Pierre's eyes snapped open to the now-familiar wooden ceiling of his cabin. His mind instantly registered sixteen cracks in the paneling, three nails that protruded 0.4 centimeters too far, and an asymmetrical discoloration from water damage in the far corner.

He squeezed his eyes shut, pushing against the unwelcome observations.

"Not now," he muttered to the empty room. "Not today."

The smell of hardtack porridge drew his attention to the table beside his bed. A fresh bowl sat there, wisps of steam curling up from its surface. Leo had been here while he slept. The thought brought a small measure of comfort.

Pierre pushed himself upright, surprised by the relative ease with which his body responded. Yesterday's weakness had faded somewhat, replaced by a strange, hollow energy that hummed beneath his skin. His muscles felt taut and responsive, yet his mind remained cluttered with Valerio's analytical whispers.

The porridge contains approximately 450 calories. Nutritional composition is 62% carbohydrates, 14% protein, 24% fats. Insufficient for optimal physiological recovery.

"Shut up," Pierre growled, pressing the heels of his palms against his temples.

He reached for the bowl, determined to focus on the simple act of eating rather than analyzing it. The porridge was lukewarm now, but the taste remained oddly comforting—the faint saltiness of the fish, the subtle sweetness of dried fruit, the honest simplicity of it all.

After finishing the last spoonful, Pierre leaned back against the headboard and stared at his hands. They looked the same as they always had—large, calloused from fighting, a small scar across the right knuckle from his first MMA match. Yet they didn't feel like his hands anymore. These hands had drained Valerio's life force, had twisted the man's body into something withered and hollow.

These hands had killed.

Pierre closed his eyes and focused inward, summoning the one thing he'd been avoiding since waking up in Porto Veloce.

"Status," he whispered.

The familiar blue interface materialized before his eyes, suspended in his vision like a ghostly window. What he saw made his breath catch in his throat.

[Name: Pierre X. __________]

[Level: 1]

[Core Attributes:]

Strength: S - 1015

Endurance: SS - 1250

Dexterity: A - 980

Agility: A - 912

Spirit: X - 1475

[Available AP: 0]

[Active Abilities: 1]

[Passive Abilities/Traits: 1]

[NEW] Perfectionist's Curse (Inherited): The obsessive-compulsive drive of the Artificer, Valerio, has been integrated into your soul. You are now hyper-aware of all physical, systemic, and conceptual flaws. Resisting the urge to "correct" these imperfections requires a constant mental effort. Failure may result in erratic, obsessive, or dangerously analytical behavior. This trait cannot be unequipped.

Pierre stared at the screen, a cold knot forming in his stomach. His stats had skyrocketed beyond anything he'd thought possible. His Spirit attribute had jumped to an X rating—he hadn't even known that classification existed. The power he'd stolen from Valerio had changed him fundamentally, pushing his capabilities into realms he couldn't begin to comprehend.

But it was the new passive trait that held his attention. "Cannot be unequipped." The system's clinical confirmation of what he already knew—Valerio was now a permanent part of him, an unwelcome passenger he could never evict.

Pierre dismissed the status screen with a frustrated wave of his hand. The statistical confirmation only underscored what he'd already felt—he was stronger, faster, more capable than ever before. And infinitely more cursed, a fact that settled in his gut like a stone anchor.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, testing his balance. The ship swayed gently beneath him, but his newfound stability kept him upright without the slightest effort. His body felt responsive, almost eager to move, as if the stolen energy coursed through his veins like lightning seeking ground. Every muscle hummed with potential energy, begging to be unleashed.

Pierre dressed quickly, pulling on a simple shirt and dark pants. He caught a glimpse of himself in the cracked mirror on the wall—his red hair unkempt like autumn leaves scattered by wind, his blue eyes clearer and sharper than they'd been in days. The reflection revealed no outward sign of the parasite he'd become, no visible mark of Valerio's essence now fused with his own. Physically, he looked better than ever. The bitter irony wasn't lost on him.

Time to face them, he thought, squaring his shoulders and heading for the door. Time to figure out what happens next, now that I've become the very monster I swore to destroy.

The corridor outside his cabin was empty, but voices drifted up from the galley below—a symphony of concerns and plans floating through the wooden beams. Pierre followed the sound, his footsteps near-silent on the wooden steps, another unwelcome gift from his recent "upgrade."

He paused at the entrance to the galley, taking in the scene before making his presence known. Leo sat cross-legged on a bench, his thin fingers carefully mending a torn sail with surprising dexterity, his brow furrowed in concentration. Alyssa leaned against the wall, her platinum hair pulled back in a tight braid that emphasized the sharp lines of her face, arms crossed defensively over her chest. Her pale green eyes flickered with unspoken thoughts. Raven stood at the small galley table, spreading out a map with one hand while the other gestured emphatically, her half-red half-white hair catching the lantern light.

"We need to be realistic," Raven was saying, her voice low and intense as she traced a route on the weathered parchment. "The Navy will have the Dawn Sea locked down tighter than a miser's purse once word of Valerio's death spreads. Every patrol ship from here to the Crimson Belt will be hunting for us."

"We could head west," Alyssa suggested, her aristocratic tone softened by genuine concern, a subtle transformation from the haughty naval princess she'd once been. "Follow the trading routes toward—"

She stopped mid-sentence as she noticed Pierre standing in the doorway. The others turned, conversations halting abruptly as three pairs of eyes locked onto him—Leo's wide with relief, Alyssa's narrowing in assessment, and Raven's sharp and calculating.

"You're up," Raven said, her mismatched red and white hair falling across one eye as she straightened. Her tone gave nothing away, but the slight tension in her shoulders spoke of caution, a predator recognizing another apex hunter had entered the territory.

"I am," Pierre confirmed, stepping into the galley, feeling the weight of their gazes like physical pressure. "And feeling more like myself."

Or at least, what's left of myself.

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