He saw the flag flying from the enemy ship's mast, saw the lingering terror in the soldiers' eyes.
This world kept repeating similar dramas: the advanced clashed with the backward, ideals confronted reality, and the outcome often depended on who was better at holding power in their hands.
The waves gently rocked the warship, and the water on the deck reflected the pallid daylight.
Rossi walked to the rail and pressed his palm against the damp wood.
His gaze swept across the sea, passed over the figures still fighting, and finally returned to his own ship's deck-several wounded men lay there, just carried down, their bandages rapidly soaking through with blood.
The battle continued.
No matter how much lost technology or how many buried ** lay in the background, all people cared about at this moment was victory or defeat, life or death.
He took a deep breath, filling his chest with salty air.
Then he strode toward the bow, his boots splashing through the standing water.
** was there shouting orders, the cannons were being readjusted, and the rigging was being pulled taut.
That cannon far ahead of its time did not appear again.
Perhaps its wielder was waiting for an opportunity; perhaps that last shot had consumed too much power.
But its existence had already changed something-at least in these waters, everyone now knew that certain boundaries were being broken.
Rossi stopped at the bow and shaded his eyes with a hand as he looked toward the enemy ship.
The wind tugged at his clothes, carrying indistinct shouts from afar.
He suddenly recalled how those descendants of the moon lived now: farming cloud fields on Sky Island, guarding broken tablets among the ruins, reducing their ancestors' glory to songs passed from mouth to mouth.
And a thousand years