Chapter 1

　　Number 8 was a better swimmer than anyone else. He could swim the farthest and dive the deepest. Because of that, he was great at catching fish and scavenging things that were treasures to him, but trash to the adults. But since his treasures were really just trash, he never kept any of them for long. They quickly rotted, shattered, or crumbled away.

　　Still, he never let it get him down. Whenever he let his body float in the ocean, any lingering disappointment gently washed away with the tide. After all, that was what he did best. Surrendering himself to the sea.

　　That day was no different. Having circled the island farther and faster than the rest, Number 8 spotted a small boat in the distance. He found it before anyone else could.

　　It was a vessel unlike any he’d ever seen. With its unfamiliar design and gleaming paint, it looked brand new. Number 8 approached it slowly, carefully. Dripping with saltwater, he adjusted his grip on his harpoon.

　　He waded along the shallow shore, the waves lapping at his ankles and washing his footprints away in an instant. Once the boat was clearly in sight, he slipped back into the water and circled around to the stern. There was no sign of life.

　　After making absolutely sure it was deserted, he hoisted himself up the stern. Several bodies lay collapsed inside. Only then did he notice the bullet holes riddling the hull.

　　So it’s a raided boat.

　　Number 8 nodded to himself and took a lap around the deck.

　　The bodies were definitely corpses. Blood was still pooling on the deck, meaning they hadn’t been dead long. He nudged one with his foot, rolling the man’s face toward him to reveal a painfully contorted expression.

　　Stepping lightly over them, Number 8 made his way to the edge of the stern and leaned far out over the railing.

　　He had never been on a boat before. The adults always said boats were only for them, and that Number 8 needed more time before he could board one. But they had also warned him countless times to build his strength without growing too much—being too big was a disadvantage if you wanted to move nimbly inside a ship.

　　With a small, lean body that hadn’t yet grown enough to satisfy the adults, Number 8 gripped the stern. He pushed up with his arms, stretching his upper body forward over the water. Because of the boat’s height, it felt like he was flying.

　　Leaving the corpses behind, he smiled brightly, dangling his feet in the air. He was taking in the panoramic view of the island when he happened to glance down.

　　And he spotted something squirming.

　　“Huh?”

　　His eyes went wide, and he lightly hopped down. It was a dangerous drop, but that was no problem for him. He had grown up on this wild island, navigating massive roots, thick vines, and overgrown weeds as tall as trees.

　　Beneath the stern lay a man, twitching on his stomach as if he had barely managed to drag himself away. He was alive.

　　Instead of using his foot, Number 8 used his hands to roll the man over.

　　Frowning in pain, the man clutched his side. It looked like a bullet had grazed him rather than passing clean through.

　　“Whoa.”

　　Never expecting to find a living person, Number 8 panicked, pacing in a tight circle around the man.

　　“Hey.”

　　The man didn’t answer. He seemed to have lost consciousness.

　　If he left him here, the adults would definitely come and drag him away. The man’s neatly tailored clothes and short-cropped hair caught Number 8’s eye. His distinct features, etched onto pale skin, were incredibly striking. Unable to look away from the man’s face, Number 8 hesitantly touched his own.

　　Having only ever seen his reflection in rippling water, he didn’t know exactly what he looked like. He squatted down next to the man and shook him.

　　“Ah… ugh…” the man groaned.

　　“Hey,” Number 8 called out to him. “Are you alive?”

　　The man didn’t answer. Instead, his face grew even paler, and his faint groans stopped.

　　Is he dead?

　　He had scavenged plenty of objects and fish before, but this was his first time finding a living person. He didn’t want the man to die. He wanted to take something back that wasn’t dead. Growing anxious, Number 8 pressed his ear against the man’s chest.

　　Thump… thump…

　　Fortunately, the man’s heart was beating. The moment Number 8 lifted his head in relief, the man suddenly wrenched his upper body off the ground. Almost simultaneously, a large hand snatched Number 8 by the throat.

　　It happened in a flash.

　　“A-ack…!”

　　Number 8 thrashed in shock. The man’s hazy eyes widened, slowly snapping into focus.

　　“A… kid…?” the man muttered. But whether out of confusion or instinct, he didn’t loosen his grip.

　　Number 8’s knees lifted slightly off the ground. He flailed, his hand blindly reaching for his harpoon, when the man let out another faint groan. His eyes fluttered shut, and he collapsed backward.

　　“Haa… haa…”

　　As the hand dropped, Number 8 gasped for air, his lungs burning as he touched his bruised neck.

　　The man now lay motionless, his face as white as a sheet. He was completely out cold.

　　A living person. He definitely wasn’t from the island. Unless he had come in with the adults, he was an intruder. He was dangerous. Number 8 needed to tell the adults immediately, or kill him.

　　I should kill him.

　　He’s dangerous. He startled me.

　　I have to kill him.

　　Number 8 gripped his harpoon, his eyes gleaming with dark intent. Just then, the thick clouds that constantly blocked the sun in the island’s humid climate briefly parted.

