Chapter 163: Cursed Pirate

When you mentioned Jean-Jacques Dephan, he had once been a well-known pirate.

With his crew, he sailed the Seven Seas. His pirate fleet, thoroughly familiar with the behavior of sea beasts that ruled the oceans, was considered invincible. They skillfully evaded pursuit by the navies of various countries, amassed mountains of treasure, and lived in the height of prosperity.

But glory never lasts forever. The pirate crew was captured in the Ghost Archipelago of the Arabian Sea by a witch, who cast a wicked curse upon them.

A powerful curse bound Jean-Jacques. He could never defy her orders. No matter how desperately he struggled, he could not stop his own body from surrendering the treasure he had painstakingly gathered over the years to the witch.

For the same span of years they had once freely ruled the seas, the pirate crew became unwilling slaves of that terrifying witch, forced to continue their raids under her command.

Their next turning point came alongside a single elderly gentleman.

The witch, upon meeting an old man calling himself Hatobato who happened to visit the Ghost Archipelago, fell in love at first sight. Like a cat in heat, she clung to him, abandoned everything, and disappeared with the old man.

Jean-Jacques was stunned.

Could the witch who had so absolutely bound them, turning them into eternal prisoners, simply vanish so easily?

For a while, the ingrained mindset of servitude made him think she might return, keeping the crew stranded on the archipelago. But she never came back.

The curse remained—but its caster had lost interest in her victims.

A dormant spirit of rebellion ignited.

Jean-Jacques kicked his comrades into action, hurriedly raised the sails, and fled the Ghost Archipelago. Before the witch changed her mind and returned, they would escape beyond her reach.

Years of servitude had not rotted Jean-Jacques’ skill.

He handled ropes, rode violent waves with finesse, tamed sea beasts, and braved storms. His ship—black sails bearing a skull flag—appearing through the mist, seemed like a revival of his glorious past.

And yet, Jean-Jacques was weary.

He was old. Not necessarily in body, but in spirit—his vitality was gone. He no longer felt like raising his voice in conquest and plunder.

More than anything, he longed for the homeland he had left behind as a youth.

Rumors said his shabby, rubble-buried hometown had transformed into a proper port city. Mumbai was now one of India’s great cities, heavily guarded—too well defended for a single pirate ship to approach without being sunk.

And yet Jean-Jacques’ longing was strong. Even if he died, he wanted to sink into the sea of his homeland.

If he could once again see the beautiful sunrise rising beyond the palm leaves, he would not mind being shattered to pieces.

Relying on compass and stars, Jean-Jacques guided his ship across the vast ocean. The “Lucky Mist-Spitting Giant Clam” hanging from the bow continuously exhaled fog, concealing the pirate ship.

Once, they passed a merchant vessel. The crew, upon seeing the skull flag, screamed and fled without firing a single spell or cannon shot.

Jean-Jacques did not attack them.

In the past, he would have boarded instantly, stolen women and children, taken treasure, and sunk the ship.

But now he only aimed for home. His cutlass itched, but he did not draw it.

After twenty days, Jean-Jacques’ ship caught sight of Mumbai’s lighthouse in the night.

Standing on the yardarm, gazing into the distance, he trembled with emotion. His memory differed from the present lighthouse—but without a doubt, this was home.

Some of his crew were from the same homeland, yet they remained silent as they worked the sails. Unlike Jean-Jacques, who had once been given special treatment by the witch, the others had had their will erased completely.

That made them both pitiable and enviable.

At last, as he ordered the anchor to be dropped, Jean-Jacques noticed something approaching rapidly against the lighthouse’s glow.

Not large.

Not a dragon. Something smaller—human-shaped.

As habit made him raise a hand to shade his eyes for a closer look, he noticed the “Lucky Mist-Spitting Giant Clam” snapping its mouth shut in panic, and the ship itself freezing as if holding its breath.

Instinctively, Jean-Jacques ran along the yardarm and threw himself headfirst into the sea.

The next instant, his ship exploded behind him with a deafening roar.

From beneath the sea, he watched the shattered timbers scatter under the moonlight and felt a chill run through him.

A witch.

Not the one who had cursed him—but something far more powerful had arrived and destroyed his ship in a single strike.

If he had lingered even slightly longer, he would have been blown apart with his crew.

Thanks to instinct honed through years of survival—and the lucky clam—he had escaped.

Having lost his ship and men, Jean-Jacques carefully made his way to shore, crawling onto the beach in secret.

He had expected heavy coastal defenses, but still thought he might slip through the night and fog.

That hope was naïve.

As he wrung seawater from his clothes on the sand, he sensed another presence landing behind him.

In an instant, he drew his cutlass and turned.

There stood a witch.

A witch holding a beautiful staff set with a blue jewel, wearing a large hat.

…It was over.

Jean-Jacques despaired.

He had reached the soil of his homeland, but done nothing yet. What had become of his house? Was his name carved on the school tree still buried under time? Was the church bell he had been dragged to as a child still rusted?

He would disappear here without knowing anything.

Still, he raised his cutlass in reverse grip, pointing the blade at her.

The witch blinked, caught off guard by his stance.

“You… are Jean-Jacques Dephan of the dolphin?”

He was stunned to be addressed by name.

After hesitating, he nodded.

Then, surprisingly, the witch smiled.

“Then I owe you thanks from sixty years ago, Jean-Jacques. Your information was correct. Because of you, I found a hidden mage and learned magic. It was not the resurrection magic I sought, but it was a solid step. I am grateful.”

“I was mistaken then,” she said, bowing respectfully and removing her hat.

Seeing her flowing black hair, old memories returned.

Indeed, before he had become a skeleton—before being turned into an undead by the witch of the Ghost Archipelago—he had once met this woman.

The Blue Witch.

One of the heroes who had once come from the Far East and slain the Demon King in legend.

“I could not recognize you because you had become a skeleton. So you were captured by a second- or third-generation zombie witch? I have heard of the Ghost Archipelago.”

Jean-Jacques, unable to speak, simply tilted his skull and nodded.

Then the Blue Witch raised her staff and cast a spell.

“×××× prohibition—Nabū… banished.”

An invisible force spread out, like glass shattering.

At the same time, Jean-Jacques felt the cursed bond that had controlled him for decades snap cleanly apart.

He opened his jaw so wide it almost dislocated.

Impossible.

So even this was possible?

He had struggled for thirty years against the curse and failed.

But to the Blue Witch, it was like casually crushing thin ice.

“I have severed the zombie spell’s control. You are truly free now. I don’t care what you were doing as a pirate. Do what you will with the ten or twenty years before your bones finally rot.”

With a light wave, she left.

Jean-Jacques watched her retreating figure in silence.

Then he lowered his exposed tailbone onto the sand and looked out at the sea.

The moon sank. The sky brightened. From beyond the horizon, the sun rose, making the rippling sea glitter.

Jean-Jacques had changed.

His homeland had changed.

But the sunrise rising between the palm leaves remained just as beautiful as it had always been.