By the end of the third day, the Amelia stands completely loaded, her dark oak frame resting motionless against the stone piers under the weight of her massive cargo. Deep within her cavernous holds, thousands of pounds of dense hardwood timber, thick burlap sugar sacks, heavy molasses vats, sloshing rum casks, and wooden crates filled to the brim with cassava and green plantains are packed tight, wedged together so closely that not an inch of free space remains. The four galleons—the Julia, the Cealina, the Maria, and the Amelia—sit heavy in the harbor water, their dark hulls riding noticeably low against the gentle, turquoise ocean swells of Port Ambustus. Along the waterlines, tiny barnacles and bright green algae sway in the crystal-clear tide, washed continuously by the rise and fall of the sea.
The tropical sun begins its slow descent behind the jagged, dark volcanic peaks that tower over the western edge of the island. The sky blazes in vibrant, shifting shades of deep purple, bruised crimson, and fiery orange, casting a long, golden sheen across the undulating surface of the bay. High above the harbor, long-winged frigatebirds glide silently on the evening thermal currents, their dark silhouettes sharp against the glowing horizon, while down among the coastal mangroves, snowy egrets pull their heads into their shoulders, settling into the tangled roots for the night. The heavy, muggy heat of midday gradually gives way to a soft, cooling ocean breeze that rustles the fronds of the tall coconut palms lining the shore.
On the main deck of the Julia, the three hundred and twenty young earthling slave-soldiers and the veteran crewmen gather together to spend their final evening in port. The mood across the vessel is a mix of bone-deep physical exhaustion and quiet, anxious relief. Men lean against the thick bulwarks, stretch out their aching legs along the deck timbers, or sit in small circles chatting in low, relaxed tones.
Near the main hatchway, Comtois has set up an empty freshwater cask on its end, using its flat wooden head as an improvised table. He stands on one side with his feet planted wide, his bare, sun-darkened forearms thick with cable-like muscle, attempting to teach Adelberd the proper mechanics of arm-wrestling.
"No, no, you're using too much wrist!" Comtois instructs, his loud, cheerful voice booming across the deck as he reaches out to physically adjust Adelberd's grip. He taps the back of the younger boy's hand, repositioning his fingers over the rough wood. "Lean your shoulder into it! Use your chest!"
Adelberd sits rigidly on an upturned wooden bucket, his jaw clamped shut so tight that the muscles in his cheeks quiver. His face turns a deep, flushed red, the veins along his neck bulging against his fair skin as he plants his elbow firmly into the cask and pushes with every ounce of physical strength in his body. His bright blue eyes widen with fierce concentration, his breath coming in sharp, ragged hitches through his nose.
Comtois, however, merely leans back slightly with a wide, confident grin spreading across his broad face. His arm remains almost completely motionless, holding Adelberd's straining fist squarely in the center of the cask without dropping an inch.
[He thinks strength comes only from pushing forward... he doesn't understand leverage yet.]
Adelberd lets out a low grunt, shifting his weight abruptly to throw his entire upper body into the contest. In his desperate effort to gain leverage, his heavy leather boot kicks violently against the base of the empty water cask. The top-heavy barrel tilts, slips off its balance point, and goes sliding rapidly across the smooth, pitch-sealed deck planks—heading directly toward Onaga, who is walking past with an armful of leather ledger books.
Onaga's eyes widen in sudden terror. He jumps two feet straight up into the air, his knees tucking toward his chest as the heavy cask slams into the bulwark right where his ankles had been a fraction of a second before. He lands awkwardly on his heels, stumbling backward against the deck railing.
"Watch it!" Onaga gasps, his knuckles turning stark white as he clutches his thick administrative ledgers tightly against his chest like a shield, his heart hammering against his ribs.
A few paces away, sitting atop the raised frame of a wooden hatch cover with a half-eaten green plantain in her hand, Lourdes witnesses the entire spectacle. She throws her head back and bursts into a fit of hysterical, chest-heaving laughter, her raspy voice echoing loudly across the main deck as she slaps her calloused palm against her knee.
"Sorry, Onaga!" Adelberd says instantly.
He releases his grip on Comtois's hand, snaps his back up straight, and regains his rigid, impeccably polite posture in a single second. He drops his arm to his side, his face flushing a deeper crimson from embarrassment as he bows his head slightly toward Onaga.
