Gray-white cliffs towered through the mist. Scenery like this could often be seen among the fjords around Soprach, like silent giants standing by the sea, with ships passing beneath their feet, frighteningly tiny. The wind was somewhat cold—not the shivering chill of Fir Territory after late autumn, but a bone-piercing cold caused by the low temperature. This was the south of the Great Glacier, and whenever people spoke of the Great Glacier, their expressions always changed.
The wind howled over the tops of the ravines, making a sound like a ruler scraping across torn cloth. Dark clouds filled the sky above the fjords, making it feel as though the heavens might collapse at any moment.
In theory, weather this harsh should have blown the mist away long ago. But the wind poured straight into the fjords, while mist continuously surged in from outside. Instead, clouds and fog churned across the strait as though they would never cease.
The fleet had set out from Gusell and reached Soprach in three or four hours. Because the mist was surging in from the north, they had been forced to take shelter in the fjords ahead of schedule. The terrain in Soprach's fjords was complicated. After nearly half an hour of winding through the straits, they could no longer tell front from back or left from right.
As for the pirate's hideout, it was even more elusive.
Brando was in no hurry. He swept the surrounding bays and ravines again and again with the Law Lines, carefully searching for the clues he wanted. Before long, he found an unusual location. A quarter of an hour later, the fleet appeared there.
It was an inner ravine within a bay, with a world of its own. A ninety-degree bend at the entrance blocked the wind from