Veylin's words sucked all the air out of the conference room.
Every argument, complaint, and roar was cut short at that instant, leaving only deathly silence.
Dozens of gazes, mingling astonishment and suspicion, turned toward the figure in the corner who had kept himself shrouded in shadow from the start.
"A solution?"
The fat Senior Steward was the first to break the silence. His voice was hoarse and weak from prolonged shouting, but his words had lost none of their bite.
"What gives some skulking nobody the right to spout nonsense here? Lady Caroline, what backwater did you drag this charlatan out of?"
Veylin ignored him.
He simply rolled up the parchment covered in symbols, slipped it into an inner pocket of his cloak, then rose and walked over to the enormous chart table in the center of the room.
Reports, soaked wood samples, and glass jars of still-wriggling shipworms lay scattered across the table.
With a leather-gloved finger, he gently pushed aside a report listing lost ships, revealing the detailed navigation chart of Wrong Anchor Harbor beneath it.
"The loss of the Strong Spirits, along with the other severely damaged vessels, should be classified financially as 'sunk costs.'"
His voice was calm, as though he were stating a universally known mathematical axiom.
"Continuing to invest manpower, materials, or even emotion in them is an irrational waste of resources. What you need to do now isn't mourn. It's cut your losses."
Those calm, brutal words made several captains present look positively ill. Many of them had spent nearly their entire lives aboard those ships.
"Cut our losses? Easy for you to say!" An old captain missing one arm slammed his hand on the table. "Those aren't costs! They're our homes!"
Veylin raised his eyes and glanced at him. Perhaps because the mask concealed his identity, his retorts were even more venomous than usual.
"So, to save a room that's already on fire, you would burn down the entire house, Captain?"
The question left the old captain momentarily speechless.
"These creatures feed on magical timber, but their invasion and reproduction depend on one crucial medium-seawater." Veylin tapped the areas on the chart marking the Golden Sail Merchant Guild's berths. "Cut off that medium, and we can slow the damage they cause."
"And how do we do that? Drain the sea?" someone muttered sarcastically.
"Wrap every vessel that has yet to suffer structural damage in thick canvas coated with tar and animal fat, covering everything below the waterline." Veylin's voice remained steady. "This creates a physical barrier. It won't eradicate the shipworms, but according to my calculations, it can reduce their feeding efficiency by seventy percent."
"At the same time, clear every dry dock immediately. Move the most structurally sound and valuable main warships into them for priority treatment."
"This is simply..." The fat steward almost laughed aloud. "Fighting a magical disaster with canvas? Boy, are you insulting our intelligence, or alchemy itself?"
Veylin could not be bothered to look at someone so scientifically clueless. His eyes remained on the chart as he asked evenly, "Then tell me, Steward, what answer has alchemy itself provided? That potion expensive enough to rebuild the fleet, or your fruitless attempts over the past few days?"
"If you don't understand, you could speak less and keep your stupidity well hidden. My method isn't meant to provide a complete cure. It's meant to fight against time."
"I'm not insulting alchemy. Quite the opposite: I'm buying precious research time for the real solution-alchemy. Or do you believe standing here shouting empty slogans is more useful than getting into the water and working?"
The steward's face turned a dark, livid red. His mouth opened and closed, but not a single word came out.
"So we're supposed to wrap our warships in rags? Does the Golden Sail Merchant Guild's reputation mean nothing?" another captain shouted defiantly.
"Reputation?" Veylin scoffed. "When all your ships have sunk to the bottom, you can drown clutching the Golden Sail Merchant Guild's reputation. See whether it works as a life ring."
That single remark froze the air throughout the conference room.
Caroline had remained silent all this time.
She merely watched Veylin quietly, her nails already digging deep into the flesh of her palms.
Only when everyone in the conference room fell silent did she raise her hand.
"Enough."
Her voice was quiet, yet carried unquestionable authority.
"Master Valerius's alchemical potion failed, and the Astrology School's mages saw nothing but fog in their divinations. We have no better option left." Caroline's gaze swept across every person present. "Now, as vice president of the Golden Sail Merchant Guild, I order you to implement... this gentleman's plan immediately."
She deliberately withheld Veylin's name.
"But, my lady..."
"No buts!" Caroline's tone hardened, an almost insane obstinacy burning in her emerald eyes. "Either obey, or get out of this room and out of the Golden Sail Merchant Guild right now!"
The fangs the silver-haired witch bared in desperation finally quelled the unrest, at least for the moment.
Under everyone's conflicted gazes, Veylin walked over to Caroline, leaned forward slightly, and whispered a few words into her ear, quietly enough that only the two of them could hear.
Caroline's pupils contracted slightly.
Then Veylin straightened and turned to the chief alchemist, who had remained silent throughout.
"Master Valerius, I need your laboratory, along with every book and set of notes you have on biological tissue and alchemical transmutation. Immediately."
The old man raised his head and gave Veylin a long, searching look, then glanced at Caroline's grave expression. Finally, he nodded slowly.
"My laboratory is always open to you."
With that, Veylin followed the master straight out of the suffocating conference room, leaving behind a roomful of confusion, resentment, and bewilderment.
Over the next few days, every second was agony for the Golden Sail Merchant Guild.
On the docks of Wrong Anchor Harbor, the most bizarre spectacle in the Duchy's modern maritime history unfolded.
The sailors no longer scrubbed decks, and the craftsmen no longer mended sails. Instead, they stood in groups in the bone-chilling seawater, laboriously wrapping sheets of heavy canvas soaked in black tar around the hulls of the surviving ships.
Tar, grease, and the fishy stink of the sea mingled into a nauseating odor that permeated the entire harbor district.
The once-imposing warships and merchant vessels now lay silent and humiliated in their berths, like hastily wrapped mummies.
Their magnificent hulls and rams shimmering with magical light were all concealed beneath those filthy "burial shrouds."
Crewmen from other merchant guilds pointed and commented, their faces displaying undisguised mockery and delight at their misfortune.
Anyone with eyes could see that the shipworm outbreak had begun where the Golden Sail Merchant Guild's ships were concentrated, while the other guilds' far fewer vessels had long since sailed away.
With every dripping drop of tar, the Golden Sail Merchant Guild's glory sank toward the seabed.
Humiliation was only the beginning.
The real storm was brewing in the world of commerce.