Port of Laurent, 310. A suffocating blend of burning coke, whale oil, and rotting fish clung to the throat. As the eleventh hour of the night approached, the voyage began.
Thick, wet ropes were cast off from the wooden dock. The steam engine let out a hoarse cry, spewing a black cloud of choking smoke. Slowly and heavily, the dilapidated ship made its way through the stagnant harbor waters; a mass of rusted iron and salt-eaten wood. It carried six men led by a captain blinded by greed, swaying away from the city lights to plunge into the heart of the open sea.
Two hours of silent sailing passed in the Strait of Loss. This course was not unfamiliar to them. Only a week earlier, they had been here at the coordinates drawn on the cursed piece of leather the captain had bought from a drunken old man in the port. They had returned disappointed that day after the lead weight snagged on something solid that the hemp ropes could not withstand.
But they returned today with harder hearts, equipped with a steam winch and iron chains that had drained the last of the gold coins from their pockets.
By midnight, the engines came to a complete stop above the target. The captain wiped the grease from his palm with a dirty rag.
He gave the order: "Tighten the lashings. If we don't salvage this wreck tonight, let each of you prepare to sell your kidneys in the port streets. This box is our only salvation from poverty."
As the third hour of the morning approached, when the thick fog swallowed what remained of visibility, the battle began.
The mechanical winch spun violently. A massive steel pulley connected to a steam boiler groaned under the pressure. Below, the iron gears emitted a piercing, deafening screech. One worker stood, his face smeared with soot, his eyes fixed on the brass pressure gauge. The needle trembled violently, touching the final red line.
The worker wiped the streaming sweat from his brow with the back of his trembling hand. "The boiler will explode! The chains are so taut they're throwing sparks! The engine is boiling over, and the winch will rip up the deck and drag us to the bottom!"
The captain spat to the side, gripping his wooden pipe tightly. "Lock the gears! If the chain breaks, I'll cut your throats. Haul it up even if it costs us the ship!"
A sharp metallic screech. Bolts flew into the air. Sparks illuminated terrified faces.
Suddenly the silence broke! The box shot up from below, crashing onto the deck with tremendous force that shook the masts, the wood splintering under the weight of its crushing mass.
The workers fell to the ground all at once. They lay sprawled on the wet wood, their chests heaving violently, their bodies completely drained after their deadly struggle with the winch. Soot covered their faces, their sweat mixed with the rust of the chains. None of them could utter a single word, only muffled groans amid the sudden silence of the sea.
The captain ignored the exhausted bodies of his men and advanced toward the hideous mass covered in rust and barnacles. A foul odor of ancient salt emanated from the box, like the smell of a grave exhumed after centuries of oblivion.
The captain grabbed the heavy axe. He raised it deliberately, then struck the thick chain wrapped around the right side of the coffin.
A boom! Shards of rust scattered.
He moved to the other side and struck the second chain with a similarly violent blow. Then the third and fourth, one after another on each side. A thunderous crash. The chains broke, clattering against the metal deck with a resounding noise that roused the workers from their exhaustion.
He inserted the axe blade under the edge of the heavy stone coffin lid. Using it as a lever, he pressed with all his weight until the veins in his neck bulged and sweat poured from his temples. The coffin lid rose with a sharp creak, then slowly slid aside to reveal what lay within.
The captain stepped back. The axe slipped from his hand. His features froze in utter shock, a look of deep bewilderment etched on his grease-stained face.
"Damn... it's a corpse! What is this?"
It was the body of a man with unnaturally pale skin, white as cold marble. He wore aristocratic clothing of black silk embroidered with golden threads, as if some mysterious force had preserved it from decay across the centuries. His features were rigid, terrifyingly handsome, his dark hair carefully styled as if he had been placed in the coffin mere minutes ago.
What stole the captain's breath was the silver blade driven deep into his chest, directly above the heart; a long blade gleaming with intricate incantation engravings, its hilt set with a massive ruby that glowed faintly under the fog.
Curses rose behind the leader from the workers struggling to get up. An atmosphere of bitter disappointment hung over the place. One of them shouted: "All this effort for a dead man?"
But the captain did not hear them. An internal silence prevailed in his mind as he stared at the mesmerizing gleam of the blade and the ruby. He swallowed hard, his eyes bulging, and a strange greed began to overshadow his fear.
"What madman drives a silver blade into a corpse? This ruby alone will buy me a merchant ship worthy of a noble of the Coalition."
The captain bent down, his trembling hand gripping the hilt of the blade embedded in the corpse's chest. Then he wrenched it free.
In a fraction of a second, with a movement so swift it left no chance for the eye to form an image, the body remaining in the coffin lunged forward. Its jaws clamped onto the captain's neck. Its fangs sank deep into the living flesh.
Beneath the stars paralyzed by terror, no one dared to move. Their breaths froze in their chests. They felt as if the air itself had grown heavy and cold, as if the angel of death had descended upon the deck of their dilapidated ship.
It slowly released the captain's neck, then tossed the body aside with contempt. It hit the wood with a hollow, muffled thud, like a worn-out rag of no value. It wiped a drop of blood from the corner of its mouth, then fixed its crimson gaze on the terrified workers.
It spoke in a deep, resonant voice, carrying a weary aristocratic tone. "I apologize... it seems I have caused you terror. I simply cannot remember the last time I drank wine..."
A heavy silence hung over the crew for seconds that felt like an eternity; they could not comprehend how a pale corpse imprisoned in an ancient coffin could transform in mere moments into an elegant man radiating an aura of majesty. Nothing broke this silence except the sound of ocean waves lapping against the ship's hull and the sound of their own rapid, gasping breaths.
Suddenly, the man took one step forward. Their hearts pounded violently.
In a reckless and impulsive motion, two workers lunged forward, grabbing any knives and sharp tools their hands could reach, pointing them at him. Then he spoke again with a chilling coldness.
"What fools you are."
In the blink of an eye, the first one's head flew off, and the second one's heart was torn from his chest.
The man looked at the remaining workers and found one beside him whose trousers were wet from sheer terror. He spoke this time in a commanding tone: "Do not move from your place."
The wretched worker raised his head and nodded frantically in blind obedience. In that very moment, he watched the bodies of the others fall before his eyes, while the elegant man savored the taste of their blood.