Chapter 6: The Root of Origins

Sensing the captain's approach, Ian didn't turn his head and casually asked,

He wasn't pretending to be aloof; he deliberately made himself appear calm. Though, covered in blood from head to toe, his appearance didn't exactly help his case.

The captain stopped a few paces away from Ian, not approaching any closer.

"No, not at all!"

"Bloodhand Collier, ranked in the top two hundred on the pirate bounty list for years. It's said he acquired some forbidden knowledge, which caused his left hand to mutate, allowing him to spread curses and control others through it."

"Bloodhand's methods are reckless, and he has countless enemies."

"I bet he's currently scratching his head over how to deal with the pirates under his command, all itching for a fight. After all, without his hand, can he still really be called 'Bloodhand'?"

"Hahaha...cough cough..."

The captain spoke faster with rising amusement but winced as the movement aggravated his chest wound. It was clear he was livid at the pirates for the heavy losses they had inflicted.

"You should take care of that wound, Captain," Ian said, glancing at the captain, who seemed on the verge of coughing up blood.

"I'm Homan... Homan Davis, captain of the Windbreaker," the captain replied.

"I do need to step away for a moment. I think dinner would be a good time for us to talk."

"Alright."

"Myrta!"

"Yes, Captain?" A small, scruffy-haired crew member came running up.

"Prepare the best room on the ship for this gentleman. Take him to his rest."

"Understood, Captain. This, uh, sir, please follow me."

The best room on the ship wasn't anything luxurious—it was located at the stern, small, dim, and damp. But it did have a wooden window that allowed some fresh air to flow through.

Ian had mentally prepared for the lack of comfort. At least it was a quiet, private place.

"Myrta, what's the date today?" Ian called after the small crew member.

"Uh... today? I think... it's November 12th, sir."

"Thanks. Could you bring me a bucket of fresh water?"

"Of course, sir!"

Myrta hurried off, and before long, returned with a bucket of water. Ian thanked him and sent him on his way.

Using his spiritual senses, Ian examined the water—aside from being a little dirty, there was nothing wrong with it. He used his magic to purify it and drank a few sips to moisten his throat but didn't drink too much.

Although exhausted and hungry, he wasn't in too bad of a state after his transformation into an extraordinary being. He could hold on.

His first priority was to clean up and assess his physical condition.

Ian undressed and, with a wave of his delicate magic, began to wash himself. The magic enveloped him, carrying water over his skin like a gentle caress, purging the grime.

After using nearly half the bucket, the water turned murky and thick with grime, but it was enough to make his body somewhat presentable. He flicked the dirty water out the window into the sea.

A small wave of magic, and a bit of clean water swirled into a floating mirror in front of him.

The reflection showed a stranger—tall, around 185 cm, with a lean, athletic build. His face was youthful and handsome, skin pale, with striking, well-defined features. His half-long golden hair fell loosely, and his black eyes were deep, endless pools of mystery.

What a striking appearance! At least he looked like someone who enjoyed reading!

Ian carefully examined himself, both physically and through his spiritual senses. Aside from the remaining exhaustion in his magic and spirit, and a few light scratches that had already sealed, there didn't seem to be any serious issues.

It seemed that the curse from his past life hadn't left any lasting effects. After his death, the curse disappeared, or perhaps it was purged by the fate card that had brought him here.

Ian picked up his clothes—gray armored undergarments and a black, waist-tightened alchemical robe. They were damaged but not beyond repair. Like his boots, they were simply filthy.

He used the remaining clean water to wash the clothes briefly before putting them back on. His immediate priority was to restore his spiritual energy and magic.

He locked the door, activated his protective shield, and sat cross-legged on the floor, entering a deep meditation.

In his spiritual realm, the "Tree of Origins" breathed gently, its invisible roots stretching throughout his body like a vast network. It continuously absorbed magic from the outside world, converting it into spiritual energy, which was distributed throughout his spiritual space. The branches and leaves swayed gently, dispersing the magic into the realm, filling it with life—sunlight, breeze, and light rain—the sea of magic swelled steadily.

Ian immersed himself in the Tree of Origins, feeling as though he was in the womb—warm, relaxed, free, and safe. His fatigued spirit sank into a peaceful slumber.

Only when he sensed footsteps approaching did he stir from his meditation.

He felt refreshed, his spiritual energy replenished, his magic surging—his spiritual realm even seemed to have expanded slightly.

The pure essence of his spirit was brimming, as if ready to overflow, and his body was warm and full of vitality. His wounds had already scabbed over.

In Ian's experience, recovering near-exhausted spiritual energy and magic normally required at least a full day and night with the help of potions. Yet, it seemed that only four or five hours had passed.

He sensed the Fate Card still hanging in his spiritual space, its subtle influence clearly playing a role in his quick recovery.

This was a pleasant surprise, and it gave him a newfound confidence.

"Knock, knock, knock."

The door rapped gently.

Ian opened it, and standing in the doorway was the small crew member who had led him earlier, holding an oil lamp.

"Uh... s-sir?"

Myrta froze for a moment, clearly startled by Ian's transformation, unsure whether he recognized him.

"Myrta, what is it?"

"The captain... He invites you to dinner."

"Alright, lead the way."

Dinner wasn't served in the crew's dining room but in the captain's quarters, which was just a short walk away on the upper deck of the stern.

"Here we are, sir, please come in!"

"Welcome!" Captain Homan Davis stood at the door, dressed casually with a smile, ready to greet him.

Ian smiled back at the small crew member before stepping into the room.

The captain's quarters were relatively spacious. Candles flickered in each corner, and oil lamps hung from the ceiling, making the room brightly lit. A large table stacked with charts and papers had been pushed to one side, and in the center was a low dining table piled high with various dishes. The wooden dishes were set into the table.

"The chef on board used to work at the Iron Tree Tavern on Heaven Island. His honey-glazed roasted fish is excellent—exactly like it was back at the tavern."

The captain seemed in good spirits, his gray-white beard carefully groomed, and he smiled as he guided Ian to a seat.

Ian glanced at the roasted fish, which didn't look particularly appetizing, but smiled politely.

"It looks... pretty good," he said, even though the presentation left much to be desired.

"I'm Homan Davis, captain of the Windbreaker, working for the Podria Kingdom's Hanseatic Trade Company. I've been navigating the route between Storm Point and Heaven Island for over a decade now."

"I thought today would be my last day, heading into the embrace of the Storm God."