The mist hasn't fully lifted.
Dozens of pirate speedboats rocked in the gray-white waves, like a pile of broken wood shattered by breakers.
But suddenly, some invisible string tightened.
The bows twisted, and the rigging creaked with tension.
The commotion wasn't like a fleet changing formation; it was more like a pack of sharks suddenly turning at the scent of blood.
Without any hesitation, they bit fiercely into the approaching squadron.
At this moment, the scene on the sea was bizarre.
On one side, gray steel, with black smoke spewing from chimneys, drawing straight lines in the air.
The vanguard ships of the Red Tide sliced through the ocean at a constant speed, like precisely calibrated scalpels.
On the other side, decayed wood, with tattered canvas hanging on crooked masts, and figures densely packed on the decks, like a nest of exploded ants.
No shouting could be heard over the sea, only a sticky sound surging in the mist.
