Chapter 5

"You're too naive, Rossi."

Doffy's voice came from the other end of the darkness.

The hold was quiet-Rossi had put up that soundproof barrier, so they could talk freely.

The air in the hold hung stagnant as oil.

Doffy's five fingers hovered in midair, his knuckles slightly bent, as though gripping something invisible.

The hard, dry bread in his other hand had been squeezed out of shape, crumbs falling onto his knees.

Light leaked through the gaps in the deck overhead, cutting a cold gleam along the edge of his sunglasses.

"Rather than wait for someone else to bleed,"

His voice was very low, like a rusty hinge turning, "you might as well light the fuse yourself."

Rossi did not look away.

He could hear himself swallowing, his Adam's apple bobbing once.

Outside the hull, waves beat monotonously, once, then again, like some slow countdown.

"People who scheme too much,"

When Rossi spoke, he found his voice steadier than he had expected, "often end up tripping over the knots they tied themselves."

The corner of Doffy's mouth twitched.

It was not a smile, but some involuntary twitch of muscle.

He slowly relaxed his loosely clenched hand, and crumbs drifted between his fingers.

"Then let's see,"

He said, "whose knot tightens first."

Rossi stood up.

His head nearly brushed the low beams.

He tipped his head back and stuffed the last mouthful of food into his mouth. Rough breadcrumbs scraped his throat, bringing a faint sting.

"We wager this ship."

He said, "we each go our own way.

Whoever gets it first calls the shots from then on."

Silence spread between them.

There was only the ship's creaking groan and the faint dripping of water from somewhere unknown.

Doffy turned his sunglasses toward him, the gaze behind the lenses like needles.

"Fine."

The word came out short and hard, like a pebble striking a wooden plank.

The next morning's light failed to penetrate the murk of the cabin.

Three people stood on the floor in an irregular triangle.

The noble captain had removed his top hat and held it against his chest, the silver thread along its brim glimmering faintly in the gloom.

Dafuransi, the navigator, crouched down. His fingers hovered over the body for a moment before slowly descending to brush over the dead man's eyelids.

Flies scattered with a buzz, then gathered again a short distance away.

"Yule shouldn't have ended up like this."

Dafuransi's voice was soft, so soft he seemed to be talking to himself.

He stood, two faint marks left in the fabric at his knees. "The year his father's spice business failed, he hid in the cargo hold and cried for three whole days.

Afterward, he copied cargo manifests aboard the ship. His handwriting was always so neat."

The bald boatswain stood with his arms folded, his thumb unconsciously rubbing an old scar on his elbow.

His gaze rested on the dark stain on the floor-its color had already dulled, its edges forming irregular serrations like a silent mouth.

The captain put his hat back on, his movements slow and precise. "We will find out who did this."

He spoke, enunciating every word clearly, "before this ship reaches shore."

Footsteps sounded in the corridor outside the cabin door, approaching from afar, then gradually fading away.

No one turned to look.

Waves slapped the ship's side, their monotonous sound seeping through the tightly shut door.

The outline beneath the white cloth lay quietly on the deck, its edges stirring slightly in the salty, damp wind.

The man called the navigator straightened.

His gaze swept over the other two faces-the boatswain's bald head reflected the dim yellow lamplight, while the noble captain's fingers silently rubbed the gemstone atop his silver cane.

"This is the second time."

The navigator kept his voice very flat, as though reciting an unrelated cargo list. "No noise, no cries for help.

A living person just turned into... this."

His fingertip pointed through the air in turn.

"Alec?"

A short snort escaped the bald boatswain's nose.

The navigator's finger turned toward his own chest, paused for an instant, then finally settled on the figure holding the silver cane.

"Or... you, Sir?"

The tip of the silver cane tapped lightly against the planks.

Sir Krahorn did not meet the navigator's gaze. He looked past the covered form on the floor toward the roiling darkness outside the door.

"Dafuransi,"

The knight spoke, each word seeming carefully weighed, "take care of things here."

He stepped around the edge of the white cloth, pushed the door open, and walked into the night.

His lingering words remained in the cabin. "My men will double their patrols.

Take care, gentlemen."

The door closed, shutting out most of the sound of the waves.

The air between the two remaining men abruptly tightened.

The navigator turned his face, his gaze piercing the boatswain's thick neck like fine needles.

The muscles at the back of Alec's neck bulged.

"You think it was me?"

The boatswain forced the words through his teeth, his clenched fists cracking. "Would I need to sneak around to crush trash like that? I can show you right now-"

He stamped hard enough to shake the lamp, then strode out through the doorway, the wooden door giving a pained groan behind him.

Now, only the navigator remained to face that silent expanse of white alone.

The heavy expression on his face, mingled with wariness and sorrow, receded like the tide.

An exceedingly faint curve tugged at his lips.

He tilted his head, his gaze returning to the white cloth, as though he could see through it to the frozen face beneath.

Of course it wasn't them.

Who would notice that skinny boy in round sunglasses, always scrubbing the deck in a corner? Those eyes hidden behind the dark lenses hadn't wavered at all as he carried out his orders.

The navigator-Dafuransi-silently drew in a breath of air tinged with the sea's fishy smell and a faint trace of rust.

Yule, good old Yule.

Your silence is worth more than your shouting.

A small manor with rosebushes on the outskirts of Anguvel needed just such a foundation.

The lower cabin was thick with mineral dust and the moldy stench of long confinement.

More than a dozen people crowded into the gloom, their emotions like continuously heated asphalt, beginning to bubble and churn.

"An explanation! We demand an explanation!"

