The Mastermind

Dr. Bob hit the ship's deck hard. Pain exploded across his ribs, rattling through his battered frame. The rough wooden planks scraped against his skin as he tried—and failed—to push himself up. His muscles refused to cooperate, trembling from exhaustion.

Laughter rang out around him, sharp and cruel. A boot slammed into his chest. His breath fled his lungs in a choked gasp.

"Ye ain't goin' nowhere, matey," a pirate sneered, his voice rough from years of shouting over stormy seas.

Before Bob could recover, calloused hands wrenched his arms behind his back. Coarse rope bit into his wrists, the fibers grinding against raw skin as the knots tightened. The air was thick with the scent of sweat, rum, and salt—the stench of men who had long forgotten civility.

The crew jeered as they dragged him across the dock, his feet barely skimming the ground. Then—a sudden lift, weightlessness, then impact. He crashed onto the deck again. A fresh jolt of pain surged through him, leaving him dizzy. The ship groaned as it sliced through the waves.

The world blurred. Hours passed—five, maybe more. The steady roll of the ocean became a numbing rhythm, the salt air clinging to his lungs. He lost track of time, slipping in and out of a haze of pain and exhaustion.

Then—without warning—the ship lurched to a stop.

The once-constant creaking of the hull fell silent.

Dr. Bob lay where they had left him in the dim lower deck. The quiet gnawed at him. Then came the sound of heavy boots above. A moment later, a door banged open. Lantern light flooded the space.

"Rise and shine, ye lazy bilge rat!"

Rough hands. A sharp yank. The world tilted.

A pirate slung him over his shoulder, hauling him up the stairs. Bob barely had the strength to resist.

Then, as his vision cleared, the breath stilled in his throat.

Rising from the ocean before them was a gate. Massive. Ancient. Impossible. Dark, weathered stone stretched high above, its surface rippling with strange, shimmering symbols. It felt alive, the glow pulsing like a slow, steady heartbeat.

Two guards flanked the entrance. Their ragged coats and tricorn hats bore an eerie resemblance to the pirates'—as if they had once belonged to the same crew, only to be claimed by something else. Moving in perfect sync, they seized the iron handles and pulled.

The gate groaned open.

Beyond it, cobblestone streets twisted into the mist, lined with towering buildings and flickering lanterns. At the heart of it all, an enormous castle loomed, its spires piercing the sky. Glowing runes pulsed along its stone walls, whispering power into the night.

Dr. Bob barely had time to absorb it before the pirates dragged him forward. The townsfolk didn't react. They barely even looked at him.

As if this was routine.

Through the castle gates. Down a grand hall. Past towering pillars wrapped in vines, past floating lanterns that hovered in the air like watching eyes. The scent of incense and something metallic thickened with every step.

Then, at last—

The throne room.

The massive double doors swung open with a heavy thud.

At the chamber's center sat a king upon an elaborate golden throne. Not a frail old man. He was aged—sixty, maybe seventy—but there was nothing weak about him. He held himself with an authority that settled over the room like a weight.

Dr. Bob's gaze flicked to the king's face.

A green, abstract marking curled around his right eye—identical to the one Bob had glimpsed before arriving in this realm. Resting in his hands was an ancient sword, its blade worn but gleaming under the chandeliers' glow.

The pirates shoved Bob forward, then bowed—perfectly in sync.

Without a word, they turned and exited. The doors slammed shut.

A deep, ringing silence settled in the chamber.

Bob groaned, his limbs trembling as he pushed himself up. The dull ache in his ribs was nothing compared to the pressure building in his chest.

The king watched him, fingers tapping idly against the hilt of his sword. Something about him felt... wrong.

Not in the way a powerful ruler might intimidate his subjects. It was deeper. Subtler.

Not quite human.

Bob swallowed, his throat dry. "Who… are you?"

The king studied him, his expression unreadable. Then, finally—

"My name is William the First. Though most know me as the Narrative King."

Bob's brow furrowed. The title carried a weight he didn't understand.

William leaned forward. "I am the servant of the Un-Cannon Leviathan."

The name sent a shiver through Bob. Something about it felt too big. As if simply hearing it had scraped against the edges of his mind.

"The… what?"

The king smiled. Not with amusement. With knowing.

Like Bob had asked a question he wasn't meant to understand yet.

"The Leviathan," William said, voice steady, "is the author of this realm."

Bob felt his pulse quicken. "Author?"

A slow nod.

"The one who writes your tale. And this narrative we call the Cosmic Sea"

"So you're saying," he hesitated, voice barely above a whisper, "that this Leviathan is some kind of… omnipotent, omnipresent, omniscient god?"

William's eyes never left him.

"Yes," he said simply. But there was something more in his tone. Something vast. Something final.

"But even those words," the king added, "fall short. His power is..."

He let the silence stretch, as if daring Bob to comprehend the answer.

Then, at last, he spoke.

"...Ineffable."

A shudder ran through Bob, deeper than before.

It wasn't just the word.

It was the way the king said it.

As if trying to describe something that defied language. That lurked beyond the limits of thought.

Bob swallowed hard.

He had stepped into something far greater than himself. Something beyond logic and language.

And now—

There was no turning back.