Chapter 6

　　In a calm, low voice, Muhwa hoisted Number 8 up smoothly.

　　Unlike the boss, he supported him under his thighs and bottom, giving the kid a sense of stability. Number 8 blinked.

　　“I-It’s dangerous for you to be out here.”

　　“It’s fine.”

　　If anyone approached, he could easily slip back into the sea or the forest. He could hold his breath underwater much longer than the boy anyway, having often performed underwater combat drills without auxiliary equipment.

　　Number 8 stared at him in disbelief, but explaining exactly why it was fine—outlining the brutal training and the life he’d led—would be too much of a hassle. Muhwa wasn’t exactly great with kids. He rarely had to interact with them.

　　So he chose silence. Setting Number 8 down on the deck of the abandoned ship, he stepped inside, seawater dripping from his frame.

　　Dried, blackened bloodstains offered the only vague hint of what had happened. From the deep gouges and blast craters scarring the floor, Muhwa confirmed the enemy ship had used modified shells and wire nets. His guess had been right.

　　Striding into the cabin without hesitation, he ripped open a small drawer where the crew usually stashed snacks. It was completely empty. The bastards who looted the ship were clearly experienced pirates.

　　Coming out empty-handed, he spotted Number 8 clutching an old canteen tightly to his chest. Muhwa had watched from underwater as that bulky, middle-aged man tossed the kid around like a piece of luggage. It made him uncomfortable. No, it pissed him off.

　　“You must be thirsty. Drink.”

　　He urged the kid, who must have been exhausted from swimming in the sea for so long. Number 8 carefully gauged his reaction before taking a few sips. A small child could only drink so much, but he still had to be parched. Yet, Number 8 quickly pulled his lips away and offered the canteen to him.

　　“The weaker one needs to drink more!”

　　The weaker one… To Number 8, it seemed Muhwa was nothing more than dead weight. This kind of treatment was entirely new to him. Honestly, it was a little amusing.

　　He drank just enough to wet his mouth and handed the canteen back.

　　Even though he hadn’t heard the exchange on the boat, he knew exactly what kind of abuse the kid had endured to get that water.

　　“Let’s head back. It’ll be a problem if I get spotted.”

　　Since the man’s logic was sound, Number 8 led him toward the cave. As he was pulled along by a tiny hand, Muhwa occasionally plucked berries and leaves, slipping them into his pocket. Whenever the boy glanced back, he played dumb.

　　Back at the cave, he folded his large frame into the woefully cramped space and laid out his harvest. The kid meticulously sorted the edible plants from the inedible ones. Then, announcing he needed to catch some fish, he headed back to the sea.

　　Pretending to enjoy a moment of leisure that hardly fit his situation—injured and stranded after a shipwreck—Muhwa finished running the calculations in his head.

　　Number 8 seemed to want him to stay put and hide, but the Navy had its own clear jurisdiction. Landing on shore was a different matter. Heading out to sea was his shortcut to escape. The pirate ship was bound to be caught in the patrol zone of the main fleet heading this way anyway.

　　Number 8 might have just thought the buttons on his uniform were pretty, but the pirates would know better. A Navy Officer made for a prime hostage. They’d be especially enticed by the rank displayed on his epaulets. They would try to negotiate. At the very least, he’d be a useful bargaining chip once they entered the main fleet’s territory.

　　Muhwa decided to use that to his advantage.

　　It was a gamble he could only make because he knew exactly how to play this kind of situation.

　　I feel a bit bad for the kid.

　　Still, catching a Navy lieutenant as a souvenir was a very special experience. He’d apologize later.

　　With that thought, he slowly walked toward the village. He deliberately acted carelessly, making plenty of noise. Right at the edge of the forest, near the entrance to the settlement where signs of human activity were obvious, Muhwa spotted the gun barrels aimed at him. He slowly raised his hands in surrender.

　　To think they’d be this clueless until the enemy walked right up to them.

　　As he roughly gauged their pathetic skill level, the men forced him to his knees and bound his wrists.

　　He angled his arms slightly to avoid straining his wrists, feeling another twinge of guilt toward Number 8.

* * *

　　Returning with three fish, Number 8’s jaw dropped at the sight of the empty cave. His panicked eyes darted around.

　　“W-what do I do? Where is he?” he muttered.

　　Then, as if struck by a revelation, his head snapped up, and he bolted toward the village.

　　Rushing down the path, he ran straight into Number 3. Number 3 was practically vibrating with excitement. He grabbed Number 8 by the arm, shaking him as he shouted.

　　“We caught a Navy guy!”

　　“W-what…?”

　　“They said he’s Navy! The adults said so! You know, the really bad guys! It’s my first time seeing one too. I thought he’d have eight arms like an octopus, but he looks just like us!”

　　Number 3 babbled rapidly, his face flushed.

　　“But he didn’t look as strong or scary as the adults made them out to be. His buttons were just really pret… Hey, where are you going?!”

　　Number 8 shook off the other boy, who was staring into space in a trance, and sprinted straight into the village.

　　The atmosphere in the settlement was already suffocatingly tense.

　　The men stood in front of the warehouse with their arms crossed, murmuring among themselves. Led by the boss’s older sister, the women and older girls were huddled together, whispering. Every single face was laced with anxiety.

　　Number 8’s heart pounded against his ribs. If they had just said “Navy,” he might not have connected the dots, but a guy with pretty buttons? There was only one possibility. Why did he get caught? What went wrong? Was I too careless? Someone must have followed me!

