Byron felt as if an iron spike had pierced his chest, a cold, weakening sensation, as if something precious was rapidly draining away through the hole. Every nerve in his body twitched violently, whining under the strain, screaming.
However, he couldn’t wake up at all, as if trapped in a long Dream Realm by a Nightmare.
And in that Dream Realm, there were two versions of himself, leading two completely different lives.
The first version of himself was an orphan. Imprisoned by reality, he nevertheless harbored a dream of traveling the world. Unfortunately, just a few years into working, before he could save enough for the trip, he suddenly contracted a rare disease—ALS! Starting from the upper limbs, he gradually lost all bodily functions. Within a few short years, he could no longer move, speak, swallow, or even breathe on his own. His body became a prison for his soul, and he died alone, helpless, and in despair.
The other version of him had lost his mother at birth but had a strict yet kind father and a harmonious extended family. He had an uncle who, despite being plagued by intermittent mental illness, was wise and amiable most of the time. His aunt was beautiful and gentle, treating him like her own son. His cousin often took him hunting and practiced swordsmanship, horsemanship, and sailing with him. He also had a childhood friend with whom he spent all day chasing chickens and dogs, shirking duties. Beyond them were many united and friendly family members, loyal Vassals, tributaries, and Guardian Knights...
Infuriatingly, the lives in this Dream Realm seemed to be hidden behind thick frosted glass, blurry from the beginning. It was like trying to see flowers in a fog, making it impossible for Byron to recall any details, no matter how hard he tried.
He only vaguely remembered that he seemed to have been severely injured in a major catastrophe not long ago. In his mind, the vast "palace of memories" that constituted his personality was missing a crucial piece, triggering a chain collapse. This accident had exposed the first life, which served as its foundation. It barely propped up the "palace" to prevent total collapse but also plunged everything into utter Chaos.
He now felt like a small ship that had lost its Anchor, drifting aimlessly in the torrent of fragmented memories, at a loss. Apart from deep-rooted instincts and common knowledge, even his self-awareness was beginning to blur.
After what felt like an eternity, only one memory remained vivid in Byron’s mind:
He was standing on a ship adorned with a blue Giant Dragon Figurehead, a towering vessel as massive as a mountain.
The man who was his father in this life was speaking to him, his face etched with anxiety. Byron could only see his mouth moving, unable to hear a sound.
Then, the icy, bone-chilling depths of the sea engulfed everything...
Byron instinctively felt this might be the key to that catastrophe. But the harder he tried to grasp them, the faster these memories slipped away.
Who am I, really? What happened on that stormy night? Where did the rest of my family go?...
Just then, SPLASH! A large basin of cold seawater was thrown onto his face, jolting him from the Nightmare.
He failed to notice, however, that as he opened his eyes, a barely perceptible glint of light flashed in his ocean-blue right eye before vanishing.
As he slowly raised his head, Byron was shocked to find himself among a group of soaking wet individuals, like drowned rats, their hands and feet bound by ropes. He was lying on the wooden deck of a sailboat in a very undignified Posture!
A few raggedy sailors with fierce faces stood above him, looking down. The leader was a burly man over two meters tall, with a sailor’s cutlass and flintlock short Firearm at his waist, exuding a chilling, bloody aura.
He took a big swig of Rum from a bottle and said impatiently, "You swine, don’t lie on the deck and play dead. The pets that the Captain keeps don’t like motionless corpses. Get up, all of you, and don’t cause us trouble."
Hearing this, Byron, who was hidden in the crowd, felt his heart sink and discreetly surveyed his surroundings.
The half-human-high Bulwark was freshly marked by axes and bullets. On the open-air deck, rows of golden Bronze Cannons still reeked of gunpowder. Uncleaned, filthy blood still stained the crevices of the deck...
Wherever he looked, ragged but robust sailors were busy retying broken ropes, repairing the ship’s hull damaged in the sea battle, or tending to the wounded.
And atop the ship’s mast hung a Pirate Flag with a black background and a white skeleton riding a shark!
Undoubtedly, this was a pirate ship that had just gone through a brutal, bloody battle.
No more than a nautical mile away, in the obscure milky fog, a battered merchant ship was burning fiercely as it sank into the sea. It seemed that after launching a desperate counter-attack against the pirate ship, it still couldn’t escape being looted and butchered.
The blood flag flying high on the pirate ship’s mast confirmed this.
It was the sign of no survivors left on the enemy ship!
In theory, to deter merchant ships that dared to resist, this bloody execution would be carried out by Pirates, almost without exception!
Connecting this with the Pirate leader’s words, Byron’s heart lurched. He instantly realized how dire their situation was.
Have I become the captive of a group of Pirates? And am I to be fed to some pet?
Most of the surviving merchant sailors beside him were old sea dogs who had roamed the seas for years, with a keener sense of crisis than his.