A woman wrapped in a silk shawl spoke shrilly.

"Sir Krahorn? Is locking people up like livestock his idea of noble etiquette?"

A full-bearded man pounded the thick cabin wall.

"We paid for passage, not a prison cell! A murderer? I'd say they're the murderers!"

Complaints and roars collided beneath the low ceiling, piling atop one another.

Had it not been for the dimly visible sailors carrying clubs and pacing outside the cabin door, the bulges at these passengers' waists would probably have become a more direct form of speech long ago.

Yet deeper and darker beneath their feet, in the bottom hold, the foulness had almost taken solid form.

Even the lingering warmth of anger could hardly reach this place. There was only all-pervasive decay and silence.

Sea Circle Calendar, year 1494.

Eight years had passed since the upheaval on that island.

Though the vast group that had once dominated the seas had scattered, those names had not sunk with it.

Edward, Shiki, Charlotte, Kaido... and still more fearsome titles echoed among the waves.

Some attacked the Celestial Dragons, some trampled the lands of kingdoms, some traveled alone yet could see into people's hearts, and mountainlike shadows rampaged across the sea.

They were in their prime, each raising their own flag and dragging the entire ocean into unprecedented turmoil.

Thus, even travelers aboard merchant ships dared not lay down their weapons.

To lower one's guard now was no different from marking oneself as prey awaiting slaughter.

Compared with these days of countless powerful figures and ceaseless slaughter, the gradually calming seas more than twenty years later were as peaceful as a dream.

"Uncle, I'm scared..."

A young voice came from the crowd.

A small figure wrapped in a pink cloak huddled against the full-bearded man's leg, her shoulders trembling slightly beneath her hood.

Yet in the shadow beneath that hood, a pair of bright black eyes darted restlessly about, curiosity and excitement almost spilling out.

"Listen, little Gion,"

The full-bearded man lowered his voice. "If a fight really breaks out, you absolutely mustn't step forward.

Hide somewhere safe, understood?"

He regretted it privately.

Had he known, he would have been better off finding a way aboard a Navy ship.

Unfortunately, neither of them had the standing to requisition a warship, so they had boarded this merchant ship bound for the North Blue instead.

Who could have known they would run into trouble like this!

"Huh?!"

The little girl in front of him suddenly raised her head, forgetting even her earlier pretense of timidity, disbelief written all over her face.

"How can you say that! I've practiced swordsmanship for so long-"

She hurriedly cut herself off, swallowing the words "get into fights"

And corrected herself. "I mean, if I can't put justice into practice, wouldn't all that sweat have been for nothing? Besides..."

The girl glanced at the full-bearded man beside her, her innocent words like a blade leaving its sheath.

"You can't beat me anyway."

"...Ahem."

The man held a fist to his mouth and loudly cleared his throat.

Such a pretty little girl, saddled with such a merciless tongue.

"Fighting at sea takes more than brute strength,"

He tried to salvage the situation. "How much do you know about navigation?"

Seeing the girl momentarily at a loss for words, a trace of smugness rose at the corner of his mouth.

"Do you know the four basic methods for crossing the T?"

Then came a string of obscure terms, things like "tactical penetration"

And "covering fire"

Which made the little girl turn her face away and secretly roll her eyes.

Those were all strategies for battles between warships, weren't they?

Locked in this gloomy hold like prisoners, what formations or tactics could they possibly discuss beyond gripping their swords tightly?

Adults were so sly.

"Excuse me, I'm here to clean."

As the clamor in the cabin gradually weakened, a child carrying a bucket and a rag pushed open the door.

Most passengers merely glanced at his stained old clothes before turning away, as though another look would bring them bad luck.

Only when the mop nearly touched their toes did they force out a low rebuke through their noses, such as "Watch it"

Or "You couldn't afford to replace these shoes"

And the like.

The time hadn't come yet.

Rossi scrubbed the floor, his gaze sliding silently through the gaps in the crowd: irritation, unease, anger... all sorts of emotions were still fermenting under restraint.

Even after being forcibly confined to this cabin, they did no more than complain.

But soon, very soon.

Doffy had already made his move. Sooner or later, chaos would swallow the entire ship.

"There's something wrong with that boy."

After Rossi left, the girl whom the full-bearded swordsman called "little Gion"

Spoke softly.

"He was watching everyone."

"There was neither numbness nor fear on his face. It was more like he was... assessing something."

"Little Gion, from up here, I couldn't see his face at all."

The man accompanying her replied helplessly.

The girl, who had seemed far too mature for her age all this time, was momentarily speechless. Only after a long pause did she angrily lift her foot and kick his shin.

"So sorry for being short, 'uncle'!"

"Hiss... go easy..."

The girl behind him was only eight, but in terms of strength, even the branch's field officers were no match for her.

"I have a feeling,"

The girl looked toward the closing cabin door. "We'll meet him again."

That girl was no ordinary girl.

After cleaning the passenger cabins, Rossi lowered a rope through a gunport to haul up seawater in a wooden bucket, turning the thought over and over in his mind.

Most of the people in the cabin had carried weapons, but their eyes had darted about and their steps had been unsteady. Very few had truly been tempered by life and death.

Grueling training day after day, the luck to survive on a knife's edge, a will of steel-to ordinary people, each was far beyond reach.

But that girl was different.

Her stance was like a taut bowstring, her gaze as still as a deep pool. Even the faint aura surrounding her had a sharp edge to it, sending a slight chill down the back of Rossi's neck.

Perhaps that was why she needed that hood to conceal herself?

The seawater he hauled up soaked the mop, and he continued swabbing the deck.