Round Five: The Journey

To be honest, the dinner was rather bland.
Morrill showed little interest in dried fish, salted beef, or pickled chicken feet. If it weren’t for the decent red wines stored aboard the Queen of Red Wine, she would have had nothing to do at the table. Forty-Seven, of course, didn’t eat anything at all—even if given a live cow, he could chew it up and swallow it… only to spit it out later.
“Of course not!” Simon picked up a thin slice of beef. “That’s my destination. The poor Fantasy should be heading there too… These troublesome business matters have kept me away from the beautiful Pearl Islands for some time—Praise the gods, praise the Pearl Islands! It’s a gathering place for free sailors and a vital route connecting the northern and southern seas!”
Simon put down his fork, forcing the first officer, second officer, and third officer at the table to stop eating as well. It was highly rude for subordinates to eat while their captain spoke.
“However, esteemed mage, could you tell me if the Agus Empire has truly collapsed?” Simon asked tentatively. “The situation there is extremely chaotic now. Agus has always imposed strict restrictions on us free sea wanderers, so now it’s impossible to get any accurate information…”
Morrill took a sip of red wine. It seemed Simon thought of her as a mage in exile from Agus, but she had no intention of denying it. “As far as I know, it hasn’t reached complete chaos yet. Does Captain have any interest in trading with present-day Agus?”
“Haha…” Simon laughed and glanced at Forty-Seven beside Morrill. “It’s not really trading. There’s no need to hide what I do for a living. As long as there’s profit, I sell anything—even things that shouldn’t be seen in public… Agus’s construct machines have always been highly sought after in the black market. Who wouldn’t want bodyguards and assassins who obey orders, never betray, and fear neither danger nor death?”
Forty-Seven put the fork in his mouth and pulled it out as a completely twisted, spiral-shaped iron bar. This action immediately drew Simon’s attention away.
“Captain Simon, I have some questions,” Morrill said, shifting the topic tactfully. “I’ve never traveled at sea before. I’ve heard stories about sharkfishmen attacking fleets, but this is my first time experiencing it firsthand. From the traces left by the Fantasy and the results of my spells, it seems the Fantasy was attacked suddenly, with no prior defense… Is this common? I mean, do sharkfishmen easily attack a sizable ship like the Fantasy without leaving a single survivor?”

“In fact, that’s usually the outcome if attacked by sharkmen. We have no way of fighting back against them—they’re the rulers of the sea, with a strong sense of territory. They particularly hate land creatures that enter their domain and see us as food. Even worse, sharkmen often consider the entire ocean their territory! They’re even more dangerous than any ferocious land beasts, because there’s nowhere to run in the sea. Aside from a few especially strong marine creatures, almost nothing can stand against sharkmen when they hunt in groups… But usually, such worst-case scenarios don’t happen very often, as though their movements are unpredictable, we still try to avoid them and not provoke them.” After saying that, Simon glanced at his first mate, a male sea elf.

Compared to their land-based kin, sea elves looked quite ordinary, even ugly. Aside from a pair of pointed ears that gave them a slight elfish appearance, the first mate was slightly hunched, with a long face. His skin and thin, seaweed-like hair were bright green, and his face was covered with dark green bumps the size of rice grains. His bright blue eyes were unusually small, like pairs of soybeans embedded on either side of his flat nose. From both sides of his long neck down to his gills, there were slits that opened and closed slightly—those were the sea elf’s gills, with traces of water visible with each breath. His hands, damp and placed on the table, had thin membranes between his fingers, making them look like frog feet. This sub-race of marine elves couldn’t compare to the beautiful and noble night elves, and even by human standards, they hardly deserved the title of elves.

