The Storm Approaches

Early the next morning, the sea breeze blew in from the water, carrying a damp, salty scent. Sunlight filtered through the clouds onto the deck of the abandoned warship, tinting the broken masts and ropes with a faint golden glow.

Most people on the deck were still asleep.

After everything yesterday, nearly everyone was exhausted. Beck and Carl did not force anyone to rise early, and the examiners had not shown up again, so most candidates simply stayed in their bunks.

Ryan, however, was already up and preparing to handle the day's miscellaneous tasks.

At that moment, he was crouched among a pile of junk at the stern, picking through it.

The previous night, he had not switched rooms like the others. He could not be bothered to join in on that sort of fuss. He found an old rope net and made himself a simple hammock, hanging it from a section of discarded communications antenna behind the command tower. It was sheltered from the wind, dry, free of mosquitoes, and quiet up high. It was more comfortable than cramming into a cabin.

And now, he was preparing himself a "special breakfast."

Ryan tied the small knife in his hand to a sturdy wooden pole and tightly wrapped it with several loops of discarded wire. He gave it a shake. The blade swayed slightly at the end of the pole, but it was stable enough overall.

"Good enough," he muttered.

He walked to the rocky shore beside the ship, took off his coat and shoes, pinned his bag down with his shoelaces to make sure the sea wind would not carry it away, then stretched his limbs a little.

Standing on the slippery rocks, he fixed his eyes on a patch of shallow water ahead. It was not deep,