My Dear Plunderer - Chapter 1

<1> The Caged Bird

The rain fell thick and heavy. In this island village surrounded by fields and sea, the pungent scent of damp earth and briny water clung to the air. 

Summer afternoons were sweltering and dull. Curled up in the cramped attic, Laila exhaled a long, slow breath.  

On humid days like this, her uncle never failed to drown his aching knees in cheap wine. 

According to his drunken ramblings, twenty years ago, he had been a knight of the famed Verche family, sent into battle only to be struck down by an enemy’s blade. There was no way to verify if the faded medal he wore so proudly was real.  

Once he had boasted enough, he would inevitably hurl whatever was within reach—and more often than not, Laila was among the casualties.  

It was nothing unusual. A worthless niece, nineteen and still unmarried, was no different from an object.  

Today would surely be brutal.  

And yet, the world outside, veiled in soft rain, remained unbearably beautiful. Resting her chin on her hand, Laila stretched a finger through the gap in the window frame. 

Raindrops, rushing downward, gathered at her fingertip as if seeking respite. A strange sight, but thankfully, few eyes watched in this small island village.  

—Whooooo.

A horn sounded from the manor’s tower. Her uncle had returned from extending his loan repayment deadline.  

Though reduced to a state worse than a common merchant, the Lissidike family was still nobility. With barely any servants left, her uncle refused to abandon the horn that announced the master’s return with all due grandeur.  

"I should go down."

Pulling her finger from the windowsill, Laila carefully rose. The loosely woven floorboards groaned beneath her.  

Time was short. If dinner was late, her uncle would throw dishes in every direction, complaining that hunger made his knees ache worse.  

Tiptoeing down the steep stairs, a bright voice called from behind.  

"Make chicken for dinner tonight. There’s an important banquet next month, so we must prepare in advance."

The legitimate daughter of House Lissidike—or, to put it bluntly, her cousin.  

"Uncle hates chicken..."  

"Then boil both chicken and beef. Problem solved?"

Even the daughter of a backwater lord was still nobility. To Adriana, who had never dirtied her hands, cooking was as simple as dropping ingredients into water and waiting.  

"Honestly, if you need everything spelled out for you, no wonder Father finds you frustrating."

Adriana poked Laila’s chest with her flawless fingers before turning away, her red hair swaying. 

The sight was so lovely that even Laila, passing the foggy old mirror, couldn’t help but glance. Her own silver hair swung stiffly, like a knight’s disciplined stride. Adriana caught the look and smirked.  

"Every time I see it, I think we could sweep the floors with your hair instead of a broom."

Then she yanked the ends roughly, exaggerating a wince. "Ow, so rough!"

There was no point reacting. Laila simply walked toward the kitchen.  

No reason to be upset. This much was just family banter.  

---

Nobility ought to carry themselves with grace—but Baron Müller Lissidike, Laila’s uncle, possessed none of it.  

It wasn’t just his unimpressive appearance—the limp, the short stature, the complete lack of hair.

It was the way he eyed every opportunity like a starving dog, the way his cruel nature surfaced unchecked against the weak. It made him look less like a noble and more like a common thug.  

The moment he entered the dining room, Müller flared his broad nostrils. 

"What’s this stench? Chicken?"

"Adriana wanted chicken tonight. I’ll bring the beef shortly—please, at least have some bread first—"

Laila placed soft bread before him, coaxing like a child. With a derisive snort, Müller shoved the plate off the table.  

"You know I hate chicken. My old wound from the battlefield—the one I got fighting alongside Count Verche—aches like hell, and you dare fill the air with this filth?"

That he had once breathed the same air as the illustrious late Count Verche was Müller’s lifelong pride. Sometimes, he even dropped formalities, as if they’d been comrades. (Only when no one of consequence was around, of course.)  

"I’m sorry. But Adriana—"

"Hm? Me? What did I do?"

"You told me to prepare chicken—"

"When?" Adriana pinched her nose, flawless face scrunched. "Ugh, the smell. You know Father hates it, yet you still do this? How odd."