“Hehe… Female sea elves are actually very beautiful. Even among male sea elves, I’m considered of inferior quality.” The sea elf first mate named Rol clearly didn’t have the arrogant attitude typical of elves; instead, he spoke in a casual manner. “As fellow marine races, we sea elves have always been the archenemies of sharkmen. Through our long struggle against them, we’ve developed methods to detect their movements at sea. Even from miles away, we can smell the foul stench from these evil creatures… So although it’s difficult for us to win a direct confrontation with sharkmen at sea, it’s not easy for them either to catch us. Generally speaking, whenever human ships set sail—even large fleets with strong forces, many soldiers, and even mages for protection—they try to bring sea elves along. First, we’re familiar with the sea’s currents and weather patterns, and second, it helps avoid recklessly entering areas where sharkmen are active and getting into trouble.”

He touched his smooth chin: “But this attack is indeed a bit strange. As far as I know, the Fantasy has been hiring a sea elf sailor at high cost for a long time; I’ve even seen him twice. If, as you say, they were attacked without any defense, could it be that the sea elf wasn’t on board? That’s practically impossible—the old guy in charge of the Fantasy has been so timid these past few years that he’s afraid even of capsizing in a ditch… And I’ve measured the temperature of this sea water; we’re sailing along a cooler current. This shouldn’t be an area where shark mermen like to hang around…”
Moriel listened quietly. So… an abnormal departure, an abnormal attack. Things weren’t that simple.
With a crack, a fissure appeared in the solid table. Forty-Seven had been playing with the dining fork he had turned into a spiral cone on the wooden table, using too much force. Facing Moriel’s fierce gaze, he carelessly stood up and walked out.
Watching Forty-Seven leave the captain’s cabin, Simon’s fingers twitched slightly: “Honorable mage, your attendant is truly a terrifying creature!”
“Captain Simon, I suggest you avoid using words like ‘creature’ as much as possible,” Moriel said, pouring herself another glass. She had drunk quite a bit of wine that night. “Otherwise, if you slip up in front of him, you might just experience what it means to be terrifying firsthand.”
Several thick ropes extended from the stern of the Red Wine Queen, with the other ends connected to the bow of the Fantasy. Whether pirates or merchants, anyone who saw such an unoccupied drifting ship would naturally try to claim it for themselves, regardless of its original owner. It was the logic of profit—reasoning wouldn’t work. Profit… Suddenly, Forty-Seven thought of Fres, the northern merchant who always mentioned that word, and the female holy knight who treated reason as truth. They must have returned to the north by now. It was interesting to wonder what kind of fun they would have in such a situation.
“Why not simply send someone over to start that ship? That would be faster.”
A night watchman, crouched at the stern struggling to pull a rope reel, glanced around and, seeing no one else, realized it was the tall, armored guest speaking to him: “Oh, honorable guest, that ship was plundered by mermen. There might even be lingering ghosts on board… Who would dare spend the night there?”
Forty-Seven’s red eyes turned toward the sailor. It was a thin young man with a dirty headscarf wrapped around his head. His bare upper body was covered in scars, his ribs protruding beneath his skin, and his belly rose and fell with each breath, as if he wasn’t breathing through his chest but through his abdomen.
“I’m Forty-Seven. What’s your name?”
Unexpecting the guest to speak to him so politely, the young man was stunned for half a moment before remembering to answer: “I… I’m a slave on the ship. I don’t have a name. But you can call me Twenty-Six—that’s my number, honorable guest… Are you Forty-Seven? Are you also a slave?”

