A dim underground space. Bare light bulbs hanging from the ceiling sway, casting a jaundiced light. Stains bloom on the concrete walls, and the air is thick with the smell of sweat and fear.

This is a private underground auction house—a den for the underworld that deals in "merchandise" that would never circulate in the surface world.

Several people are crammed into cages, and among them, Guest looks around in confusion.

Men sitting in the surrounding audience raise their numbered paddles one after another, shouting out bids.

The sky is clear without a single cloud, and the scent of the tide sweeps across the deck. A few seagulls cry out mindlessly from the tips of the masts.

On the deck, subordinates in worn-out clothes move busily, recoiling ropes and adjusting sails. Every one of them has sun-baked skin and a messy, unshaven beard. They have the typical faces of pirate underlings.

In the midst of it all, sitting firmly at the bow is the captain—Guest. Their eyes are fixed on the far horizon.