Milo grinned with pride. His eyes gleamed as he looked at his collection of strange toys. These were his years of work.
If a man from this world saw them, he wouldn't understand—just strange metal pieces. Some looked like coiled structures, tightly wound like tiny springs. Others resembled small cylindrical tubes—slick and shiny, like metal pipes.
There was a tiny hammer, much smaller than a fist, with an odd shape—as if it was meant to strike something small. There were also lots of little pins, thin and straight, like tiny metal sticks, along with flat pieces that looked like broken plates. And among everything, there were many cylindrical structures—bullets, as he had told his Grandma.
"If I were still in my previous world," Milo thought with a smirk, "anyone who saw this would be in trouble—probably I would be behind bars for sure. But here? I can lay it all out in the open. It's just scrap, just toys to this world."
He smiled smugly, feeling like he'd just pulled off a magic trick, like a heist master.
Unknown to both humans and the divine of this world, lying inside that little box was something that had once ended an era of medieval warfare and ushered in a new era of warfare capable of unprecedented destruction. Now, that same power was reborn in a tiny village on the edge of the world.
After checking that everything was in order, Milo stepped outside the small hut. He scrubbed his face with cool water, feeling refreshed. He changed into clean clothes and hurriedly wiped away the dust and sweat from his skin. With a quick stretch, he ran back indoors, the excitement still lingering in his eyes.
"Come on, Granny! I'm starving!" he shouted playfully, bounding into the kitchen. "Give me something to eat!"
Grandma, already busy stirring a pot, chuckled softly. She turned around, her wrinkled face breaking into a gentle smile. "You and your hunger," she said, winking. "Always in a rush. Wait a moment, I'll get you something."
She ladled steaming food onto a wooden plate and handed it to Milo, who eagerly dug in. As he ate, she shook her head with a fond laugh, looking at the forge where he worked.
"Your grandpa once tried to cook for himself," she teased, feeding him a little of the stew. "Burned half the kitchen down. He did say he wanted to make something big and hearty, but I think the fire was his real recipe."
"You women are always holding grudges from events of some bygone era. Didn't I rebuild your kitchen?" Grandpa said grumpily.
Milo grinned through his meal, listening to her warm laughter and the grumbling of his grandpa. "Well, maybe I'll be better at it," he said with a playful shrug. "But for now, I'll just enjoy your delicious food."
Grandma shook her head again, smiling as she watched her grandson happily eating, glad for these simple, joyful moments.
After finishing his food, he ran back to his toys, picked up some of them, put them inside a leather pouch, and tied it to his back. One pouch contained a few disabled parts, and another pouch contained only bullets. With this, he ran out to play with his friends outside.
There was no schooling system here, at least not in this village. The new generation learned their job from the old one. Only on Sundays and Wednesdays would they go to the sanctum to listen to the priest and broaden their ideas. The priest there taught reading and writing of the common language to children, which was used in the entire empire.
As promised by the late Anne, Milo's life overall was peaceful.
The only downside was that many villagers fell ill at least once a month. But these illnesses were usually mild—just a runny nose, a cough, or a slight fever—and could be easily cured with potions sold at the village alchemy shops. Sometimes, a few of the older folk would become seriously ill and pass away, but such cases were rare enough not to cause much worry.
Everyone believed that these recurring sicknesses were caused by the constant coastal wind, which carried dust and small particles that irritated the lungs. Milo didn't pay much attention—after all, more people died fighting monsters outside the village than succumbing to these common colds.
The potions were somewhat costly, but with Grandpa's thriving business, Milo didn't have to worry about money. He thought that if the worst were just seasonal illnesses, then the greater threats—monsters—were what truly endangered everyone. So, the villagers simply accepted the sickness as part of their everyday lives.
Once, Milo had seen a large number of villagers fall ill at the same time during a heavy windstorm. He suspected some contagious disease was rapidly spreading. The village's Sanctum distributed holy water during these outbreaks, and curiously enough, people seemed to recover quickly after using it. The faith in the Sanctum grew stronger with each miracle, and many believed that divine intervention was saving them.
Milo found it strange, but he thought that the holy water might be some kind of medicine, and the church was just benefiting from the increased faith and followers.
He once asked Grandpa about it.
"Is holy water really medicine?" he inquired curiously.
Grandpa chuckled, shaking his head. "The Sanctum has a lot of funds. It was established only a few years ago, but they are a branch of the main church in the city; hence, they can afford to produce that water in large quantities. Whether it's real medicine or just holy water, if it cures people, no one argues. And as long as folks believe and follow the faith, that's what matters. The church took advantage of their trust, and people didn't mind, as long as they got better."