“Slaves?” Forty-Seven leaned down to look at this foolish, reckless boy. It was then that Slave Sailor Twenty-Six realized the guest’s face had a cold metallic sheen, with blood-red eyes that seemed to be boiling and exploding inward, like a world of eternal lava. Terrified, he collapsed onto the deck before immediately getting up and kneeling to kowtow frantically: “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, honorable guest, please forgive me…”
Before he could endure whips or worse punishment, Slave Sailor mustered the courage to look up—only to find the strange guest gone.
It took Moriel some time to locate Forty-Seven, who was now sitting motionless at the bow of the Fantasy, lost in thought, resembling another statue beside the griffin head.
“What are you doing?” Moriel stood at the stern of the Red Wine Queen, facing Forty-Seven. Although the sea was calm, she wasn’t sure if he could hear her. “Hey, can you hear me?”
Forty-Seven glanced at the female mage across from him and suddenly waved his finger at her.
Slaves—what an interesting word. To be precise, he wasn’t even a slave; he was merely a tool, a weapon used to charge into the chaos of space battles, engaging in killing and destruction. This seemingly depressing status had never really disgusted him. The idea of feeling angry, humiliated, sad, or even suffering and seeking revenge was absurd—if he ever lost control, it would only be because he couldn’t tell who to kill and who not to. In fact, there had been quite a few mechanical soldiers shot down by his own people due to identity code failures. But today, this reckless slave sailor had stirred some thoughts in him.
Judging from the sailor’s emaciated frame, it seemed inevitable that he had become a slave. But he was different. Even if he had once been a slave, he could easily shed that status… Undoubtedly, even Moriel couldn’t control him. The encounter in the mage tower was actually a choice—a natural and simple one. A gun needs a user to kill. Just as he searched all frequency bands when lost contact with the base to find a new synthetic electronic voice to inform him of the next target to attack, if that white-haired mage hadn’t died, he would have chosen him instead.

But this is just the beginning. In this world, more often than not, you have to make your own judgments—what to do, what not to do, who to kill, who not to kill… This was also why he tried to talk to Singh in the end, but that old bastard refused to give him face. When you’re no longer just watching but actually inside the animation, a thought arises: when facing a person or a situation, are there any richer alternatives? For example, if Superman took off those red underpants, changed his outfit, and sneaked in to crush Lex Luthor’s head, wouldn’t that save a lot of trouble? It’s strange—why is Superman so stubborn? Like… right, like a holy warrior. Damn, it seems I’ve reverted to that simplistic way of thinking about destruction or not. Change my mindset, change my mindset…

Have I already begun questioning the behavioral goals implanted in me from the moment I was created?

Forty-seven was shocked by this thought. Good heavens, this wasn’t a good sign. According to unreliable sources, thinking about why I exist, why I’m here, what the meaning of my existence is, and what the meaning of the universe is—such questions once completely ruined a supercomputer. Such foolish thoughts should only be entertained by low-level humans when they’re bored. As a mechanical warrior like me, I should act quickly, with a clear purpose—just shoot, don’t question.

Morrill had reached the middle of the thick cable connecting the two ships. On the churning sea, the ships swayed with the waves, let alone the cable linking them. Yet Morrill remained calm, as if glued to the cable and becoming part of it, swaying gently with the motion.

“If one day you stop being a mage, you could find work at a circus.” It wasn’t until Morrill reached the bow of the Fantasy and stepped onto the solid deck that Forty-seven spoke.

“I’ll take that as a compliment!” Morrill’s long hair tied back fluttered in the sea breeze, and she acted much gentler than usual, just like her master. “Why are you staying here?”

“I’m thinking.”

“Oh? I’d rather think you’re dozing off.”

“May I assume you think I have no brain?”

“You don’t have a brain to begin with—no need to assume that.” Morrill simply sat down next to Forty-seven. “But I don’t think you lack thoughts… I haven’t thought that way for a long time. So I hope you’ll choose to think more sometimes, instead of smashing everything in sight like a berserker.”

“That’s difficult. Formulating battle plans has never been my job.”

“You’re strange today…”

“Is that so?”

“The night wind is cold. It’s my first time spending the night at sea…” Morrill stood up, shivered, and turned to walk toward the Red Wine Queen. “Keep thinking here by yourself. I need to go prepare some spells that are more suitable for traveling at sea.”

In the following days, the Red Wine Queen sailed along its established route, braving the waves. Moriel spent most of her time in her cabin, flipping through the spellbooks that Kiskayne had given her—now, all three of Agus’s mage’s magical notes belonged to her, and there was simply too much to learn.