"How do you expect to marry, huh? Who’d want someone so dull-witted, slow, and mealy-mouthed?"

"..." 

"What have I always told you?"  

"That marriage is the only way to repay your kindness." 

"What kind of marriage?"

"A… a match with a wealthy merchant house." 

"Exactly! Don’t even dream of being a proper wife—aim for a concubine’s position. Then you’ll live in a fine manor, ordering servants about, while we pocket a hefty dowry. Win-win! And yet—" He slammed the table. "—you still don’t listen!" 

She could recite this speech in her sleep.  

"When my brother was alive and head of this house, you were still some high-and-mighty noble girl. Now? You’re a worthless drain on our food. Remember that. We’re saints for keeping you." 

"...I’ll remember." 

"Damn right." 

Nodding, Müller stood—then upended the chicken stew onto Laila’s dress.  

"Since you’ll have to scrub it anyway, why not start here?"  

"..."

Adriana burst into laughter at the sight of Laila drenched in broth and vegetables, doubling over to slap the table. *L"Oh, the stench! Clean it before we return. Mother, let’s dine out!"  

"A rare treat!" Her aunt smiled. "Oh, Laila—do scrub the carpet thoroughly. No stains." 

As they left, Adriana winked and whispered:  

"Sorry. Just a joke, okay?"

A harmless family prank. The only thread binding Laila to them.  

Without even this—if they treated her truly as an outsider—if they cast her out one morning— 

A girl barely of age, with no backing, wandering the streets? Her fate would be painfully clear. 

"I know. It’s a joke." 

This answer suited them both. 

Someone in the village once said sisters often played such tricks. Maybe. Or maybe it was just the last shred of pride in her tattered soul, rationalizing.

---

Alone, Laila cleaned the dining room. With no servants left for "her" tasks, the mess was hers alone.  

Kneeling, she scrubbed until her back ached, but the stew had seeped deep into her aunt’s prized carpet.  

"If they see it’s not spotless…" She massaged her sore shoulders, then glanced around.  

"No one’s watching…?"  

"To the thirsty, I shall give freely from the spring of life."

The incantation rolled softly off her tongue. A phantom rivulet bubbled up, swelling until the floor was submerged. She stirred the water, and the waves scoured every stain away.  

A dangerously convenient power—one no ordinary human should have.  

In an empire that burned heretics at the stake, this was a secret Laila must carry to her grave.  

Just as she willed the water to recede—  

"I knew it."  

"—!"

Her uncle’s face, twisted like a demon’s, peered over the windowsill, balanced on tiptoe. Instinctively, Laila stumbled back.  

"You damned rat."  

He clambered inside, red with rage. "Devil’s spawn! I’ll report you to the guards! They’ll chain you to a pyre in the capital!" 

Memories of the executions she’d witnessed as a child flooded her—the heat, the screams, the cheers—  

"I’m sorry! Uncle, please!"  

"Shall I describe how you’ll die? Tied high on the stake, flames licking your feet first. Slow. You’ll beg for a rock to crush your skull, but no—you’ll scream for days before choking on smoke!"  

"I’m sorry! I won’t do it again!"

Twelve years of this. Familiar. Nauseating. 

Her soles burned as if already on the pyre. She collapsed.  

"Forgive me… I thought no one was watching! I’ll never use this cursed power again!"

She clutched his trousers, weeping like the child she’d been at her first execution.  

"Don’t report me…!"

Müller watched, then extended a hand. Her terror-stricken face—so like her dead father’s—pleased him.  

"You know I do this for you."  

"Y-yes…"

"Twelve years of teaching, and you still err. Must I be harsh? I don’t want my only niece becoming kindling."

Yes. He cared. They were family. Blood.  

"Should I… remake dinner?"

Müller smirked and patted her shoulder—a rare gesture of "affection."  

A rotten rope, but the only one she had to cling to.  

---  

Renok Verche leaned against the ship's hull, lighting a cigar.  

