But at that very moment—

  BOOM!

  A deafening explosion erupted from the direction of the harbor, followed by the reverberations of splintering wood, snapping ropes, and the panicked screams of people.

  The group flinched. The rage from earlier was wiped clean, replaced by a surge of instinctive vigilance. Hands gripping dagger hilts hesitated; clenched fists loosened ever so slightly. For a fleeting moment, this dark alley no longer mattered—something bigger, something far more dangerous had just happened outside.

  Raizen frowned, his sharp eyes scanning the source of the sound. An uneasy feeling crept up his spine, an inexplicable foreboding.

  "What the hell was that?" one of the thugs muttered, his voice laced with unease. "No ships were supposed to dock at this hour."

  No one answered. But no one was thinking about the brawl anymore.

  Footsteps gradually moved away from the narrow alley, drawn toward the harbor. The crimson hues of the sunset bled across the sky, painting the sea in an ominous red. In that dying light, a massive ship had just pulled into port. Its wooden hull was waterlogged, still dripping with briny seawater.

  A single glance was enough to tell—this ship was anything but normal.

  Its sails were in tatters, shredded as if clawed apart by some unseen force. The entire hull was coated in mud, seaweed, and an unfamiliar, viscous slime clinging to its surface in patches, as though the ship had just risen from some foul abyss deep beneath the ocean. The salty wind carried the stench of rotting wood, mingled with something else—something foul, thick, and suffocating. Raizen instinctively narrowed his eyes.

  By now, a crowd had gathered at the docks, murmuring amongst themselves. Some were curious, others cautious, but all were drawn to the crates being unloaded by the surviving sailors.

  A sharp clatter rang out as one of the crates was pried open.

  And then—silence.

  The setting sun reflected off piles of gold coins, jewels, and glittering gemstones—so brilliant, so dazzling that no one could look away.

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  "Look at that! It's real treasure!" One of the thugs nudged Raizen, his voice brimming with excitement.

  But Raizen remained silent.

  He stood still, arms crossed, his gaze locked onto the ship. Something wasn’t right.

  The sailors and adventurers continued unloading crates. But as they reached the last few, the atmosphere aboard the ship changed completely.

  The men carrying the cargo suddenly froze. The earlier excitement vanished, replaced by a suffocating tension. One sailor, his hands trembling, reached for the tarpaulin draped over the final shipment.

  He pulled it back—slowly.

  Beneath the fabric lay corpses.

  Dozens of them, piled haphazardly, twisted and grotesque. Some had been torn clean in half, their entrails spilling out in horrific display. Others had been stripped of flesh entirely, leaving behind brittle, bloodless bones, corroded as if something had devoured them. Blood—no, a thick, blackened residue of what was once blood—stained the wooden deck, pooling like oil slicks.

  A few of the corpses still clutched their weapons, their eyes wide open, staring—vacant, hollow. They had not died ordinary deaths. They had died in terror.

  The harbor fell into an eerie stillness. No one spoke. No one even dared to breathe too loudly. Only the gentle lapping of waves against the hull filled the air, mingling with the nauseating stench of death.

  Raizen clenched his fists. He was no longer an adventurer, but he had seen too much to feign surprise.

  A team of explorers had returned from a newly discovered dungeon at sea—bringing back treasure, and bringing back death.

  He took a quiet step back.

  "Raizen," one of the thugs whispered, his voice trembling. "How the hell did they die?"

  Raizen did not answer. But something still gnawed at his nerves.

  His gaze shifted toward the survivors of the voyage. None of them looked pleased about the fortune they had returned with. Instead, they seemed like walking corpses—hollow-cheeked, exhausted, their eyes vacant. One sailor stood motionless, his fingers digging into his shoulder as he muttered something under his breath—words too faint to make out.

  Then, suddenly—

  "AAAHHHH!!"

  A bloodcurdling scream shattered the silence.

  One of the adventurers—one of the few who had made it back alive—clutched his throat, staggering forward before collapsing onto his knees. He thrashed violently, fingers clawing at his own skin, his nails digging in so deep that blood erupted from the fresh wounds. It was as if he was desperately trying to rip something out from within himself.

  Thick, dark blood gushed from his mouth—no, not blood. A pitch-black, tar-like substance, viscous and unnatural. The entire harbor watched, frozen in horror, as his body convulsed, trembled—before suddenly going rigid.

  A trickle of black fluid seeped from the corner of his mouth. His eyes rolled back, whites glaring under the dying light, as if witnessing something beyond comprehension—something no one else could see.

  Then, with a final, sickening thud, he collapsed. Dead.

  No one spoke. No one moved.

  Raizen gritted his teeth.

  He knew.

  This wasn’t treasure.

  This was a curse.