“P-please, noble guest, don’t do this! It might attract fierce sea creatures!” Sailor Twenty-Six hid nervously nearby, trying to persuade Forty-Seven, who was sitting by the side of the ship fishing in the thick mist. Forty-Seven had somehow obtained a fishing rod and line, both made of metal, even with pulleys for pulling the line, and his bait was a poor sea bird floating up and down in the waves.

Forty-Seven glanced at him, causing Twenty-Six to shudder in fear.

“In our old times, there was a man named Ren Gongzi who used a large hook and thick rope, along with fifty cows as bait, to catch a fish nine miles long. The waves generated by fishing were as high as mountains, and the sound could be heard a thousand miles away, making everyone in the country lose their appetite for fish. Do you think I’m not as good as him? Hurry! Pour blood into the sea!”

“I…” Twenty-Six stared at him, too stunned to speak. Was this Ren Gongzi a god? Surely he must be. Not daring to neglect his task, he picked up the iron barrel and dumped all the fish scraps and blood into the sea.

“Don’t worry, kid. Ren Gongzi spent a whole year fishing for that fish. I don’t have that much time… Damn, why did the mist get so thick all of a sudden?”

Leaving Forty-Seven and Twenty-Six aside, Captain Simon and First Officer Rol were now standing anxiously at the door of Moriel’s room.

“Noble mage…” First Officer Rol was drenched, seemingly having just come up from the sea. “I’m afraid we need your help.”

Moriel followed them onto the deck and found that the thin mist that had been present over the sea all these days had become extremely dense—so much so that even the Fantasy Ship, not far behind, was barely visible. Three lamps were hung on the Red Wine Queen, but they were of little use. The lookout perched on the mast shook his head helplessly at Captain Simon on the deck, signaling that nothing could be seen.

“I’m a bit worried,” Simon said gravely. “According to Rol’s calculations, this kind of fog at this time of year is extremely unusual—it’s already affecting navigation. We’re almost approaching the Pearl Islands. If we can’t resolve this quickly, we might accidentally run into the dense reefs surrounding them. That would be terrible. This ship is—never mind, I won’t say more.”

“That’s right,” Rol said, frowning. “I suspect we may have deviated from our usual route, because the waters here feel very unfamiliar to me… There’s not a hint of familiarity in the sea at all.”

“What do you want me to do?” Moriel asked, looking at the ever-changing mist.

Simon rubbed his hands together. “It’s embarrassing to admit, but we who live at sea all year round have lost our way. But noble mage, I have to ask you to help us confirm our route or determine our location. This damned fog has even made the compass malfunction!”

Molier said nothing and began preparing his spell. Forty-Seven continued fishing, though his gaze was now fixed on them. Simon and Ror stepped back cautiously, avoiding disturbing the mage and not wanting to be mistaken by the construct as having malicious intentions.

It didn’t take long for Molier to return to normal, turning to look at Ror.
“First Officer Ror, do you think the sea elves can predict the movements of the Sharkmen?”
“That’s right. We can determine where the Sharkmen are—what’s wrong?”
Molier signaled for Forty-Seven to come over.
“Captain Simon, I think we should prepare for battle. My intuition tells me I’ve seen Sharkmen!”
Ror was shocked: “That’s impossible! I didn’t sense their presence at all while in the sea!”
“What did you see? Are they attacking us?” Simon didn’t question Molier’s words like Ror did. His philosophy was always to prepare for the best and be ready for the worst.
“I don’t know. Intuition only gives fragmented images—nothing concrete to work with…”

The Red Wine Queen jolted violently, tilting so that everyone except Forty-Seven lost their balance. Before it could stabilize, another collision occurred—the Fantasy ship hit the back of the Red Wine Queen.

Had they run aground?
“Damn it!” Simon cursed, finally showing more of a captain’s demeanor. “You fools, what are you standing around for? Go to the hold and check for damage! Get your weapons ready!”

“Holy crap! What is that?” Moments later, Captain Simon leaned over the side of the ship, holding a torch as he looked down at a massive pile of chaotic debris hidden in the thick fog. “Is this the thing that damaged my Red Wine Queen? It’s unbelievable!”

