Dead silence.
It was as if someone had pressed mute on all of them at once. On the deck of the "Flying Fish Oil Drum" Pirate Ship, an eerie silence had fallen.
All that remained in the air was the howl of the sea wind, the frantic gasps laced with terror, the sound of blood pumping from wounds, and the agonized wails of a certain one-armed Wanderer.
In less than five seconds, even the most pessimistic crew member on the entire ship had never imagined this outcome.
To them, this should have been an utterly ordinary, perfectly routine raid.
Kill every living thing on the other ship that could still breathe, loot and plunder, haul everything valuable back aboard; if the vessel was still in good condition, they might even drag it to the Black Market and earn another tidy sum.
Wasn't that just how Adventurers on the sea were?
Otherwise, how could the paltry reward from commissioned jobs possibly be enough to fill the bellies of so many Adventurers aboard?
They needed to make some extra income along the way.
Perhaps at the very beginning, they had once felt guilty over the innocent blood staining their hands. But as Gold Coins reeking of blood dropped one by one into their pockets, the conscience in their hearts had gradually gone numb under the catalyst of alcohol, until it finally dissolved into the depths of the rolling seawater.
After years at sea, it could be said that every sailor aboard the Pirate Ship, influenced by all they had seen and heard, had long since prepared themselves to die on the ocean.
Every one of them had imagined more than once what kind of end their future self would meet.
Perhaps one day they would suddenly see the light, start saving money,