The firelight flickered on the cabin floor, slicing the room into light and dark.
A sheepskin bag soaked in saltwater lay on the table, its corners still carrying the scent of the sea.
Kavier untied the rough sealing rope and read out in a coarse voice: "The first batch of rchant ships from Red Tide Territory will set sail in two days, ten ships in the fleet, dispersed arrangent, destination Southeast Province."
Kavier first grinned broadly: "Finally, it’s here."
"Ten escort ships..." he silently mouthed these words to himself.
There was no joy or fear in his eyes, only the cold calculation of every gain and loss.
Though the escorts were many, they were rely a drag chain.
The real profit lay in the holds filled with precious minerals.
The sheepskin map lay spread on the table, candlelight trembling on its surface.
Kavier picked up a rusty iron nail, pressing it onto a route, then traced three words on the map with his finger — Riptide Zone.
"A natural graveyard." Kavier chuckled softly, his laughter low but chilling.
The Riptide Zone was a necessary path for the convoy and the graveyard Kavier had chosen for them.
Small islands on both sides were hidden, and the waters were complex; he had already dispatched ten iron-claw fireboats to station there.
Each boat with a team of two, carrying oil jars and hook ropes, would strike from the shadows when the tide shifted, locking onto the enemy ship’s keel, capsizing them in the dark currents.
Kavier calculated the ti; in the afternoons these days, the tide swelled, its breath perfectly overlapping with the Red Tide fleet’s course.
That thirty-minute tide shift period was an excellent window.
The tide rose a foot, reversing the water flow direction, allowing his fleet to swiftly advance from the northern line, avoiding the patrol lights and secretly infiltrating behind the enemy.
Kavier used the tip of a knife to draw that route on the map, stopping the blade at an isolated reef, murmuring softly: "Here is where we close the net."
He also marked several small dots at the edge of the map, where barrels of oil were pre-buried.
When the escort ships approached, he would ignite the sea’s surface, the rolling smoke obscuring the enemy’s vision, covering the main force’s assault.
Kavier’s hand rested on the map, his expression void of waves as he looked at those symbols.
Everything was like a calculation.
Even betrayal, failure, escape, were precisely integrated into the plan.
Kavier asured the tides, calculated ti, gauged the spread speed of flas, knowing the burn ti of each oil jar, the loading and retreat radius of each fireboat.
Kavier’s caution seeped into every detail: backup winches, folding planks, sealed tokens, down to which subordinate should carry how many dry rations.
Every route had a retreat, every point a backup plan.
Even the guards of the Dawn lighthouse had been paid off; if he lit certain signal lights, the alarm would be delayed by one minute.
That minute was enough for him to complete the harvest.
And if the action failed, he would abandon the ship and set a fire at the reef mouth, showing the enemy the burning remnants, then slip with trusted n into the Raven’s Nest Town he had long prepared, change nas, and live another life.
In the cabin, the firelight reflecting off his tallic chin gave off a cold gleam, making him look less like a pirate and more like an accountant writing a death ledger at sea.
To him, so-called brotherhood was rely a tool for making money.
On the deck ca the shouts and laughter of pirates, slapping barrel lids, clashing blades, hurling curses at the sea breeze, and singing crude songs.
Bumping and jostling, strong spirits splashed on the wood, mixing with the sll of salt and fire.
It was an arrogant clamor, like beasts roaring at each other before a storm.
And the cabin door was half-closed; Kavier stood at the helm, his gaze pierceing through the window slits towards the crowd in revelry.
Moonlight cast a cold light on his tallic chin, his calm more terrifying than the din on deck.
Kavier silently wrapped up all the arrangents, as if wrapping a sharp weapon, with not a shred of hesitation or rcy in his heart.
The shouting and laughter outside beca noise, leaving only the wind and waves responding to his thoughts.
The night wind pushed open the half-door, bringing the sll of liquor and blood.
Kavier quietly took a breath, muttering: "Let them laugh while they can, there’s not much ti left."
Then he tidied his composed expression, raised his hand, and pushed the cabin door wide open.
The sea breeze mixed with the scent of alcohol hit him; he paused briefly at the door, his mouth twitching slowly, donning that manic grin again.
A mont before the somber calculation was buried in laughter, as if he had beco another person.
Kavier walked onto the deck, where the scent of spirits and firelight intertwined.
Seeing him appear, the pirates shouted in unison: "Mad King! Mad King!"
Kavier raised his cup, shouting loudly: "Brothers! Let everyone rember the na of the Mad King! Kill them all, burn their ships!"
"Kill, kill, kill!" Cheers rolled, drumrs beat on barrel lids, blades clanged against masts.
The firelight bathed half of his tallic face in red, his smile distorting in the flickering light, like fervent prayers or pre-sacrifice hymns.
"Weigh anchor!" Kavier commanded, and the horn imdiately sounded.
Thirty-seven black sails slowly turned, anchors lifted from the water, stirring the waves.
The fleet set sail into the night fog, heading towards the graveyard he had personally chosen — the Riptide Zone.
......
The night sea was like ink, the north sea wind carrying the chill of broken ice.
The thirty-seven black sails had already reached the outskirts of the Riptide Zone, seventeen of them hidden in the shadows of two barren islands.
This was an ambush point Kavier had personally selected.
There were undercurrents in the sea below, and the angle of the islands shielded the ships’ shadows.
For this position, he sent people three tis to survey, accurately recording even the reef height and water depth at low tide.
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