　　His face turned stark white, his chest heaving.

　　Right before the boss could turn his head toward him, Number 3—who had chased after him in a panic—grabbed Number 8 and spun him around, shielding him from view.

　　“The fish is gonna go bad! We need to salt it right away!”

　　Dazed and barely processing the words, Number 8 let himself be dragged all the way to the kitchen.

　　As soon as they stepped inside the cone-shaped kitchen building, Number 3 lowered his voice and cornered him.

　　“I knew it the second I saw your face. I was wondering where that guy was hiding and who patched him up. It was you! It was you!”

　　Number 8 stared at him blankly before huge, thick tears started rolling down his face. His large eyes instantly welled up, tracks of moisture cutting through the dried salt on his cheeks.

　　“Are you crazy?!” Number 3 hissed, dropping his voice to a harsh whisper. “If you get caught, you’re dead!”

　　“I-I know. But…”

　　“Of all the things to pick up, how could you bring back a monster like that?! Don’t you remember the adults saying the Navy are all villains and monsters? That if we see one, we have to run or kill them?!”

　　“I remember!”

　　Overwhelmed with a mix of sorrow and a deep sense of unfairness, Number 8 shrieked. Number 3 let out a scoff of disbelief and slapped him across the cheek. Stinging from the blow, Number 8 clamped his mouth shut.

　　“Don’t yell at me. You think you did something to be proud of?” Number 3 scolded him sternly. “Get a grip. Wipe your face and pretend you don’t know him. Got it?”

　　“But… but… You said they found out someone treated his wounds.”

　　“He told them he did the first aid himself. The adults didn’t really seem to buy it, but…”

　　“Did the adults hit him?”

　　Turning even paler, Number 8 grabbed the older boy’s arm, his voice hollow. Number 3 coldly brushed his hand away and let out a heavy sigh.

　　“Of course they hit him! Worry about yourself. That guy wouldn’t die even if he took a hundred beatings, but you’d be dead after ten. Hurry up, go wash your face, and tell them you caught some fish. They said they’re taking him with them when they set sail tomorrow anyway. Just play dumb tonight, and you’ll live.”

　　Despite his harsh tone, the advice was laced with genuine concern. Number 3 slipped out of the kitchen.

　　Left alone, Number 8 struggled to swallow back his tears. His cheeks puffed out, his chest heaved, and his bottom lip trembled in a massive pout, but the sheer determination in his eyes not to cry was commendable.

　　Even if there was no one around to praise him for it.

* * *

　　Number 3 broke a sweat trying to cover for Number 8, who sulked heavily and barely touched his food. He made up an excuse, claiming the kid seemed to have an upset stomach, probably from secretly eating something weird underwater. After smacking him on the back a few times and flicking his forehead, the adults stopped scolding him, even when he pouted and squeezed out a few tears. Honestly, Number 8 wished they would just hit him a little harder. At least then he’d have a real excuse to cry his eyes out.

　　Even while only pretending to eat, Number 8 picked apart chunks of fish meat and slipped them into his water canteen. When told to take some water for the night, he shook his head, despite his throat burning with thirst. Number 3 trailed right behind him as he headed out, claiming he was going to brush his teeth. As Number 8 trudged along, dragging his feet, Number 3 chattered at his back.

　　“How did you not even know he was in the Navy? He obviously looks different from us.”

　　“How is he different?” Number 8 replied gloomily. “He looks exactly like us. Two arms, two legs. I even counted his fingers.”

　　“Yeah, right.” Number 3 snorted. “I knew he was totally different the second I saw him.”

　　Number 8 secretly agreed with the boastful remark. The man was too radiant, too handsome, and too incredible to be considered the same kind of person as them. Yeah. Incredible. Just looking at him made Number 8 space out, and when the man spoke in that low rumble—like the sound of the ocean when you pressed a conch shell to your ear—he couldn’t help but grin. The urge to brag, He’s mine, made his toes curl and a warm tingle spread through his chest.

　　…He was mine.

　　Number 8’s mood sank even further.

　　On their way back, Number 3 tore off a sleep-inducing leaf and handed it over, telling him to chew it so he wouldn’t toss and turn and wake everyone else up. But Number 8 only pretended to take it, immediately tossing it on the ground.

　　Unlike Number 3, who was already chewing away, Number 8 hadn’t touched the stuff since the one time he tried it and felt violently nauseous. Number 3 teased him endlessly, saying the adults enjoyed it just fine and that he was still a baby, but Number 8 just couldn’t stomach it.

　　That night, once the adults and even Number 3 had fallen into a deep, leaf-induced sleep, Number 8 carefully sat up. Tucking the canteen into his clothes, he crept outside and headed toward the warehouse, a place he had been locked in a few times himself for misbehaving.

　　Number 8 knew of a dog hole. It was the same gap that Number 1, who was dead now, used to sneak through to feed him when he was punished with four days of no food or water. The reason for his punishment back then was that he was too slow at learning to swim. Ironically, Number 1, who had been the best swimmer of them all, eventually died at sea.

　　Thinking of Number 1, Number 8 carefully crawled through the gap. It was such a tiny opening that even if the adults knew about it, they wouldn’t pay it any mind. If Number 1, who had been skinny, small, and agile, were still alive, she definitely would have grown up to be a much cooler noona than the boss’s sister.

　　Brushing off his knees as he stood up, Number 8 broke into a wide smile at the tall silhouette waiting in the darkness.

　　My souvenir!

　　Number 8 scurried over to him.