Early the next morning, the ship's bell rang.Aerax woke with a start amid the old sacks, listening to the movement of men, the creaking of sails, and the gentle lapping of water against the hull.The ship was setting sail.
He was still alive. Still hidden. And now, far from land.
As the hours passed, the salty smell of the ocean permeated the air in the hold. He could hear the sailors laughing above, the roar of the tide beside the ship, and the distant cries of seagulls.
A new opportunity had opened up for him.But the gods did not ignore it.
In the depths of the ocean, among the lightless rocks, the giant sea god stirred. His eyes — glowing vortexes — opened, watching every movement on the water.
A whisper echoed from the fish, from the waves, from the wind:
"The prophesied one… he is on a merchant ship. A slave… one of unworthy blood."
The sea god roared — a sound that made coral crumble and giant squids scatter.
"No! That man cannot be the incarnation of the prophecy! Not him!"
The god's great arm rose from the depths, swinging toward the tiny ship like a leaf.
On the deck, the clear blue sky suddenly turned gray.The wind howled. The waves began to rise.The seagulls vanished, as if sensing the coming fury.
"STORM! STORM COMING FROM THE EAST!" a sailor shouted, running toward the mast.
Aerax jumped up from the hold, feeling the hull shake violently. He pushed open the wooden door and squinted through the crack of light — the sky was dark, lightning and thunder crisscrossing above.
Rain poured like waterfalls.Waves as high as cliffs slammed against the hull, flooding the deck.
The captain ordered the sailors to tie the ropes and draw the sails — but it was all in vain.
A thunderclap rang out — then a giant wave came from the southeast.The ship was lifted high, then slammed down by the furious sea.
Aerax clung to the crossbeam, but the force of the water was too great.He was torn from the cabin — into the chaos.
He struggled in the water.Waves crashed in every direction.His eyes stung from the salt. His ears rang from the howling wind.
His body slammed into a piece of debris — a broken mast.He clung to it like a life preserver.
In the black sky, he only had time to scream:
"Why?! I'm not dead yet!"
But no one answered.
There was only thunder and storm — the angry howls of the gods.
When the sun rose, the sea was calm again, as if it had never been angry.
A body floated. Then two. Then three.The wreck drifted amid splintered timber, scattered cargo, and torn sailcloth.
And amid it all, Aerax was still breathing.He was wounded — blood streamed from his temples — but his eyes were open.
A sandy shore appeared in the distance.An island.
He didn't know how long he had been adrift.Only that the sun was rising, and his hands still clung to the driftwood.
He gritted his teeth and kicked.Each kick was a heartbeat of will.Each pain, a reminder: You are not finished.
Finally, his feet touched sand.
Aerax dragged himself onto the shore — and collapsed.
But he was still alive.