[Control, Adelberd. Never lose your footing over a game.]
A moment later, the sharp, rhythmic thud of heavy leather boots echoes across the quarterdeck stairs. The ambient chatter across the deck dies down as the female captain steps down onto the main deck, holding a thick stack of stamped customs papers, official seal-stamped certificates, and unrolled navigation charts under her arm. She walks with a deliberate, wide-legged stance over to the center deck, her iron-trimmed tricorn hat pulled down low over her sharp, vigilant eyes.
"Listen up, crew and soldiers!" she bellows, her rough, wind-bitten voice easily cutting through the remaining chatter and the soft splashing of the tide against the hull. "Port Ambustus customs are cleared, and the Amelia is fully provisioned and secured!"
The veteran sailors lined along the rigging cheer softly, pumping their fists into the air, while the tired earthling soldiers let out long, collective groans of profound relief, sinking back against the deck planks.
"We set sail at first light tomorrow morning!" the captain continues, pulling her brass telescope from her belt and extending its tubes with a crisp snap before pointing it toward the dark, open sea line beyond the harbor mouth. "It will be a four-day sail to Lactuca Island to secure our final open-ocean clearance. After that, we begin our fortnight-long voyage across the deep ocean straight to Sapocitradansia! Get some sleep!"
The young men nod in silent understanding. One by one, they reach for their heavy canvas packs, unrolling their woven cotton hammocks and stringing them up between the deck beams and iron fittings. The warm, tropical night breeze blows steadily across Almathea Grand Harbour and Port Ambustus alike, rustling the heavy canvas sails tied neatly above them and carrying the lingering, sweet scent of crushed sugarcane and ocean salt into the quiet, starlit night.
The first rays of dawn break over the eastern horizon in a pale, golden mist, turning the mirror-flat water of Port Ambustus into a sheet of liquid copper. Down along the mudflats, blue herons stalk silently through the shallow water, their long beaks poised to strike at passing minnows, while schools of flying fish leap from the water in sharp, shimmering arcs, scattering the morning light before vanishing beneath the waves.
A long, piercing boatswain's whistle cuts through the crisp morning air, shattering the silence of the harbor.
"All hands! Up anchor and loose topsails!" the first mate's voice booms across the wooden decks of the four galleons.
Instantly, the four vessels spring into controlled, disciplined chaos. On the forecastle of the Julia, Comtois, Hano, and a dozen other earthlings throw their weight against the thick wooden bars of the capstan, walking in a tight, grueling circle as the heavy iron anchor chain drips with dark ocean mud and clatters loudly through the hawsehole. Heavy iron links clink and groan under the massive tension as the heavy anchor is pried loose from the sandy harbor bottom.
High up in the rigging, sailors lay out along the footropes of the towering spruce spars, their calloused hands rapidly untying the hemp gaskets holding the broad canvas sheets. With a series of deep, booming thuds that sound like cannon fire, the massive square sails drop from the yards, billowing outward as they catch the strong offshore trade wind blowing down from the volcanic mountains.
The heavy timber frames of the Julia, Cealina, Maria, and Amelia groan in unison as the wind fills their sails. Their bows swing smoothly around, slicing through the turquoise water and leaving long, foaming white wakes behind them.
Standing near the starboard railing of the Julia, Hano rests his hands against the polished teak wood, watching the stone wharves, the iron-trussed sugar mills, and the tall, smoking brick chimneys of Port Ambustus slowly recede into the distance. The cool sea spray splashes over the bow, dusting his face with tiny, stinging drops of salt.
"Four days to Lactuca..." Hano murmurs softly under his breath, his eyes fixed on the shrinking coastline. "And then two whole weeks of nothing but open ocean."
Beside him, Aldo stands with his feet set firmly shoulder-width apart, holding his slate and chalk tucked neatly under his arm. His dark hair whipped around his forehead by the rising sea wind, his eyes remain fixed not on the land they are leaving behind, but on the vast, unbroken blue horizon stretching out before them.
"Four days to calculate our supply consumption," Aldo says flatly, his tone even and unbothered by the rolling motion of the deck beneath his boots. "And fourteen days to prepare our strategy for Sapocitradansia. Every hour on the water is an hour we can use to optimize."