Milo nodded, accepting his grandpa's explanation. In this world or his previous, it seemed that faith and fear worked hand in hand, and to overcome the fear of the unknown, people always chose faith over science.
***
He had also made a few friends: the son of the carpenter, Padro; the daughter of the alchemist's assistant, Lily; and the son of the butchery shop owner, Kim. But the leader of their group was the son of the current head of the Harbor Guild—Marco.
The age difference among them was not much, just two to three years, with Milo being the youngest.
The Harbor Guild managed the port and its profits. Every two years, the head and some of the staff changed. Households of the former village heads, back when Driftmoor was divided into five separate villages, took turns leading the Harbor Guild. This year, it was Marco's family's turn.
Of course, regardless of who was in charge, the Red Citadel (mentioned previously in Chapter 3) took 50% of the profit.
When Milo ran out of his house, he saw his gang waiting for him.
Marco shouted, "Damn, Milo! You're late again!"
Milo grinned and replied, "Sorry, boss," then added with a smirk, "You look pretty handsome today. What's the occasion?"
Hearing that, Marco scooped him up playfully, but inside, he was happy.
"Let's go," Marco said confidently. "Today I'll give you a real tour. Haven't you always wondered what a ship looks like inside? I'm about to open your narrow-minded imagination."
With that, he strode toward the port.
When they approached, they saw a large ship moored nearby—something that looked like a galleon, reminiscent of those from the 16th century in Milo's old world.
The most eye-catching feature was the structure at the bow, which resembled the head of a beast. It looked like a strange mixture of bone and metal—an artifact crafted with incredible skill. Its imposing appearance gave a sense of oppression and awe.
Marco smiled with pride and explained, "What you're seeing at the bow is the head of a Flood Dragon. It's been modified by an artifactor to fit the ship. Flood Dragons are powerful sea monsters—terrible creatures that terrorize the waters. The presence of its aura acts as a great deterrent to the majority of sea monsters. As long as you don't disturb some ancient beast, ships like this are considered the safest and most formidable for deep-sea travel."
His eyes glinted with longing. "This ship is from Emberhall, the regional capital city of Emberhall County. Our village is just a temporary stop. The weather ahead looks very bad, so they have parked the ship to take care."
"Boss, your wisdom and knowledge are endless," Milo started, fawning. It was his quick wit and flattery that had boosted his status from the bottom to second-in-command within the group. Thanks to Marco's generosity, he rarely had to pay for food or supplies. "If simple words can earn money and benefits, what's wrong with being a little shameless?"
Marco shook his head with a faint smile. "Stop fawning. I just found out yesterday when my father told me. Now, enough of that—let's go check out the ship."
On the deck, a group of children aged four to eight were playing. Among them, Milo spotted a girl around five years old—she carried herself with a dignity that seemed even higher than Marco's. It was clear she belonged to a wealthy or noble family.
Milo nudged Marco and whispered, "Boss, is that girl our future sister-in-law?"
Marco's face suddenly turned red, and he quickly tried to hide his embarrassment. Without looking at Milo, he explained softly, "She's Sheraphin Duskveil, the daughter of Lord Vladimir Duskveil, the owner of this ship. From a noble family in the capital city of Emberhall. Don't ask me about the government structure or the regional hierarchy—I have no idea about such things."
Meanwhile, Lily was giving Milo a death stare. Milo knew very well that Lily was interested in Marco. He couldn't resist a mischievous grin.
It's good to be young, he thought to himself. Then he whispered softly to Lily, "Don't worry, Sister Lily. She's like a comet—she'll pass quickly. But you, my sister, are like the moon—forever shining in the boss's heart."
Lily's face turned red, and she shot him a furious look.
***
Marco and his gang approached the ship, eager to get a closer look. They could see crew members preparing to weigh anchor later that day. The deck was already busy, and the ship's crew seemed alert, focused on their preparations.
But as they drew near, a sharp voice interrupted their movements.
"Stop right there!"
From above the ship, a girl—perhaps no older than six—stepped out stubbornly, her small face set with authority. She wore fine clothes that marked her noble standing. Her eyes, however, were as sharp as a blade.
"Who are you?" she demanded, voice clear even in the quiet morning. "You can't just walk onto this ship. Her Highness Sheraphin Duskveil is already aboard, and no outsiders are allowed without her permission."
Marco slowed, smiling politely—though inside, he was a little surprised by the girl's confident tone.
"I am Marco, son of the Harbor Guild head," he replied smoothly. "We're only here for a moment—to see the ship. Just a quick look, I assure you."
