Before I knew it, a few days had passed.
The Man-Eating Shark, sailing two compass points west of north, braved the icy coastal currents and the northeast wind, traversing half of the North Sea as it headed further north.
The sea breeze had grown increasingly chilly by late October, though the sunlight remained splendid.
CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!
On the aft deck, Byron was engaged in a two-on-one sparring match with Little Hans, the carpenter, and Eight Fingers Jon, whose two fingers had been bitten off by Salman.
Even though they were using real swords, the disparity in their swordsmanship was so great that no one worried about accidental injuries.
In the power system of this world’s Silver Law, going solo offered absolutely no future. Even the most powerful Transcendents needed a guard utterly loyal to them to avoid eting an ignominious end.
Although compared to the Guardian Knights and Guardsn in whom his uncle and father had heavily invested, most of the pirates aboard this ship were no better than rotten potatoes and spoiled eggs. But these two, untainted by the Blood of tamorphosis, at least possessed the potential for a Spirit Awakening. Cultivating them for future use wouldn’t be a bad idea.
Thomas and Parry, the apprentice Navigators also under his charge, were much the sa. They had fundantally no hope for independent awakening; the only question was how many resources would be needed for their cultivation down the line.
After a short sparring session, the two n were panting heavily, their footwork sloppy, yet they hadn’t even managed to touch the hem of Byron’s clothes. Seeing the other apprentice Navigators also lying on the deck, tongues lolling, Byron felt he might have been too hasty. Shaking his head, he sheathed his sword and said, "Your foundations are too poor. You’ve never systematically learned swordsmanship; at best, you’re at the level of ordinary militia. Let’s set aside the Fisher Swordsmanship that pirates must learn and start from the very beginning: how to hold a sword. The sa goes for everyone else."
Byron then turned his head and called over a few other less talented youngsters from his small circle. He personally instructed them on how to hold a sword.
"Your grip on the sword must be firm, but not too tight, or your arm will tire quickly. You only need to exert force when striking or blocking. Knowing how to relax your hand after completing an action is a crucial skill, one that swordsmanship masters call ’the supple hand.’ This is a necessary prerequisite for learning any swordsmanship, as it makes your hand more agile without leading to fatigue or stiffness..."
"The essence of the fierce Fisher Swordsmanship is attack, attack, and more attack! Beginners must firmly protect their ’line of attack’—the trajectory your weapon must follow to strike the opponent. Rember the key points of offensive moves: During an attack, never let your front foot touch the ground before your sword reaches the target, and never let the tip of your sword stray from the optimal line of attack! Only by doing this can you strike your opponent faster than they can strike you, and thus save your own life..."
The group of young n listened with utmost seriousness. They might have been naive, but they were certainly not stupid; they all knew that every word Byron spoke now could one day alter their destinies.
Unlike the Navy with its systematic training, the Pirate Group advocated the principle of "survival of the fittest." Countless sailors, unable to survive otherwise, joined pirate ships. After repeatedly enduring bloody battles, those who remained alive would inevitably grow strong, forged on the brink of life and death. Learning even a little more now could increase their chances of becoming one of these ’survivors.’
This was indeed the correct way to steadfastly cultivate a Transcendent. It wasn’t as mystical as the so-called Battle Blood, but it was genuinely for their own good.
Thus, in the eyes of the small group that already revered Byron, he gained an additional label of benevolence, alongside his strength, knowledge, and humility. Eight Fingers Jon, in particular, was extraordinarily grateful. With Byron, the chef, now handling the captain’s als, he no longer needed to be a lowly sous-chef serving the terrifying captain. It even gave him a glimr of hope for transcendence. Compared to so others on the ship, even the perfect knights from legendary tales seed nothing special in comparison.
Under the continued "Cognitive Revision," it appeared they had already forgotten how the "chef" had originally boarded the ship.
Feeling Eight Fingers’ intense gaze, Byron glanced at the Sailing Logbook and smiled knowingly as he saw the new content.
"Date: October 22nd, 1471 of the Silver Era.
Weather: Clear, northeast wind force 4.
Course: North Sea Region, near the Eternal Night Peninsula, close-hauled on a starboard tack.
Supplies: Pirate ship Man-Eating Shark (small Garen type)...
Crew:
Sous-Chef Jon, 19 years old, a North Bay Folk, originally a fisherman from the Kingdom of Hightens, with only three months of militia training; clean background, honest to the point of being nearly timid.
Title: ’Eight Fingers’
This mocking and disdainful title, given by his comrades, marked the most helpless mont of his seafaring career.