　　Sunlight poured over the man.

　　Number 8 had seen salt crystals form and sparkle on bodies countless times. But this man was just glowing. There were dried salt crystals in his hair, sure, but he was shining for a different reason. The buttons on his unfamiliar clothes. Those were what caught the light.

　　His lips parted before he impulsively stripped the clothes off the man. He was incredibly heavy; Number 8 grunted, barely managing to free one arm. That was when he saw the wound hidden beneath the fabric. As if possessed, he sprinted into the jungle.

　　He plucked a broad leaf from a banana tree near the tree line, chewed up some medicinal herbs, spat them out, and balled them up. By the time he ran back, the man looked practically dead. Number 8 pressed his ear to his chest again. A slow heartbeat thumped against his ear. Relieved, he pressed the poultice and leaf over the man’s side, then hugged the discarded clothes to his own chest.

　　The shiny buttons clinked together.

　　I took something from him, so I should give something back… Number 8 thought, finding it strangely impossible to take his eyes off the man’s face.

　　Just then, his sharp ears picked up a faint voice calling his name. And from the opposite direction—right in front of him—he heard the clanking of metal and the harsh voices of the adults.

　　Without thinking, Number 8 hooked his arms under the man’s armpits and dragged him into the forest. He knew the geography of this island like the back of his hand. He knew exactly where to find a small cave where a bear or wolf might have once hibernated.

　　Leaving the man hidden at the entrance to the cave path, Number 8 hurriedly ran back and wiped away the tracks on the beach with his feet. Once he erased all signs of the dragged body, only his own small footprints remained in the dirt. Right after he dashed back into the forest, the adults’ voices rang out even clearer behind him.

　　“Fuck! Why the hell did you attack this?!”

　　The adults were highly agitated.

　　“No, look closely. It’s a speedboat. Looks like it was out on patrol, and patrol boats sink all the time. The main fleet isn’t going to mobilize just because one of these went missing.” The grumbling voice belonged to the unit commander.

　　“They’ll probably just think it got torn apart by a sea beast. One boat is fine. Come on, let’s search it. Strip it of anything worth taking. Grab the fuel tank, too.”

　　“What if someone’s alive?”

　　Flinching, Number 8 curled his body tighter, hiding in the tall grass.

　　He clearly heard the unit commander reply, a cruel smirk evident in his voice.

　　“We get rid of them, obviously. What kind of stupid question is that?”

　　Number 8 quickly pushed through the brush and hurried back to the man. He was still deathly pale. Grunting with effort, Number 8 dragged his large body the rest of the way to the cave. Along the path, stray branches left small scratches across the man’s limp body.

　　After hiding his loot—his very first living thing—in the cave, he scoured the forest. In the dense, jungle-like areas, wild berries grew as big as a baby’s fist. Among them was a specific kind that the adults juiced and fed by the bowlful to the injured whenever they cried out in pain. He lifted his ragged shirt, filled it to the brim with the berries, and hurried back.

　　He started chewing and spitting them out one by one. Whenever a small pool of clear liquid and mashed pulp gathered in his cupped palm, he let it trickle into the man’s mouth.

　　“Don’t die,” he muttered anxiously. “You’re the first living thing I’ve ever picked up.”

　　He massaged the man’s cold limbs with his small hands. His color still hadn’t returned.

　　“Don’t die… I’m sick of dead things.”

　　Things that rotted, crumbled, broke, and rusted. The things he had scavenged and called treasures were all like that. But this one wasn’t rotting; he was solid and shiny. This was a real treasure. My treasure…

　　“If you die, I’ll kill you,” Number 8 threatened.

　　The man didn’t open his eyes.

* * *

　　“What the—why are you empty-handed?!”

　　Right before sunset, Number 3 ran up to Number 8 as he returned to the village. Seeing him with nothing in his hands, he cried out in shock.

　　“You were gone so long, I thought you were either dead or bringing back something decent! But you’ve got nothing?!”

　　“Uh… I caught a big fish, but I dropped it while I was dragging it back,” Number 8 mumbled.

　　Number 3—who was a senior among the kids and scheduled to board a ship next month—glared at him.

　　“You think that’s an excuse?”

　　He knew it wasn’t. But he couldn’t exactly say he hadn’t found anything else because he was busy picking up a living person. Nor could he confess to finding a living person just to avoid getting in trouble. If he did, his living treasure would turn into a dead treasure. Again.

　　He fidgeted, clutching the hem of his shirt to hide the berry stains. Number 3 roughly grabbed his small body, which barely reached his chest.

　　“Whatever. Just keep your head down. At least the adults are in a good mood today since they hauled in something good.”

　　His tone was sharp and his touch rough, but Number 3 actually cared for him. It might have been because all the younger kids after him—Numbers Four through Seven—had died, leaving only Number 8 alive. Or perhaps it was because he was a great swimmer and had memorized the shapes of the herbs and berries in the jungle, making them easy for him to find.

　　Either way, Number 3 hid him behind his back and headed toward the center of the village, where a large bonfire was blazing.