Night settled gently over Port-Mirage. The harbor lanterns lit up one by one, flickering in the breeze. Elian and Shikamaru returned to the inn in silence, each carrying the quiet awareness that a new chapter was beginning.
The next morning, a calm gray light bathed the small town. After a modest breakfast, they headed toward the mission office at an unhurried pace.
The building was modest: an old wooden house with faded blue shutters. Inside, the air smelled of damp paper and stale tobacco. Behind a worn counter stood the manager, a stocky man with graying hair and a tired gaze. His name was Garrick.
When Elian and Shikamaru entered, Garrick slowly raised his eyes. He studied them for a long moment, then let out a weary sigh.
"You're new," he noted in a hoarse voice. "In a remote place like this, we don't get many capable people. Most locals can barely hold a knife without cutting themselves. So when someone shows up for a mission—even a rank D—we prefer to make sure they won't cause more trouble than they solve."
He led them behind the building, into a small courtyard enclosed by a stone wall. The ground was packed dirt, marked with old impacts. Two sturdy men, clearly his subordinates, were already waiting: one held a wooden club, the other a long staff.
Garrick crossed his arms and nodded.
"Show me what you can do. Fight them. No need to kill them—just put them out of commission. Go on."
Elian took a slow breath. He pulled a shuriken from his pocket. The metal felt cold and familiar between his fingers. Across from him, the man with the club stepped forward with a mocking smile, confident it would be easy against someone so young.
Elian didn't move at first. He waited until the man was within range, then threw. The shuriken spun through the air and struck with precision into the shoulder of the arm holding the club. The man cried out in surprise and dropped his weapon. Before he could react, Elian threw a second shuriken, which lodged into his thigh, bringing him to his knees.
On the other side of the courtyard, the second subordinate charged at Shikamaru with his staff. Shikamaru dodged the first strike with almost lazy ease, then stepped forward. In one smooth, economical motion, he struck the man's solar plexus with the palm of his hand, then followed with a precise elbow to the shoulder. The subordinate staggered back, breath knocked out of him. Shikamaru finished with a simple but effective sweep that sent the man to the ground.
It was all over in moments—no noise, no flashy movements.
Garrick remained silent for a long while, arms still crossed. He looked at his two subordinates struggling to get back up, then turned his gaze back to Elian and Shikamaru.
"Not bad…" he finally grunted. "The kid with his… metal stars has good aim. And you…" He looked at Shikamaru. "You don't move much, but you hit right. In a place like this, that's more than enough. Most people who come offering their services get humiliated by those two. At least you know how to do something."
He went back inside, scribbled something in a ledger, and handed them a crumpled contract.
"The boat leaves the day after tomorrow at dawn. Be on time. No delays, no excuses."
Elian took the paper carefully. Shikamaru slipped it into his pocket without a word.
They stepped back out into the street. The sun had begun to break through the fog. Elian felt something new—a sense of having crossed an invisible threshold. They were no longer just two travelers. They were now people trusted with a mission, even in a remote place where competence was rare.
Shikamaru walked beside him, hands still in his pockets.
"That was enough," he murmured. "In a place like this, you don't show too much. Just enough to get through."
Elian nodded. He felt the light weight of the contract in his pocket—and with it, the weight of a first responsibility.
The rest of the day passed in a calm, unhurried rhythm.
They bought simple supplies: dry bread, salted fish, fresh water, and a sturdy rope. Shikamaru studied the maps he had purchased, tracing the safest maritime routes between Port-Mirage and Brume-Basse with his finger. Elian trained quietly behind the inn, throwing his shuriken at a dead tree. Each throw was more precise than the last.
As evening fell, they sat on the dock, their legs hanging over the water. The setting sun painted the sea in gold and pink.
Shikamaru spoke little, but his words were clear:
"Tomorrow, we finish preparations. The day after, we leave. No unnecessary risks. We observe. We learn. And we come back with the money."
Elian looked out at the darkening horizon.
"I'm ready," he said simply.
Shikamaru let out a long sigh, almost a faint smile.
"No one's ever really ready. But we go anyway."
Night settled gently over Port-Mirage. The harbor lanterns lit up one by one, flickering in the breeze. Elian and Shikamaru returned to the inn in silence, each carrying the quiet awareness that a new chapter was beginning.
Tomorrow, they would finish their preparations.
The day after, they would leave the port for their first mission.
The horizon, slowly, was opening.
***
The day after next arrived with the same soft grayness as the previous days.
The sky hung low, veiled in a light mist that blurred the outlines of the port and made them seem distant. The air smelled of damp wood and fresh fish. Elian and Shikamaru rose early, without wasting words. They packed their belongings with quiet precision: the shuriken carefully distributed in a leather pouch, the five explosive tags wrapped neatly in cloth to prevent any friction, the flask filled with fresh water, and the small amount of provisions they had bought.
Shikamaru slipped the nautical charts into a waterproof leather case he had found at the inn. He studied them one last time, tracing the safest route to Brume-Basse with his finger, then rolled them up carefully.
They made their way to the dock indicated on the contract. A small merchant vessel was already there, an old two-masted cutter named The Gray Seagull. The merchant, a man in his forties with a sun-weathered face and calloused hands, was waiting near the gangplank. His name was Tomas. His cargo—mainly barrels of wine, dyed fabrics, and a few crates of spices—was firmly secured on deck.
Tomas watched them for a moment, noticing Elian's youth and Shikamaru's nonchalant attitude. He asked no unnecessary questions. He simply nodded.
"You're the two the office sent? Good. We leave in an hour. Stay discreet, do your job, and we part ways in Brume-Basse with the money. No trouble, no discussions."
Shikamaru responded with a simple nod. Elian remained silent, feeling the light weight of the shuriken at his hip and the reassuring warmth in his chest.
They boarded. The vessel slowly left the port of Port-Mirage, pushed by a moderate breeze. The deck creaked softly beneath their feet. Tomas and his small crew of three handled the maneuvers with the ease of men who made this journey several times a year.
Elian stood near the railing, watching the island drift away once more. This time, it wasn't a final farewell like with Crystal Island, but the beginning of something broader. Shikamaru leaned against the main mast, hands in his pockets, eyes half-closed, observing both the sea and the men on board.
Hours passed slowly. The cutter moved at a steady pace, slicing through the waves with an almost monotonous calm. Elian could feel his body responding differently now: leaner, steadier, shoulders slightly broader, breath deeper. Every movement reminded him of the fifteen days of training in the grove.
Around mid-afternoon, Shikamaru approached him and murmured in a low voice, almost drowned out by the wind and the sails:
"Observe. Take note of the crew's habits. Watch how the merchant behaves. In an escort mission, the real danger rarely comes from outside first. It often comes from within."
Elian nodded without replying. He could feel that this journey was far more than a simple escort—it was their first real test.
The sea stretched around them, calm and endless. Port-Mirage was already nothing more than a distant speck on the horizon.
Ahead of them, Brume-Basse awaited.
And with it, the first true mission of their new life.
The wind blew gently through the sails, carrying The Gray Seagull toward the unknown, while the two companions, silent, prepared themselves inwardly for what was to come.