Golden Goat Herolf had been eager to return to Saint Michael's Island, and his Magic Alchemical Warship sailed so fast that it had long since pulled far ahead of the warships under his command.
Menilman's fleet had long ago separated Golden Goat Herolf's Magic Alchemical Warship from the more than twenty ordinary warships under him. By the time Golden Goat Herolf realized what was happening, the pirates aboard those ships had all surrendered under the pressure of three Saint Ranks.
Though Herolf's heart ached at the sight, and he wanted to fight on, he no longer had the courage. He could only watch helplessly as Menilman swept away with his twenty-odd ships.
Herolf's heart hurt, but he still had a Magic Alchemical Warship in hand. Ordinary warships could be recruited again whenever he wished. After all, Saint Michael's Island always had over a hundred merchant ships, warships, and slave-trading vessels docked there. He could quickly rebuild his strength.
He cursed furiously from high in the air for quite some time before realizing something was wrong. Why had no one from Saint Michael's Island come to meet him? He should have had several ships left on the island, and the slave traders' and underground merchants' ships should have joined in the commotion as well. Why was there no movement at all this time?
Herolf brought the warship down and directed it toward Saint Michael's Island. When he returned to his lair and stepped out of the cabin, he saw that the entire island was empty. The slaves and low-ranking pirates who usually crowded the place, the ships docked in the harbor, even the taverns, shops, and exchanges that should have been bustling in the upper levels—all were silent and deserted.
Herolf stood dumbfounded, then shot into the sky and inspected the