There’s an ancient, far-off legend that tells of the origins of the countless pirates who now roam the vast ocean south of the continent.

It’s the story of one man. A… Pirate King.

Scholars of antiquity once delved deep into this elusive yet widely known legend. But so much time had passed that the man’s surname was lost to history.

All they knew was that people of the past had called him Edward of the Golden Eyes. The name came from his dark golden eyes, like those described in holy scripture—Devil-like, like blazing magma on the verge of going cold.

Edward’s past was a mystery, hidden in the depths of the dark ocean. No one knew how he was born, or how he created the vile yet free profession of piracy right under the nose of the Orlan Empire, which had once ruled the entire continent.

And even fewer knew how he’d dragged that ruthless, cold-blooded Emperor into an endless abyss!

All people knew was one thing—a story that had been retold and altered in countless ways, yet never changed in one respect: the Devil’s treasure.

They said Edward had buried all the wealth he’d amassed in his lifetime on a deserted island named after the Devil, beneath the throne where his bones—long since turned to dust—sat enthroned.

Only someone of great wisdom and courage could brave the thunderstorms and towering waves to reach that island, inherit his legacy, and take his place as the next Pirate King.

Of course, a legend was only ever a legend. No one had ever truly seen Devil’s Island, hidden deep within the Cursed Sea.

And in all these centuries, there had never been another Pirate King as mighty as him.

Everything in the tale seemed like an illusion fading silently in the sunlight—so insubstantial, so impossible to grasp.

Then, one day, a three-masted pirate ship bearing a mermaid figurehead broke through the rain that seemed destined to never stop and anchored before an island absent from every map of the world. With blades, guns, and cannons stained by blood and fire, it tore away the island’s hazy veil.

“Rumble…”

Lightning streaked across the gloomy sky, illuminating the dark forest for an instant. Then came a deafening peal of thunder, like a god’s warning to those who had disturbed his sanctuary, proclaiming his boundless fury.

Raindrops from the heavens beat against the thick branches and streamed down emerald leaves, pattering against the soil and gathering in muddy puddles.

They beat against a figure as swift as a leopard, soaking his close-fitting linen shirt. Even his golden hair, which should have shone brilliantly, was drenched. In his disheveled state, he looked just like a slave fleeing the northern continent.

Darkness and the torrential rain smothered every hope. On an island inhabited only by snakes and insects, one even the seabirds avoided, the figure darted among the trees, racing with clear purpose in a single direction.

In his outstretched right hand, a strangely shaped pendant gave off a faint glow.

The pendant was a skull carved from moonstone.

A faint, fluorescent blue light spilled from the skull’s hollow eye sockets. Thin strands of it glimmered ahead, pointing the way, and grew brighter as he pressed on.

His ragged breathing and the splashes of his feet breaking through puddles formed a brisk little symphony. The trees blocking his path grew fewer, and the branches overhead thinned. At last, after ducking beneath a dead trunk, the man holding the moonstone skull stopped. Before him lay a vast clearing, unmistakably made by human hands.

The clearing was paved with smooth, gleaming marble. Rainwater flowed away in every direction through carefully constructed drains, like a crowd leaving after a pilgrimage. But at the center of the clearing stood not the Pope of the Holy Church, but the throne of the Pirate King—Edward.

Seeing his destination, the man let out a heavy breath and tucked the moonstone skull into his shirt. He quickened his pace, relief and ease showing on his face. But his dark golden eyes still glinted with caution as he swiftly scanned the clearing from the corners of his eyes. At some point, his fingers had curled around the hilt at his waist.

Fortunately, nothing happened.

At last, the man stood before the throne. Only after confirming that the silence around him wasn’t a deliberate ruse did he take the time to examine the throne that had driven countless pirates mad with desire.

Calling it a throne was generous. In truth, it looked like a crude stone chair. Even its edges hadn’t been smoothed, let alone carved or polished. Only a line of elegant little letters had been deeply engraved into its back.

“The resting place of the Pirate King.”

The man unconsciously read the words aloud. His low voice was rich and magnetic. With a voice that lovely and a handsome face occasionally lit by flashes of lightning, he would’ve become the center of attention at any noble’s banquet. It was hard to imagine him as a pirate who spent every day surrounded by vulgarity and violence.

So this really was Edward’s burial place.

The man frowned slightly at the crude throne. He saw no remains of the legendary forefather of pirates, nor any magnificent throne encrusted with jewels. All he found was a fancy tricorn hat resting quietly on the rough, gray-white stone seat, its brim embroidered in gold with waves and sails.

Countless years had passed since the legend began, yet the tricorn hat that symbolized the dawn of piracy’s golden age showed no sign of wear or dust. It looked as good as new, as though some unseen power had shielded it from the passage of time.

Even without any treasure, bringing this tricorn hat back to the Southern Islands would earn him a handsome reward. Maybe he could even use it to claim the long-vacant throne of the Pirate King?

As he thought this over, the man’s eyes flickered. Then he reached for the tricorn hat. Whether or not Edward’s treasure really lay beneath the crude throne, the first thing to do was get his hands on this meaningful captain’s hat. After all, his motto was: “If it’s in your hands, it’s yours.”

Just as his pale, slender fingers were about to touch the gold-trimmed brim, a voice sounded behind him. It was soft and steady, and even the pounding rain couldn’t drown it out.

“Sorry, but that’s my hat.”

The instant the voice came from nowhere, the golden-haired young man’s pupils shrank. The hairs all over his body stood on end. He snatched his hand back from the tricorn hat, while the hand that had been resting on his sword hilt clenched tight in an instant. The force was so great that several veins bulged.

No one could imagine how much power he unleashed in that brief moment. There was a rush of air, and his blood-grooved cutlass flashed silver-white, sweeping over everything behind him.

But, against all expectations, though he watched the cutlass slice through the throat of the man who’d appeared out of nowhere, he felt not the slightest resistance. His strike had passed through empty space.

As if he’d cut nothing but air.

The man seemed to have expected this reaction, and showed little surprise. He only smiled faintly.

He gazed at that captivating face with the same dark golden eyes, like magma not yet gone cold, and spoke in a devilish whisper, almost chanting.

“It’s an honor to meet you, Captain Roy.”