Jacob had barely been on his feet for more than a few hours when he started to grasp just how far removed this world was from the comforts of his previous life. The stench, which had first assaulted his senses, was now almost unbearable. It wasn't just the smell of saltwater or unwashed bodies—it was the stench of decay, of death. It clung to everything, an ever-present reminder of the ship's grim reality.
The crew moved about with a strange mix of lethargy and aggression, their eyes dull, their faces covered in grime. The absence of fresh water meant there was no way to wash properly, and the ship's latrines—little more than open holes in the deck that led directly into the sea—only added to the foul atmosphere. The suffocating miasma of human waste mingled with the salt and sweat, creating a scent that Jacob knew he would never forget.
As the day dragged on, Jacob's initial shock began to give way to a growing sense of dread. He realized he was in a dangerous position, surrounded by men who were far more brutal and desperate than he was. He was an outsider here, a man out of time, and it wouldn't take long for someone to notice.
His first real confrontation came when he was scrubbing the deck, trying to blend in and avoid drawing attention to himself. The monotony of the task was almost soothing, allowing his mind to wander as he tried to process everything that had happened. But his brief moment of peace was shattered by a shadow looming over him.
Jacob looked up to see a mountain of a man standing above him. The man was built like a bear, with arms thick as tree trunks and a scowl that could curdle milk. He wore a dirty bandana over his bald head, and his breath reeked of rotten fish. There was a cruel gleam in his eyes as he looked down at Jacob.
"You think you're better than the rest of us, eh?" the man growled, his voice low and menacing. "You're too clean, too soft. We'll see how long that lasts."
Before Jacob could react, the man grabbed him by the collar and slammed him against the mast. The impact drove the air from Jacob's lungs, and he gasped, struggling to break free. But the man was too strong, his grip unyielding.
"Maybe we should rough you up a bit," the man sneered, his face inches from Jacob's. "Teach you what it means to be a pirate."
The next few moments were a blur of pain and panic. The man's fists were like sledgehammers, each blow sending shockwaves of agony through Jacob's body. He tried to fight back, but his modern instincts—instincts shaped by a life where violence was rare and shocking—were no match for the man's brutal efficiency. It was clear that this wasn't the first time the man had beaten someone senseless. He knew exactly how to inflict pain without killing, how to break a man without leaving too many visible marks.
By the time it was over, Jacob was barely conscious, his vision swimming, his body a mass of bruises. He heard the man's laughter as he was dragged across the deck, his ears ringing with the sound. The last thing he saw before everything went black was the dark, yawning maw of the ship's hold.
When Jacob awoke, it was to darkness and the overwhelming stench of decay. He was lying on the cold, damp floor of the hold, surrounded by crates and barrels that creaked ominously with the ship's movement. His body ached all over, every breath a struggle.
The darkness seemed to press in on him, suffocating and thick. He could hear the skittering of rats nearby and the distant groan of the ship's timbers as it cut through the water. Panic surged through him, but he forced it down, struggling to think.
This wasn't the time to lose his head. He needed to stay calm, to figure out a way out of this situation.
[You are injured, User. Your condition is stable, but further damage could be fatal.]
The voice of the system echoed in his mind, cold and emotionless. Jacob grimaced, pushing himself into a sitting position. "No kidding," he muttered, wincing as a sharp pain lanced through his side. "What do you suggest, then?"
[You must seek a means of gaining power. This ship is filled with objects of value—some mundane, some cursed. A cursed item would be particularly potent for unlocking your necromantic abilities.]
Jacob frowned, glancing around the dark hold. The system's words were cryptic, but he understood the gist of it. If he wanted to survive—no, if he wanted to thrive in this hellish world—he needed to start tapping into the powers the system offered. And that meant finding something to sacrifice.
His eyes scanned the hold, adjusting slowly to the dim light filtering through the cracks in the deck above. Most of the items stored here seemed ordinary enough—barrels of salted fish, crates of rotting fruit, coils of rope—but then, something caught his eye.
In the far corner of the hold, half-buried under a pile of rags and debris, was a cutlass. Its blade was dull and rusted, the hilt wrapped in old, frayed cloth. There was something wrong about it, something that made Jacob's skin crawl just to look at it. The air around it seemed colder, and the shadows deeper.
A cursed item, Jacob thought, shuddering. The crew must have discarded it here, too superstitious or too afraid to keep it on hand.
He crawled over to the cutlass, his movements slow and painful. Every breath was a struggle, but he forced himself to keep going. When he finally reached it, he hesitated for only a moment before picking it up. The moment his fingers touched the hilt, a chill ran through him, as if the blade was drawing the warmth from his body.
[This item has been cursed by the blood of its previous owners. It has brought death and misfortune to all who wielded it. Sacrificing it will unlock the first tier of your necromantic powers.]
Jacob didn't need to be told twice. With a deep breath, he closed his eyes and focused on the system, willing it to accept the sacrifice. The cutlass seemed to pulse in his hand, the cold biting into his flesh, but then, just as suddenly as it began, the feeling was gone.
The cutlass crumbled to dust in his hand, the cursed energy within it absorbed by the system. A new sensation filled him, a tingling warmth that spread through his limbs, numbing the pain and clearing his mind.
[The sacrifice is accepted. You have unlocked the ability: Minor Curse of Misfortune. This curse allows you to subtly influence the luck of others. Use it wisely.]
Jacob exhaled slowly, a grim smile tugging at the corners of his lips. It wasn't much, but it was a start. The system had given him the means to fight back, to begin carving out a place for himself in this brutal world.
For now, he would rest and recover. But soon, very soon, he would make those who had wronged him pay.