Hano turns his head, giving Aldo a weary, half-amused look.
"You really don't ever take a break, do you, Aldo?" Hano asks, shaking his head.
"The ocean does not take a break," Aldo replies calmly, pointing his piece of chalk toward the high waves building in the open channel ahead. "Neither should we."
By mid-morning, Port Ambustus has vanished completely behind the jagged, emerald-green headlands of the island. The four galleons sail in a tight, impressive diamond formation, their black-and-white painted hulls cutting through the deep ocean swells. The sea here changes from the pale turquoise of the harbor to a rich, dark indigo that stretches endlessly in every direction.
High above the fleet, broad-winged albatrosses wheel and glide effortlessly on the strong wind currents, riding the air currents for miles without a single flap of their wings. Far below the surface, the dark silhouettes of massive bull sharks slide through the crystal-clear water, trailing the ships in hopes of discarded galley scraps.
On the main deck of the Julia, the daily routine of sea life takes over. Groups of earthling soldiers are organized into scrub details, using heavy stone holystones and coarse sand to scrub the salt crust off the wooden deck planks. Others sit in the shade of the mainmast, using long iron marlinspikes to repair frayed ropes and splice thick hemp lines.
Adelberd sits near the base of the foremast, a small wooden box of iron nails and a leather-wrapped hammer resting beside his boots. He is meticulously inspecting the spare wooden oars lashed along the inner bulwarks, checking each timber for hairline fractures or water damage.
Onaga walks over, carrying a wooden tray holding four tin cups of water and a small plate of hardtack biscuits. He sets the tray down carefully on a hatch cover near Adelberd, making sure it won't slide with the roll of the ship.
"Take a rest, Adelberd," Onaga says gently, his voice soft against the steady rushing sound of the bow wave. "You've been inspecting those oars for two hours."
Adelberd stops his hammer mid-air, setting it down precisely beside his box of nails. He reaches out, picks up a tin cup, and takes a small, measured sip of water before looking up at Onaga.
"An oar that breaks during an emergency maneuvers is not just a broken piece of wood," Adelberd says firmly, his bright blue eyes serious and sharp. "It is a point of failure that can compromise the stability of the entire vessel. Precision in maintenance prevents disaster in execution."
Onaga smiles faintly, sitting down on the hatch cover opposite him and pulling his knees up to his chest.
"You really are an engineer at heart," Onaga observes softly. "Always looking for structural flaws."
[Structural flaws aren't just in wood... they're in armies, in systems, in nations. If you don't fix them early, everything collapses when the storm hits.]
"It is the only way to ensure efficiency," Adelberd replies, setting his tin cup back on the tray. "When we reach Heilop, every system we build—from the roads to the military hierarchy—must be free of structural flaws. We cannot afford weakness."
Onaga's smile fades slightly, replaced by a quiet, thoughtful expression. He looks out over the endless blue expanse of the ocean, watching the whitefoam crests break against the hull.
"Order is important, Adelberd," Onaga says quietly. "But so is mercy. A machine that is built too tight, with zero tolerance for error, breaks when it hits an unexpected shock. People aren't steel gears. They need room to breathe."
Adelberd does not answer immediately. He reaches into his leather pouch, pulling out the small wooden cogwheel he had carved in Ambustus. He turns it over in his fingers, feeling the microscopic, hand-carved teeth along its rim.
"Gears require precise tolerances to mesh correctly," Adelberd says smoothly, his voice dropping slightly. "If the tolerance is too loose, the gears slip and the engine fails. We will give the people security, order, and purpose. That is the highest form of mercy."
Onaga looks at him for a long moment, then lets out a soft sigh, nodding gently.
"We shall see," Onaga murmurs softly. "We shall see when we arrive."
As the sun reaches its peak at midday, the heat on the open ocean becomes intense, though cooled slightly by the constant, stiff trade wind pushing the fleet eastward. The white canvas sails bulge tight against their bolt-ropes, driving the four ships forward at a brisk, steady seven knots.
Down in the shade of the quarterdeck overhang, Comtois lies flat on his back on a thick coil of heavy hawser rope, his arms folded behind his head, staring up at the intricate network of rigging overhead.
