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Watching the sea waves wash away the footprints left by me and my crew, it suddenly occurred to me that, over time, my memory has also faded in places, becoming an illusion. For a second, it even seemed like I had forgotten the very things that made me who I am. And the ship I had grown accustomed to and commanded had become just an ordinary vessel to me, though many years ago, when I first wanted to board it, I froze dozens of meters away—it looked that unapproachable.
I remember nervously glancing around, searching for the Captain, until someone finally noticed me and said I wouldn’t find him here and should look for him on the shore. My first encounter with him struck me straight to the heart. His indifferent gaze made it clear he had no interest in me, and as soon as I opened my mouth, his eyebrows furrowed slightly, and any trace of interest vanished entirely. Naturally, I didn’t impress him. I was sixteen. I had no experience to speak of. I couldn’t even cover the expenses my presence would inevitably cost him. But my weapon was that I knew all of this.
They sent me to the ship, handed me a manual, and told me to memorize it by the next day. Dozens of diagrams and over two hundred terms—they showed me no mercy, but I didn’t want any. I stayed up all night studying, with no real understanding of what I was doing or why, because one look from the captain was more than enough to know he was far from thrilled about my arrival. But I desperately wanted to go to sea. I was sick and tired of the boring life in the port. The next day, in front of his subordinates, I recited the entire manual flawlessly—back then, I still had a good memory; these days, I can’t even remember three pages—after which the captain, without even glancing at me, gave the order and left. I was in.
It took me several months to get used to seasickness. I didn’t have my own bunk to sleep in; I was the errand boy, always seemingly conscious, scrubbing the deck on my knees even during damned storms. On days like those, my love for the sea noticeably waned—I wasn’t too keen on being thrown overboard by the raging elements. But even if I had been tossed over, they would have fished me out, because I was always under watch. Everywhere, I could feel his gaze—the stern, yet indifferent, unnerving attention of the captain. At first, his deeply thoughtful demeanor kept me from getting too close, and I simply didn’t want to disturb him. But ever since our first meeting, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I wasn’t welcome here. And I wasn’t being paranoid, because it later turned out I was right.
Our first meeting was cold because Eden never recruited people himself. Those duties fell to others, but over time, the ranks of his crew had thinned, and key assistants had left. When I came to him, he still wasn’t prepared. Back then, he looked at me and thought, "I’ll find a way to make him give up on this." But over time, his opinion changed. And one day, he said to me:
"Your patience and diligence have impressed me. You sacrificed your rest when asked to do things you shouldn’t have had to. And watching you, I decided I ought to start treating you like a younger version of myself, to help you grow. And you know, Hongjoong, if I ever need to choose one person to pass all my knowledge to, it will be you."