Five continents, four seas—and this was the Ort Sea, notorious as the most treacherous.

The relentless rain had ceased, but the wind still howled. As always during foul weather, the ocean bared its teeth at the sky and roared.

The violent waves tossed Renok's ship relentlessly. Weapons lashed to the deck clashed together, their metallic clangs a threatening chorus. 

The fierce battle had just ended, and the crew scurried from stern to bow, busy with cleanup.  

Renok exhaled a long stream of smoke, his gaze lifting. The haze of his cigar obscured his vision, but through it fluttered a flag—no emblem, just crimson cloth.

In these turbulent times of contested waters, a red flag meant one thing: a privateer.

A pirate sanctioned by the Emperor, granted freedom to plunder and wage war.

A lawless existence, possible only in chaos.

Renok rather liked this barbaric system.

He’d lowered the Jolly Roger—the skull-and-crown standard—but felt no real regret. 

What’s one more flag in a sea already filled with contradictions?  

Adventurers grown complacent, gentlemen without manners, cowards drunk on greed… The ocean was a mess of mismatched ideals. One banner meant little. 

His face, which had just sent multiple enemy ships to the depths, showed neither excitement nor confusion. The only trace of battle was the blood clinging haphazardly to his discarded sword.  

The navigator, weary-faced, approached as cleanup neared its end.  

"No captives from the enemy ships. They must’ve already been sold. All valuables secured."  

"Good work."  

Renok lit another cigar, staring at the sunset-stained sea as if on a leisurely cruise.  

The navigator pulled a gilded letter from his coat.  

"Captain. Another missive. From His Imperial Majesty." 

Renok didn’t take it, merely glancing down. The recipient line read, in cold, unfeeling script:  

To my son. 

A title reclaimed after 'twenty-four years' of life. After so desperately trying to erase him from the world…  

"First the privateer’s flag, then the title of Count, and now blood ties?" 

"He seems impatient." 

"Burn it. It reeks of deceit."  

"No wonder the ship’s sinking. Must be the weight of these letters." 

Today’s enemy had been strong. Proof? Several cannon shots had torn through the hull.  

On the opposite deck, First Mate Pedro frantically bailed water, shouting:  

"Captain! At this rate, we’ll end up like the ships we just sank!"

"Find an island and dock. What’s the issue?"  

"We might not even make it to an island!" 

"Can’t you swim?"  

"..."  

People don’t usually swim across the ocean, sir.  

The crew gaped. The world spoke of Renok as the *one true king of the four seas*—but those outside his realm of sheer martial prowess could only stare in disbelief.  

Yet what choice did they have? If they didn’t find land, they’d be clinging to dolphin fins soon enough. Shaking off his daze, Pedro barked:  

"Navigator! Drake! Quit gawking and chart a course! Or do you wanna be chum?!"  

"If you’ve pirated this long, learn to read the damn sea. There’s an island northwest."  

Thanks to the crew’s relentless bailing, the ship moved steadily, if not swiftly.  

After cresting wave after wave, the lookout in the crow’s nest called down:  

"Land."

The navigator handed Renok a spyglass.  

A small, low-lying island—one even Renok, who’d roamed every corner of the sea, had never set foot on. Imperial territory?  

"What is that?"

"Lissidike Island. The sole territory of the Lissidike barony. Yes, it’s Imperial land. Shall we dock?"

Through the veil of darkness, the island’s silhouette emerged. Not a single torch broke the silence. In other words, not even the bare minimum of military defense.  

Pathetic, considering the current era of maritime strife. If they were enemies, this pitiful island would be annihilated in moments.  

Born of the noblest blood, yet raised in the lowest depths. 

A bastard forsaken by the gods. The Emperor’s castaway.  

Renok had never considered himself nobility. The distance between him and those so-called aristocrats was vast—and his disdain for those useless leeches even vaster.  

The Lissidike family, huh? 

His lips twisted into a smirk. Crushing his cigar underfoot, he gave a single nod.  

"We’re going to that island."

***

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