It is yours to find, if you are hungry enough.

The rain in Port Kembu streets into dark mirrors that reflected the yellow glow of the oil lamps. Vendors shouted half-heartedly from beneath makeshift awnings, their voices blending with the hiss of falling water.

Edran, known among the coastal traders simply as the Hunter, wove through the market, his eyes scanning for more than food or wares. He was chasing something far more elusive — a whisper that had reached him in the form of a crumpled note pressed into his palm by a limping sailor two nights ago.

The note was strange, its ink blotched from seawater. It contained just one word, smudged but legible:

cashuB

It was nonsense at first glance, yet the sailor’s eyes had gleamed when handing it over. “Part of something,” the man had said, his voice low and urgent. “The rest is scattered. Bring them together, and you’ll hold a fortune no king can tax.”

Edran tucked the note deeper into his coat, letting the market’s rhythm carry him. Somewhere in the stalls — or in the city beyond — lay the other pieces.

Down by the harbor, the scent of tarred rope and dried fish thickened the air. A dozen fishing boats rocked in their moorings, their masts creaking like old bones. Edran found who he was looking for: an elderly fisherman named Dorac, who kept a meticulous leather ledger of every catch, trade, and debt.

Dorac had once been a navigator, and his handwriting carried the discipline of a man who had charted storms. When Edran asked about strange markings or codes, Dorac flipped through his ledger and pointed to a page near the back.

On it was a list of fish weights, but between “barracuda – 17” and “grouper – 9” was something else entirely:

o2FteCJodH

Edran’s pulse quickened. He traced the letters with his fingertip. Dorac shrugged. “That? Not my writing. Must’ve been the boy who helps me tie the nets. Picked it up from a sailor, maybe.”

Edran copied it carefully onto his own scrap of paper. Two fragments now. Both meaningless alone, but together… they began to hum in his mind.

That night, a storm blew in from the southeast, tearing at the sails of the moored ships and hurling salt spray across the quay. Edran sought shelter in the old lighthouse, its beam long extinguished, its walls smelling of damp stone.

Inside, he found an iron desk and the remnants of a telegraph station. The wires were gone, but the walls were still marked with faint charcoal scribbles — coordinates, weather notes, and, between two crooked lines, another fragment:

Rwc

Three fragments now.

As he explored further, lightning flashed through the windows, and in the brief light he saw a brass plate screwed to the far wall, blackened with age. The etching was almost gone, but he could make out more:

tpsovL21p

The letters sank into his thoughts like pebbles into deep water.

When the storm eased, he left the lighthouse with both scribbles carefully transcribed.

Two days later, Edran’s path led him inland to the Monastery of St. Vael, where parchment maps were copied by hand in a dim hall scented with ink and beeswax. The abbot, a stooped man named Iram, greeted him with wary curiosity.

Edran asked about strange inscriptions and was led to a wall-sized chart of the eastern coastline. Near the mouth of the Beryl River, a cluster of letters had been drawn in faded red:

uaWJpdH

Another piece.

Later, in the scriptorium, he noticed a novice monk using a scrap of vellum to blot excess ink from his quill. The blotter had once been part of a letter — Edran could see half of it still clear:

MuYXVjc2

He traded the boy a copper coin for the scrap.

The abbot chuckled. “You hunt ghosts, Hunter.”

“Not ghosts,” Edran murmured. “Something more solid.”

The next clue came from a campfire gathering deep in the limestone hills, where goat herders told stories under the stars. One herder, an old woman with milky eyes, recited a chant in which certain words seemed to stand out. Edran leaned in, letting the syllables imprint themselves on his mind:

F0Y29

When he asked about the chant’s origin, she claimed it was older than the village itself.

Later, in the glow of the fire, he noticed her stirring the embers with a charred stick. On its side, burned into the wood, was another piece:

pbmVhdSB

He stayed until dawn, trading tales for trust, before moving on with his pack heavier by two more fragments.

By now Edran’s scraps of paper held dozens of partial codes: lines, loops, symbols that meant nothing to any scholar or sailor he showed them to. Yet he knew — in that bone-deep way hunters know — that together they formed a single thing.

In the city of Meroth, beneath the ruined western gate, he found a locked iron door. The lock was rusted, but carved into the lintel above it was another set of characters:

hYXRlYX

When he pried the door open, the darkness inside was filled with the scent of mold and old parchment. On a desk lay a cracked leather-bound book. Most of its pages were blank, but one held a line of text that stood out sharply against the yellowed paper:

CBpGFhA

He wrote it down, heart racing.

At the back of the room, a broken clay tablet revealed yet another string:

WFzeEA2

The fragments were mounting. He was close — he could feel it.

Weeks passed in a blur of dusty roads, whispered trades, and half-lit rooms. Edran collected more: one etched into a silver goblet in the tavern of Vash, another scrawled on the margin of a customs ledger, another painted into the edge of a mural no one looked at anymore. They came from everywhere — fishermen, monks, thieves, children, the wind-blown notices nailed to city gates.

He arranged them in every possible sequence on his table in a small rented room, candles burning down to stubs. The pieces almost fit — almost — but one was missing. Just one. Without it, the whole was useless.

He scoured the ports again. Returned to the monastery. Climbed back to the lighthouse, searched the cliff paths until his boots split. Nothing.

One night, as rain battered the shutters, Edran sat staring at the table. His eyes ached. He noticed one piece of paper that he initially ignored. It read that the sats symbol is now the ₿ symbol. So, 1 sats was exactly what he actually hunting for, not 1 BTC. His fingers were black with ink. He pushed the scraps away and stood.

“I can’t,” he said aloud.

He left the room, the door swinging shut behind him, the candlelight catching the jumble of fragments that, if completed, would form something worth exactly ₿1.

And so the Hunter vanished from the ports and markets, from the ledgers and whispers, leaving behind only the scattered characters and the knowledge that they were real. Somewhere, in one place or another, lies the final missing fragment.

It is yours to find, if you are hungry enough. Have fun!