It seemed to be a large floating mass made up of wreckage from various ships. Kelp and algae had tightly entangled these strange objects, not only causing the Red Wine Queen to tilt slightly but also inflicting serious damage on its hull with sharp wooden protrusions that even created several holes.

The sailors also leaned over the side of the ship, terrified, wondering what this could be. Could it really just be driftwood from the sea? They had never seen anything this large before… Suddenly, a loud scream startled everyone.

The nearest sailor jumped in panic, the many iron rings on his ears, nose, and mouth clinking noisily. Realizing what had happened, he slapped Slave Twenty-Six across the face. “Damn it, why are you screaming? Did you see a sea monster?”

Twenty-Six staggered but still pointed downward, his face filled with terror. “People…”

Molier stretched out his hand with a serious expression, and a fierce gust of wind blew downward. The strong airflow created by his wind spell temporarily dispersed the fog, allowing people to see more clearly.

It were indeed people. At least two arms and three feet were visible on the surface of the debris, while the rest was trapped deep below—those limbs were severely swollen from being submerged.

“That’s bad!” Ror suddenly screamed as well. “This is a nest of Sharkmen!”

A sharp sound cut through the fog, followed by a third scream from above—the desperate cry of death.

The lookout was firmly pinned in place by a long spear, blood streaming down the mast. More spears were thrown at him one after another, accompanied by the splashing sound coming from all directions, growing louder and more frequent, as if thousands of frogs were swimming at once. “Throw flaming oil!” Without hesitation, Simon reached for his belt, grabbed two bottles of brownish-yellow liquid in each hand, and threw them out. “Fire the rockets!” The skill of the sailors surprised Morriel slightly. Though they were disheveled and armed differently, looking like a ragtag group, they were actually quite well-trained. Almost simultaneously with the oil bottles shattering upon impact with the nests on the water, several rockets wrapped in oilcloth also struck them, igniting massive fires that revealed the terrifying figures in the thick mist. Most of them were green in color; even the smallest ones, including their tails, were over ten feet long. Chaotic spots and stripes covered their bodies, with bone spines running from the back of their heads to their tails. Their black eyes were as big as Morriel’s fists, and their huge mouths, nearly splitting their fish-like heads in two, were equipped with bayonet-like teeth. Compared to their streamlined bodies, their webbed limbs were disproportionately thick and strong, trampling through the water on the nests and charging forward despite the spreading fire. With just three arrows before the battle even began, and these fishmen being nothing but mutated giant frogs that could leap to the side of the ship in a few jumps, it was nearly impossible to hinder their movements unless an arrow hit their eyes. Some arrows that missed slightly even skidded off their wet, slippery skin. The shark-like fishmen who had climbed onto the ship’s edge used their hands to push off the railing and leap aboard, aiming to strike the sea elves before them—Rol kicked the crossbow mechanism, sending the shark-like fishman directly in front of it flying far away with a giant spear arrow. But this was just a few. More shark-like fishmen quickly boarded the Red Wine Queen, wielding spears and nets, or even attacking the sailors with their sharp claws and teeth. Simon’s slender sword pierced through one shark-like fishman’s left eye and exited through its right, a technique known as “through-the-eyes” that instantly killed the 300-pound ferocious fishman. It was truly impressive for a smuggler captain to possess such skill. But the others weren’t as skilled. Under the fierce attack of the shark-like fishmen, the sailors suffered heavy casualties quickly—neither in strength nor speed could they compare to these marine predators, and more of them were swarming in, outnumbering the sailors by far. Now, only the mage could help. Simon thought as he broke free from the encirclement of two fishmen and stood back-to-back with Rol. Morriel didn’t stand idly by. After the shark-like fishmen launched their attack, Morriel raised her hands to gather power. Crackling lightning quickly formed between her slender hands, with electric flames dancing like serpents between her paired fingers.