Hano sits nearby, leaning his back against the timber bulkhead, trying to read a damp, salt-stained Ofliran geography pamphlet he had managed to trade for from a sailor in Port Ambustus.
"Listen to this," Hano says, tapping his finger against the yellowed paper. "'Lactuca Island—a fortified Ofliran naval outpost and resupply station, known for its steep volcanic cliffs, deepwater anchorages, and extensive stone cisterns.'"
Comtois doesn't move, merely opening one eye to glance at Hano.
"Sounds like another hot rock in the middle of nowhere," Comtois grunts, closing his eye again. "Does it say anything about fresh meat?"
"It says it's a resupply station," Hano replies, turning the page carefully to avoid tearing the brittle paper. "So there's probably livestock. Pigs, goats, maybe fresh poultry."
Comtois sits up instantly, his eyes snapping open, a broad, hungry grin spreading across his face.
"Fresh pork..." Comtois says, rubbing his hands together. "If I have to eat one more piece of rock-hard dried cod or salt pork that tastes like brine and wood ash, I'm going to jump overboard and catch a tuna with my bare hands."
Lourdes, who is sitting on a nearby water cask sharpening a heavy iron utility knife against a grey whetstone, lets out a raspy laugh without looking up from her work. The steady scritch-scritch-scritch of the blade against stone rhythmically fills the air.
"Don't get your hopes up, gym rat," Lourdes says, her voice dry and raspy. "Lactuca is a military post. Everything on that island is strictly rationed by the Ofliran garrison. They aren't going to roast a pig for a bunch of slave-soldiers."
Comtois groans, flopping back onto his coil of rope with a dramatic sigh.
"You always know how to crush a man's dreams, Lourdes," Comtois mutters into the air.
"I don't crush dreams," Lourdes replies, testing the edge of her knife with her thick thumb before giving it three more quick strokes against the whetstone. "I just keep my eyes open. Dreamers get caught off guard when the knives come out."
Aldo, who has been standing near the mainmast recording wind speeds and nautical distance markers on his slate, steps over to the group. He looks down at Hano's pamphlet, his dark eyes scanning the text in a fraction of a second.
"Lactuca Island is vital for another reason," Aldo states calmly, his voice sharp and precise.
Hano looks up from his paper. "Why?"
"It is the last point of contact with Ofliran territorial authorities before we cross the deep ocean into the unmapped southern waters," Aldo explains, pointing a piece of chalk toward the horizon ahead. "Once we clear Lactuca's port authority, there are no more naval patrols, no more signal towers, and no more coastal supply stations for over twelve hundred nautical miles. If anything goes wrong on the open sea—a storm, a mast failure, or an outbreak of disease—we are entirely on our own."
The small group falls silent for a moment. The steady rushing sound of the sea against the hull and the rhythmic creaking of the ship's timbers suddenly sound much louder, emphasizing the vast, lonely empty space surrounding them.
Comtois sits up again, his playful expression fading slightly, replaced by a quiet, serious resolve. He looks out over the dark blue waves rolling toward the horizon.
"Then we make sure nothing goes wrong," Comtois says softly, his voice dropping its usual booming volume. "We've made it this far. We aren't dying in the middle of the ocean."
Aldo nods once, a crisp, concise movement of his head.
"Precisely," Aldo says. "Which is why we will utilize the four-day sail to Lactuca to audit all water reserves, inspect every piece of rigging, and ensure every man knows his station."
By late afternoon, the ocean wind picks up strength, blowing from the southwest and driving long, white-capped swells against the port sides of the four galleons. The ships roll rhythmically, their heavy wooden hulls dipping deep into the troughs of the waves before rising gracefully over the foaming crests.
High up on the main deck of the Julia, the female captain stands beside the large wooden ship's wheel, her boots planted wide against the sloping deck timbers as she holds the vessel steady on its course. Her sharp eyes constantly scan the horizon, the shape of the sails, and the movements of her crew below.
Lourdes steps up the quarterdeck stairs, holding a brass cup of warm chicory tea. She walks over to the captain, handing her the cup without a word.
The captain takes the cup, nodding her thanks as she takes a slow sip, her gaze never leaving the open sea ahead.
