The ocean.
A vast fleet was sailing toward Hope Island.
In a great hall, the Elves present watched the scene through a crystal ball.
"Your Highness Pufalu, look, our fleet has returned," said Loser, one of the elders present, the wrinkles on his face easing.
"The losses seem very slight, and morale is high," Pufalu said. Anion had appointed him to take full command of the Elves in his absence.
A deity's eyes were naturally different from those of mortals. Pufalu could already see the ships. Half their crews were humans who had once been pirates and were naturally familiar with naval warfare.
The Elves, too, were improving rapidly. Their training was more systematic, and they placed greater emphasis on building experience.
A group of captured ships followed behind.
Hearing Pufalu's words, Loser let out a long sigh, looking even more pleased. "They must have returned with an even greater haul this time? We Elves need vast quantities of supplies."
Under Anion's orders, the fleet had adopted a policy of plunder.
Not only were ships captured in naval battles brought to Hope Island, but their cargoes were also legitimate spoils. The Elves possessed more than ten thousand years of tradition and accumulated heritage, but restoring them required corresponding material resources.
If they relied on farming alone to obtain those resources, they could never build a force capable of opposing all humanity within ten years.
Their only option was plunder.
"Elder Loser, our lord made it clear long ago that supplies are not the most important thing. In fact, this is merely a temporary measure. Only by establishing our own production can we Elves sustain ourselves in the long term. Everything we are doing is merely preparation for the decisive battle within the next ten years," another elder, Shalira, said. "So,