Because he was honest and easily bullied, his malicious companions assigned him to the most dangerous post.
Ever since boarding the ship, he had lived in constant fear.
The two fingers bitten off by the captain were the bloody tears of a weak man’s helplessness, an honest man’s reluctant acceptance of his grim fate.
But he had buried this humiliation deep within his heart.
Once his threshold is breached, even an insignificant spark could completely shatter an honest man’s tolerance, unleashing an explosive and terrifying backlash!
(Don’t casually bully honest people; otherwise, by the ti you fall, you might discover your life is only worth... five bucks.)
Loyalty: 91 (Max 100; below 60, betrayal is possible at any ti)
Knowledge: Fisher Swordsmanship (Beginner)
Note: An unremarkable individual, yet he is the one on this ship who, more than anyone, hopes you will replace Captain ’Bloody Eye’ Salman!"
The Echoes of History provided more detailed records of the ship’s own crew mbers than of its enemies, even including a "loyalty" indicator.
Even without having served as an officer, anyone who had played strategy gas would understand the significance of loyalty to an organization. With this information, Byron could grasp the condition of his crew at a glance. Not only could he fend off hidden dangers, but if soone from his own ranks were suddenly turned, he could detect the abnormality imdiately.
And now, he was only missing one thing... the title of captain.
The corner of his eye swiftly scanned the door of the captain’s cabin, his expression unchanged, as if he had never witnessed the horrifying scene that night.
At that mont, the lookout, who was stationed at the mainmast’s crow’s nest, suddenly shouted loudly, "Look, the buoy! We’ve reached Iron Anchor Bay!"
The pirates on the ship, regardless of what they were doing, all perked up and rushed to the deck in droves. During their previous escape, they had used a highly dangerous "anchor turn" to break free from a warship’s grappling hooks. This maneuver had shaken the entire vessel, which now required comprehensive repairs in a large dry dock. Only Iron Anchor Bay, the largest pirate harbor in the North Sea, could et their needs.
Moreover, they had lost over half their crew. Even if they spotted a rchant ship, they could only look on helplessly, relying entirely on Iron Anchor Bay to replenish their numbers with a batch of elite fighters who were both brave and skilled.
More importantly, the Man-Eating Shark typically only needed to "sacrifice" a chef every now and then. But under Byron’s varied and gout-inducing nu, Salman’s condition worsened in this "darkness before dawn." The frequency of his attacks increased, becoming more painful and driving him further into madness.
In the past few days, several more people had gone missing from the ship, causing everyone to feel endangered and wish they could disembark as soon as possible.
"Huh? Why is there only a buoy? Where’s the port?" most of them wondered aloud, visiting Iron Anchor Bay for the first ti and feeling lost at the sight before them.
Not far from the bow, there was only a simple buoy made from a wine barrel tethered by anchor chains, topped with a skull pierced by a spear. Behind the buoy, a wall-like expanse of dense white fog lood, only a stone’s throw away. There was no sign of any pirate port.
Although Byron was well-traveled, he had never been to Iron Anchor Bay, which was accessible only to pirates, and had only heard many legends about it.
As the pirates grew increasingly restless, a gruff voice suddenly announced, "Iron Anchor Bay is right here." The door to the captain’s quarters then burst open, and ’Bloody Eye’ Salman hobbled out.
This cycle—gourt food, illness, cannibalism, relief—repeated endlessly for him. His stomach had been thoroughly conquered by Byron’s cooking; he couldn’t go without his five daily als anymore. Especially after Byron introduced the hotpot, where anything could be cooked, along with the wise adage, "all the nutrients are in the soup," Salman insisted on finishing even the seafood soup base at every al.
His days were likely numbered. It was just a matter of who between them would break first.
Salman took out the parchnt—written on sheepskin and covered with bloody fingerprints—the "Pirate’s Ten Commandnts," and solemnly placed it on the helm. A Spiritual Radiance, tinged with blood, spread over it.
He slowly recited the Lighthouse Sequence, the series of maxims abided by pirate Transcendents: "To take by force is better than to toil!"
HUMMM—!
In Byron’s Spirit Vision, a law net distinct from the Silver Law instantly appeared, perfectly integrating with the "Pirate’s Ten Commandnts." It was the Royal Iron Law belonging to the Pirate Emperor—the "Pirate Code."
The blood-colored Spiritual Radiance spilled from the law net, dyeing the white mist before them red. It ford a pirate emblem unique to the Man-Eater Shark—a skeleton riding a shark—which then surged deep into the fog.
Soon, the rhythmic SWOOSHING and SPLASHING of oars echoed from deep within the fog.
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