"The boys are holding up well," Lourdes remarks, leaning her back against the teak railing and looking down at the main deck where Comtois, Hano, and Adelberd are helping sailors coil heavy hemp ropes. "Better than I expected for a bunch of civilian kids from another world."
The captain lets out a low, raspy chuckle, setting the tea cup down on the binnacle box beside the magnetic compass.
"They're growing sea legs," the captain says, her voice rough from years of shouting over ocean winds. "The ocean has a way of stripping away the useless fluff from a person. By the time we hit Lactuca, they won't be high school kids anymore. They'll be sailors."
Lourdes turns her head, looking out toward the dark silhouette of the Amelia, which rides the waves three hundred yards to their port side, her four tall masts swaying in perfect rhythm with the Julia.
"And after Lactuca?" Lourdes asks softly, her dark eyes narrowing slightly. "What happens when we hit Sapocitradansia?"
The captain grips the wooden spokes of the ship's wheel tightly, her knuckles turning pale against the dark wood.
"After Lactuca, the real trial begins," the captain says, her tone turning dead serious. "The open ocean doesn't care about Ofliran laws, slave contracts, or grand plans for statecraft. It only respects strength, discipline, and luck. If those boys want to build their new world in Heilop... they'll have to survive the dark water first."
Lourdes nods slowly, her jaw tightening as she watches the heavy waves crash against the bow of the Amelia, sending towering plumes of white spray high into the sunlit air.
[Survival first... then we change the world.]
As night falls over the vast, open ocean, the sky turns into a brilliant, terrifying canopy of endless stars. Without the glow of city lights or shore fires, the night sky blazes with millions of glittering white points of light, the Milky Way stretching like a bright, ghostly river across the black dome of the heavens.
The four galleons light their heavy stern lanterns, casting warm, yellow pools of glowing light across the dark, churning water surrounding them. The ships move through the night like tiny, illuminated islands in a vast, empty void, their timber hulls creaking rhythmically to the steady pulse of the deep sea swells.
Down on the main deck of the Julia, most of the earthling soldiers have retreated to their hammocks, swaying gently back and forth with the motion of the ship.
Under the dim light of a single hanging oil lantern near the main hatchway, Aldo sits alone on an upturned wooden crate. His slate rests on his knees, his piece of white chalk moving in slow, deliberate strokes as he calculates water consumption rates, food rations, and mileage projections for the voyage ahead.
Hano walks over softly, his boots making almost no sound against the damp deck planks. He sits down on the edge of a nearby hatch cover, pulling his knees up and wrapping his arms around them as he looks up at the endless field of stars above.
"Look at that sky, Aldo," Hano whispers softly, his voice full of quiet awe. "You never see stars like that back in Tokushima. Too many streetlights, too many buildings."
Aldo pauses his chalk mid-stroke. He raises his head, looking up at the glittering expanse above them for a long, silent moment.
"The light pollution on Earth obscures the celestial sphere," Aldo says quietly, his voice unusually soft in the still night air. "Here, without artificial illumination, the universe is fully visible."
Hano turns his head, looking at Aldo's calm, pale face in the warm lantern light.
"Do you ever think about home, Aldo?" Hano asks softly. "Your family? Your school? Everything we left behind?"
Aldo holds his chalk firmly between his fingers. He looks down at the slate in his lap, where rows of precise mathematical equations and tally marks fill the dark stone surface.
"Home is a variable that has been removed from the equation," Aldo says, his voice flat, yet carrying a faint, subtle weight beneath its cold exterior. "Focusing on variables that no longer exist creates inefficiency. We are here now. The only equation that matters is how we construct our future in Heilop."
Hano stays quiet for a moment, listening to the rushing sound of the dark water sweeping past the hull and the soft creak of the tall spruce masts above.
"I guess you're right," Hano murmurs, leaning his head back against the hatch frame. "There's no going back. We just have to make sure whatever we build in Heilop is worth the journey."
Aldo nods once, a slow, deliberate movement.
"It will be worth it," Aldo says softly, dipping his chalk back onto the slate. "Because we will build it with absolute precision."
He makes a single, crisp chalk mark on the dark stone, marking the end of another day at sea.
Around them, the four ships sail onward through the dark, velvety night, their glowing stern lanterns guiding them across the endless expanse of the ocean toward Lactuca Island and the unknown world beyond.