The Thief on the Lower Deck (Flashback)

The boy on the battleship's lower decks had been observing a sailor for several days. He noticed the sailor always carried some ration bars and cigarettes while patrolling the lower decks—rare luxuries for the residents down there.

The boy lived in the deepest bowels of the ship, a labyrinth of machinery corridors and pipes, a shadowy corner where the Emperor's light barely reached.

Life here was harsh, with scarce food and drinking water, every day a struggle for survival. The boy was small but quick-witted, knowing how to navigate the ship's maze-like corridors and compartments to find opportunities to survive.

When the sailor patrolled to a specific checkpoint, he habitually stopped to smoke a cigarette or take a couple bites of a ration bar—a brief moment of distraction. Ration bars and cigarettes were daily supplies for the sailor, but for the lower decks, they were rare luxuries. The boy decided to take a risk.

The boy already had a plan. The only lighting at this checkpoint came from a lamp above. So the boy found a piece of cloth to cover his left eye, letting it adjust to the dark in advance.

The sailor arrived right on schedule for his patrol and, out of habit, unbuttoned his pocket, tore open a cigarette pack, popped one into his mouth, and casually pulled out a lighter. After completing this familiar routine, the careless sailor didn't even button his pocket back up, leaning against the wall to blow smoke rings.

From the corner, the one-eyed boy pulled out a piece of iron wire. He wrapped the wire in rubber to prevent electrocution, then inserted it into an exposed circuit board on the wall, worn from age. With a bang, the circuit shorted, and the ceiling lamp in the corridor went out.

The boy darted out from the shadows, flipping up his eye patch as he moved. His heart raced, but his gaze was steady—he knew the sailor was now in total darkness. Holding his breath, he pressed his body against the cold metal wall. Like a ghost, he slid out of the shadows, his movements light and swift, making no sound.

With his dark-adapted left eye, the boy clearly saw the sailor's figure. His fingers moved as nimbly as a spider's legs, gently lifting the pocket flap and reaching inside. He was extremely careful to avoid drawing attention.

Finally, his fingers touched the hard ration bars and soft cigarette packs. But the sailor still felt something brush against him and barked sharply.

"Who's there?!"

To make matters worse, the power came back faster than the boy had expected. As the light above flickered on, the guard's eyes gleamed with alertness in the dim glow. The boy's heart nearly stopped, but he didn't give up. He quickly grabbed the ration bars and cigarettes, pulled his hand back, turned, and ran.

The sailor shouted, spotting the little thief.

"You little brat! You picked the wrong guy."

The sailor took long strides in pursuit, determined to teach the thief a lesson.

A chase and escape unfolded on the lower decks. The boy wove through narrow passages, his body as agile as a monkey's. The sailor followed close behind, but his size and gear slowed him down.

The boy used his familiarity with the terrain. Though the sailor patrolled here, he only walked a few main routes. The boy squeezed through one narrow gap after another, leaped over obstacle after obstacle. He always changed direction at the most critical moment, keeping the sailor from catching him.

The sailor behind him roared in fury, almost wanting to open fire. But he also knew that in such cramped terrain, firing recklessly might hit innocents—though killing a few people was a minor matter. It could also damage the ship's facilities. During a suppression or boarding action, that would be understandable. But for just a few cigarettes and a ration bar, damaging equipment might earn him a whipping.

The sailor finally gave up, watching the boy slip through a narrow gap and cursing:

"You son of a bitch, you'll rot in these lower decks sooner or later."

The boy leaned against the steel wall, finally shaking off his pursuer, breathing heavily in the stale air of the lower decks. His heart pounded even faster from the exertion. In his hand, he clutched the ration bars and cigarettes he'd just snatched—precious resources for him and his mother.

He calmed himself, quickened his pace toward home, skillfully avoiding other sailors. His heart was filled with worry for his mother and anticipation of the food to come. But as he passed through a narrow corridor on the lower decks, a familiar figure blocked his path.

It was an old woman with graying hair. Calling her "old" was relative—she was only in her fifties, but life on the lower decks was so brutal it made her look older than her years.

"Peter, wait!"

It was Old Martha, another Olympian living on the lower decks. Her eyes showed a hint of urgency:

"Your mother, she... she's about to give birth."

Peter's heart tightened. His mother's health had never been good. On the lower decks of the Iron Blood, medical resources were scarce, especially for lowly slaves like them. The glory of this Glorious Queen-class battleship had never belonged to them.

Peter knew his mother's labor could be very dangerous:

"How is she? Is there a doctor?"

Martha answered the boy:

"Doctor Bobby is already there. I came to tell you."

Bobby was just a veterinarian who treated cattle and sheep back on Olympia, but he was one of the few doctors available on the lower decks.

Peter's hand unconsciously tightened around the pack of cigarettes. He hurried toward the compartment he called "home." He prayed to the God-Emperor, praying that his mother and his soon-to-be brother or sister would be all right.

Peter soon stood at the compartment door, his heart full of fear and unease, but he knew he had to be strong—for his mother, for the brother or sister about to be born. The surgery went on for a long time. Peter waited anxiously outside.

He didn't know how long passed until Doctor Bobby finally came out, his face tired and bitter. He said:

"Peter, your mother is fine, just a bit weak. But your sister is too underweight, her cry is too faint. I don't know how long she can hold on."

Doctor Bobby kept talking, but Peter was no longer listening.

He rushed into the compartment and saw his mother lying on the worn bed, weak but peaceful, clutching a small cloth bundle tightly in her arms. Inside was his new sister.

His mother smiled gently, looking at Peter as he returned:

"My little stone, come see your sister."