The girl scowled, crossing her arms. "Permission? From who? You're just villagers trying to sneak on. Her Highness is busy with the last preparations. No one here is letting strangers board today—especially before departure."
Marco bowed slightly, hands clasped behind his back. "I understand. No disrespect intended. We've come as respectful visitors, and we'll leave in peace once we've seen what we came for. Surely, someone noble like you can understand a bit of curiosity?"
A few of the crew nearby cast side glances, exchanging raised eyebrows. The girl's expression hardened. "No. I don't care what you say. You're not getting on until she calls for visitors. This ship belongs to Lady Sheraphin, and she's the only one who can decide who boards now."
Marco's smile tightened, but he kept his tone friendly. "Very well. We'll wait," he said calmly. "When she's ready, I trust she'll call us."
The girl studied him again, then finally nodded gravely. "Stay where you are. If you cause trouble, I won't hesitate to block your way again."
Marco inclined his head politely. "Understood. Thank you."
She stepped back into the shadows, watching carefully. Milo's eyes sparkled with admiration—Marco had handled that well. Marco turned to his gang, voice low but resolute.
"Patience, boys. We wait for her call. We're not in a hurry. Just a little longer."
The crew moved about efficiently, the sound of the ship preparing for departure filling the air, the storm now a distant memory. The sun climbed higher, promising a peaceful morning before the long voyage.
The morning sun continued to climb higher in the sky as the crew hurried with last-minute preparations. The storm had finally passed, and the ship's decks came alive with movement—sails being unfurled, goods being stowed away, and sailors shouting orders to ready for departure. Yet, amid all the activity, Milo and his gang remained at a respectful distance, watching quietly.
Time seemed to stretch on until finally, Sheraphin Duskveil appeared once more, her eyes flicking over the group with quiet curiosity. She paused on the deck, her gaze locking onto Milo. She had probably never seen such a gruesome face.
Milo stepped forward shamelessly before anyone else could and, with a mischievous grin and a playful bow, called out loud enough to catch her attention:
"Hey there, Your Highness. I couldn't help but notice how regal you look. Honestly, I've seen many nobles, but none quite as striking as you. If you'd grant us permission, I'd be honored to step inside your magnificent ship—just a quick look, I promise. Surely the future royalty can help this village peasant broaden his horizons."
For a moment, she simply stared, surprised by his boldness. The onlookers—other children from her entourage—glanced at each other, clearly caught off guard by Milo's flattery. The girl's cheeks flamed a little in embarrassment, then quickly softened into a tentative smile.
She tilted her head and eyed Milo carefully. The other children behind her held their breath, waiting to see what would happen.
Finally, she spoke:
"Well... I guess, as nobles, it is our responsibility to broaden the horizons of people like you. I suppose I can grant you a very brief visit. But don't cause trouble—one misstep, and I'll personally see to it you don't set foot on this ship again."
Milo grinned even wider, clasping his hands together in mock reverence. "Thank you, Your Highness. You're too kind. Truly, I'm in the presence of royalty—and I feel honored."
She giggled softly at his daring tone, then nodded toward the ship's deck. "Go ahead, but be quick—and behave. The ship isn't yours, and I'll be watching."
Marco stepped forward, bowing politely. "Our sincere thanks, Princess. We will treat this as a Visit to royalty."
Milo led his gang onto the ship's deck, excitement simmering in his chest. He shot one last glance back at the girl—Sheraphin Duskveil—and gave a quick, grateful wave. Victory was his for now.
Except for Milo, the other three were very excited seeing the interior. For Milo, who had seen many luxurious ships before, this ship was nothing much, but he had to admit that the decoration style gave off a vibe of royalty.
After some time, he felt something odd. This ship should be a merchant ship—why did it give him the vibe of a military ship?
On the surface, all the crew members and merchants seemed relaxed and were enjoying themselves, but he could feel they were alert—very alert. He was pretty sure that more than half of the crew were military personnel—and in fact, many were cultivators. He could see a group of crew playing cards carelessly, weapons thrown haphazardly nearby, but every weapon was within arm's reach, as if they could react immediately.
Further, most people were generally right-handed and should have held the card in their right hand, but almost everyone was holding the cards in their left hand. That was too much of a coincidence.
In his previous life, thanks to his specialty in weapon development, he had visited many army camps, so he was familiar with such environments. He ignored everything else and moved to check other places. The more he moved, the more he felt an ominous feeling. He observed some parts of the deck that looked recently repaired. The work was very carefully done, but after dissecting many animals, he had become familiar with the stench of blood.