Morrill waited for a moment, then raised her hand—immediately, dazzling lightning leaped from her palm, sweeping across the deck and striking a shark-man who had just jumped aboard. The terrifying electric shock caused it to convulse and emit a burnt smell, quickly turning it black. But that wasn’t all—the lightning, as if alive, surged outward, splitting into two beams that hit two other fishmen, before further splitting into four thinner bolts that scattered in all directions.

The timing was perfect; the rapid series of lightning strikes nearly swept through the part of the ship occupied by the shark-men, without affecting the sailors at all. For such indiscriminate lightning, it was practically a miracle.

Morale soared in an instant.

Forty-seven stood beside Morrill, arms crossed, his fishing rod nowhere to be seen. “Didn’t expect you to be this fierce too!”

Morrill gave Forty-seven a glare, ignoring his crude compliment. A barrage of magic projectiles, like fireworks, rushed at the wounded but still alive shark-men. With just these two moves, those unaware might have thought she was a spellcaster specializing in energy magic.

“Kill these disgusting catfish!” Simon shouted, seizing the opportunity to lead the sailors in a counterattack, briefly gaining the upper hand—until a massive shark-man, the size of a sea monster, leaped onto the deck.

Its skin was grayish-black, unlike that of ordinary fishmen, and it lacked their hard spines. Its head, almost identical to that of a shark, had pair of dull black eyes exuding a cold, indifferent aura of death. Most notably, this fishman had two pairs of thick, long arms, each wielding a huge weapon that it swung like a windmill to clear any obstacles in its path, charging relentlessly toward Morrill, who had inflicted heavy casualties on the fishmen.

The shark-man chief!

Five projectiles hit the chief, but it showed no reaction.

“It’s up to you,” Morrill said, raising an eyebrow.

A rusty axe swung down with a bloody wind, but Forty-seven easily caught its wrist and blocked it. Before the other three arms could attack, the chief let out a agonized scream, like a frog with its skin peeled off. By the time Forty-seven released his grip, one of its arms hung limp, its broken bone protruding through the skin.

The gills on the chief’s neck flared violently, as if trying to absorb every drop of moisture in the air to regain strength. Two giant swords and a mace swung at Forty-seven simultaneously, trying to stop his advance, but his indestructible body made it unnecessary for him to dodge those rusted scraps from the sea. All three weapons broke, while Forty-seven already grabbed the chief’s massive mouth, pulling it down hard while simultaneously kicking it with his knee—Morrill, watching from afar, was certain that terrifying spikes had appeared on Forty-seven’s knee armor at that moment.

The chief’s entire jaw was shattered by the blow. All its jagged teeth were embedded in the flesh, and sticky blood gushed out from the cracks in the meat, as if it had been smashed repeatedly with hammers by a dozen strong men.

Yet the shark-man chief wasn’t dead yet. Its fierce vitality kept it convulsing on the ground, wildly swinging its claws in attempts to fight back—until Forty-seven shattered its pointed head with a single punch.

After losing their leader, although there were still many remaining shark-humanoids, they all fled—either diving into their nests or leaping into the sea—vanishing within moments, much like a collapsing army. Defeating such a group of shark-humanoids was a rare achievement at sea. As the shark-humanoids left, their nest, which resembled a pile of trash, began to collapse. Whether it was their doing in the sea, Simon had no interest in finding out, as the Red Wine Queen was already taking in water and making cracking noises. “Hurry! Transport the goods to the Fantasy! Take as much as you can!” Simon shouted. “Damn fools! Forget those weapons—get the silks and spices!” Now, no one cared about attacks from fish-people or ghosts on the ship. Standing on the Fantasy, which was gradually moving away from the fish-people’s nest, Simon watched the Red Wine Queen sink, his expression grim. Yet when Moriel approached, he forced a grateful smile at her. “I’m truly grateful to you. If not for you, we would have really ended up as food for those stinking fish. Ror made such a serious mistake… The crew is quite upset. Hell, I have to consider whether he’s still fit for the position of first mate.” Was it really Ror’s mistake? Moriel pondered, looking at the still-misty sea surface. Forty-seven started fishing again.