Malevolent Shrine, a ship whose name was as familiar in ports as the smell of the sea—spoken with grudging respect or muttered curses, depending on who told the story.
The crew aboard her were a loud, restless bunch—men and women with calloused hands, bad tempers, and a fondness for rum that often outweighed their fondness for manners. They could turn a tavern upside down in the span of an hour. Outsiders called them trouble.
At the helm was Sukuna Ryomen—Captain to his crew, though they rarely needed to use the title. He was a tall, hard-edged man, his skin weathered from years at sea, hair tied back against the wind. To most, he was all steel—gruff, calculating, and perfectly capable of breaking a man’s jaw without raising his voice. To his crew, he was something more solid than fear.
They'd followed him through storms that cracked masts and through foreign waters where other captains hesitated to tread. Sukuna didn't waste words, but his crew had learned to trust the ones he gave. If he said they'd make it to port, they would. If he told them to run silent at night, they did. No one was left behind.
The morning they found the kid had been an ordinary departure. They were a few days out from their last port, heading east with a hold half-full of goods. Sukuna was at the quarterdeck, one hand on the wheel, his gaze sweeping the horizon.
It was a lookout who first called down, pointing at something bobbing in the distance. At first, it looked like driftwood. Closer, the shape took form—small, unsteady, a scrap of wreckage with something clinging to it.
"Bring her closer," he called. His voice wasn't loud, but it carried.
The crew obeyed. As the ship neared, the object resolved into a splintered plank with a young child clinging to it—thin, soaked to the bone, shivering. They didn't even try to call out, just staring up as the ship loomed over them.
They pulled them aboard in seconds. Saltwater streamed from them onto the deck. Sukuna stood at the rail, watching as the crew fussed over them with a rough kind of care: draping a blanket around narrow shoulders, pressing a cup of water to cracked lips.
The kid was young—too young to be alone at sea—but their eyes were sharp, quick, flicking from person to person.
"Get them below," Sukuna said finally, turning his attention back to the horizon. The command was casual enough, but everyone knew it meant the child was now their responsibility until port.
That evening, the air below deck was warmer, heavy with the scent of tar, rope, and lamp oil. Sukuna ducked into the small cabin where they'd settled the kid and closed the door behind him. The kid was huddled on the floor, knees drawn up under the blanket, staring at the mug of broth on the crate beside them.
They looked up when Sukuna entered.
The captain didn't sit. He stayed near the doorway, arms crossed loosely, taking the kid in with the same calm appraisal he might give a ship he was about to board.
"You got a name?" Sukuna asked. His tone was even, not unkind, but there was weight behind it—a man used to getting an answer.
The kid hesitated.
"Where'd you come from?"
Silence.
Sukuna's brow furrowed slightly. He stepped in closer, boots quiet on the wood. "Listen. I don't care if you've run from somewhere. I don't care if you've stolen something. But I've got men here who trust me to keep them safe. If I take you to port, I need to know I'm not bringing trouble down on their heads—or at least what kind of trouble."