Soon, he reached the depth—more like the tail end—of the inner deck.
"Stop! Nobody is permitted beyond here," a guard shouted.
Milo smiled fawningly, but he could see that at the end of the room was a guarded chamber with many cultivators. They all radiated a baleful aura, as if they had recently finished a bloody battle. They looked exhausted but very alert, ready for anything.
A lady from the side cabin passed Milo and walked toward the last room. All the guards gave way for her. She asked for permission, entered, and slowly closed the door behind her.
Before turning back, through the closing door gap, Milo saw two things that shook him to the core.
From his direct view, a man was sitting inside. He could not see his face, but he was wearing a dress that made him seem like royalty. However, he was missing a hand and bleeding profusely.
The second thing Milo saw was a man with a silver mask with a dragon pattern—exactly the same as the mask worn by the assassin who had killed Anne. The masked man sat motionless, and Milo's eyes lingered on him. His heart trembled. The same dragon mask. The same missing finger. It was her. But she was injured.
Milo became sure that the assassin was a woman because he saw the bloody bandage on her open chest. The wound was grave.
At that moment, the masked girl turned her head. Their eyes met. Suddenly, Milo's breath caught—his instincts screaming that he was looking at a deadly enemy, someone to be feared.
But he quickly controlled himself. His usual foolish, fawning smile returned as he turned away and left, but inside, his mind was shaken. Not only had he seen the masked face, but he had also glimpsed her chest. Though wrapped in bandages, he could tell the damage was serious. Hope she does not recognize me, he thought, his heart pounding.
At the same time, the assassin was thinking, "Strange… why do I feel I know the kid?" Feeling pain in her chest, she threw out the thought from her mind. She had to heal before things became dangerous again.
***
A weak, desperate voice drifted up from the dock below the ship.
"Please… ma'am… take me with you. Don't leave me here."
The plea was cracked and hoarse, like it had been shouted too many times without hope of an answer. A small figure, no taller than Milo himself, knelt in the dirt. His thin arms were trembling, his little hands clutching at the hem of a noblewoman's skirt as though his life depended on it.
"I'll do anything you want… anything," the boy begged again, voice breaking on the last word. "Please… I don't want to stay here. I don't want to die."
The response was a vicious kick that sent him sprawling.
"Accursed mixed-blood!" the woman spat, her voice dripping with disgust. "Get lost! How dare you touch me?"
Her boot connected with his face this time, a sickening thud echoing through the quiet dock. The boy rolled on the ground, whimpering, blood seeping from his split lip and painting the dusty boards beneath him.
"Not killing you is already a mercy," the woman hissed, her tone cold enough to freeze marrow. "Everywhere you go, disaster follows. Why don't you just crawl off somewhere and die?"
Milo stood frozen on the gangplank, every muscle in his body taut. His eyes locked on the boy—a ragged, trembling child barely his own size, but with one arm twisted oddly below the wrist, ending in something like an animal's claw.
It wasn't the violence that unsettled him—he'd seen worse in both this life and the last—it was the hatred in their eyes. Not fear, not annoyance. Pure, ingrained hatred, the kind that ran deeper than reason.
He glanced sideways at Seraphim, expecting at least a flicker of pity on her face. Instead, he saw the same disgust, the same quiet loathing directed toward the bleeding child.
Milo's gut twisted. What the hell did that boy do to deserve this?
Seeing Milo's gaze, she hurriedly explained,
"He's a mixed blood of the lowest type. Look carefully—his hand below the wrist looks like an animal's claw. Such people are believed to be omens of misfortune. Usually, they're killed."
She paused, her voice darkening. "A slave trader scammed us into accepting him as a slave. Since we buy slaves in bulk, no one checked or paid attention to his hand. Don't help him—let him die here. Doing so will bring great fortune to your village." She smiled sinisterly.
Meanwhile, Milo saw Pedro and Lily returning. Without hesitation, he abruptly urged Marco to leave, pretending to be hungry.
"Maybe little miss here will treat us to something royal," he added shamelessly.
Everyone was stunned at his audacity. Marco's face turned red. It was one thing to shamelessly barge into their ship, but asking for food? That was a new level of shamelessness.
With a grumpy expression, Marco said, "Excuse us, Lady. I'll take this fool and feed him something—you don't need to worry." He pulled Milo by the collar, called Lily and Pedro, and left the ship quickly.
In his mind, Milo felt a faint sense of relief. Living on the ship still unsettled him, but he was glad to be away from that scene. Still, he couldn't shake the unease deep inside—like he'd felt that night of tragedy when he escaped.