Facing Charles's further questioning, Bandage remained silent and did not respond.

"You go take the helm. 12 to 24 is your shift. If you need to use the bathroom or anything, you can have Dean cover for you for a bit. I've taught him how to steer."

Bandage stood up quietly and walked outside.

Charles tapped his fingers on the table, organizing his thoughts. It sounded simple—find the thing and bring it back—but if it were really that easy, Fultonism wouldn't have sought outsiders.

That place must be extremely dangerous. The fact that the first mate sent by Fultonism gave no hints could mean one of two things: either he truly didn't know—everyone sent before had sunk to the bottom of the sea and couldn't pass on any information—or the danger was so great that he deliberately concealed it for fear of scaring them off. Neither possibility was good news. For now, they could only take things one step at a time.

The journey at sea was extremely oppressive. The Mouse was pitifully small, with limited space to move around. Fortunately, except for the two new sailors, everyone else was used to it.

At first, Charles was a bit uneasy about the new first mate, secretly keeping his guard up. But after a few days together, he found that this guy called Bandage, aside from speaking slowly and wearing strange clothes, showed nothing unusual.

He was steady and reliable at the helm, clearly very skilled. Charles's wariness eased a bit, but didn't disappear completely.

As the navigational markers gradually vanished, the Mouse slowly sailed into uncharted, untouched waters.

Without distant lights for orientation, everyone on board grew tense. There’s a saying in the Earthsea: when a ship enters unexplored waters, the sea floor has already reserved a spot for the crew.

But after several days, the fierce battles Charles had anticipated never came. This stretch of sea was as calm as a lake. Standing at the bow and looking down, the surroundings were like still ink.

This calm was anything but reassuring, as if it were the peace before a storm—so oppressive it was suffocating.

Charles was on high alert, patrolling the deck day and night, afraid something from below would climb aboard.

The ship’s searchlights pierced the darkness like beams, the light bringing the crew a little sense of security.

"Year 8, July 1st, clear

Everything is still normal today. This almost tangible oppression is about to drive my crew mad. That kid Dean kneels on the deck whenever he has time, praying to all sorts of gods.

I stopped him. The gods of Earthsea aren’t so easy to worship—careless words can bring disaster.

Luckily, the cook found a nest of little mice in the storeroom, which distracted them. Watching them carefully and gently feed the mice, I felt a bit emotional.

They have company, but what about me? Why was I the only one who crossed over? Being alone is really lonely. If only I had a companion."

Once the ink dried, Charles closed the diary and put it in the cabinet.

He took a square glass bottle, about as tall as his forearm and filled with brown liquid, from the bottom of the cabinet. He tilted his head back and took a swig, the dizzy feeling relaxing his tense mind.

Charles had never understood why people liked to drink—the bitter taste was like horse urine—but now he knew.

A tired brain needs more alcohol to numb itself, but Charles didn’t drink any more. A couple of sips to relax was fine, but drinking too much would erode his determination to go home.

Just then, cheers suddenly erupted outside. Charles was startled, quickly put the bottle away, and rushed to the deck.

The boatswain Dean rushed up to Charles, dancing with excitement, his face flushed red, wanting to say something but unable to get the words out.

Charles looked past the side of the ship into the darkness ahead. Under the searchlight’s beam, a giant object appeared directly in front of the Mouse—it was an island. They had arrived.

The steamboat slowly docked, but the cheers gradually faded. Along the island’s coast, eight old, battered steamboats of various sizes were moored. Judging by the rot on their hulls, the oldest had probably been there for two or three years.

The ships were motionless, like coffins set upon the sea.

"Why... why are there so many ships? Where are their crews?" Dean's uneasy voice trembled slightly. No one answered.

Looking at the island now, everyone felt a shadow fall over their hearts.

Charles didn’t rush ashore. He took Dean and James and jumped onto the nearest steamboat.

There were no bloodstains, no signs of chaos, and no shortage of fuel or food. Everything seemed perfectly normal—except for the missing crew.

Suddenly, Charles thought of something, burst into the captain’s cabin, and rummaged through the drawers until he found a hidden diary.

Chapter 7: The Unnoticeable Thing

"Year 435, January 11th

We finally arrived. May the Great One bless us. As long as we bring back the holy relic, I can undergo the anointing ceremony and become a true servant of the Lord!"

This was the last diary entry. From the way he addressed things, it was clear this captain was a follower of Fultonism. It wasn’t hard to guess that before seeking out Charles, Fultonism had sent their own believers here.

Charles had the crew search the other ships and found the situation was much the same. The captains’ diaries all recorded their excitement in their final moments.