just one banished my hunger. I picked all the fruits and brought them back.

A glowing tree with red fruits—clearly supernatural items, and edible ones at that.

The diary was still in his briefcase. Evan planned to return to his room later to examine it more closely.

The dark purple sea fog churned as if stirred by an invisible hand, carrying a decayed, briny stench that made the outline of “The Death Ship” even more menacing.

This ghost ship had just passed silently beneath the hull of the Victoria, its surface covered in deep brown seaweed and barnacles. Its tattered sails, like ragged burial shrouds, moaned in the night wind. Every plank was steeped in a century’s worth of sea salt and the chill of the dead. Rusted chains hung from the rails, clanking hollowly with the waves, like funeral bells from the underworld.

Before the helm, the Skeleton Captain stood like a monument. His bones were a faded ivory, joints worn and marked, with two clusters of ghostly green flames flickering in his eye sockets, pulsing with each breath (if it could be called that).

His bony fingers gripped the helm tightly, the knuckles whitening from the strain. Black mist coiled around the helm, merging with his skeletal hand as if it had grown there.

“Hehehe—” A piercing laugh erupted from his hollow throat, raspy like metal scraping. He raised his left hand, fingers spread, and black smoke gathered like living things from the cracks in the deck and the depths of the sea fog, swirling in his palm, gradually forming a battered wooden cup.

The cup was cracked all over, stuck with dried seaweed and tiny shells, with dark red stains on its surface, like dried blood.

In the next instant, a dark red liquid appeared in the cup, thick as honey, glowing with an eerie crimson light. Up close, it smelled of rust and aged wine—a “blood brew” meant only for the undead.

The Skeleton Captain raised the cup to his lips, and the dark red liquid poured down through the gaps in his jaw, some trickling along his cervical vertebrae and dripping onto the deck, leaving dark marks that were instantly absorbed by the wood, leaving only a faint metallic scent. The rest merged into the green flames in his eye sockets, causing them to flare up with even greater intensity and fervor.

“Set sail! Set sail!” He crushed the wooden cup in his hand, black smoke scattering and re-joining the surrounding fog.

The hoarse roar burst from his hollow throat, piercing through the air, echoing across the sea and scattering distant seabirds. “The Death Ship sets sail again! Trample the waves! Devour the living!”

On the deck, countless skeleton sailors stirred. Some were missing arms or legs, others had rusted ship nails embedded in their skulls, and some wore broken chains around their waists, their bones clattering as they moved. Hearing Captain Bird’s roar, they stopped their tasks—some mending torn sails, others polishing rusted cannons, and a few leaning over the rails, their eye sockets glowing with greed as they stared at the distant Victoria—and turned in unison, kneeling on one knee toward the helm, their hollow throats chanting in unison: “As you command, Captain Bird!”

The roar shook the sea fog, and the ghostly green flames on the deck formed a sea of fire.

Captain Bird slowly turned the helm. The Death Ship changed course in the dark purple fog, its tattered sails billowing under an unseen force, dragging the ship full of the undead toward the deeper night. A dark trail lingered in its wake, slowly fading into the sea, as if it had never existed, leaving only the lingering chill and decay, spreading through the sea breeze.