The four massive galleons—the Julia, the Cealina, the Maria, and the Amelia—plow through the endlessly rolling swells of the open sea, their towering wooden hulls groaning under the strain of eight hundred and twenty souls and mountains of iron, grain, and powder. Then, as if the harsh ocean itself decided to grant a brief reprieve to the weary fleet, the shrieking gale dies down into a faint whisper. The turbulent, dark ocean flattens out into an unnatural, breathtaking sheet of cobalt glass, stretching as far as the eye can see under a cloudless sky. The sudden silence across the fleet is almost deafening, broken only by the rhythmic splash of water against the bow and the creaking of timber masts.
Beneath the crystalline surface of the mirror-like water, a vibrant world comes alive around the four traveling ships. Drawn by the enormous displacement of the wooden hulls, massive, dense schools of iridescent fish dart and weave through the sunlit depths, their scales flashing like scattered silver coins against the deep blue. A curious pod of black-and-white orcas glides effortlessly alongside the Julia, their slick, gleaming dorsal fins slicing through the calm water with terrifying, graceful precision. Farther out on the glittering horizon, an enormous whale breaches, its colossal dark body breaking the surface before crashing back down with a thunderous roar, sending a towering geyser of white saltwater high into the pale sky. Flocks of translucent flying fish burst from the glassy crests, skittering across the surface for dozens of yards on delicate, wing-like fins that catch the harsh sunlight before dipping back into the sea.
On the sun-baked main deck of the flagship Julia, a bizarre, unexpected scene unfolds amidst the quiet ocean calm. Clustered together in a sunlit corner, kneeling directly on the rough deck planks, sit Aldo, Comtois, Hano, Onaga, and Ryong Min Ki. Their heavy armor and weapons lie abandoned beside them, replaced by ink-stained wooden slates and scraps of rough parchment. The teenage officers, usually cold and calculating leaders of a mercenary army, are huddled shoulder-to-shoulder like wide-eyed schoolboys on a field trip, frantically scribbling notes and sketching the alien aquatic shapes gliding past the hull.
Comtois kneels on both knees, his bare, muscle-bound arms resting on a flat wooden crate as his charcoal stick flies across a piece of paper. He squints down through the crystal-clear water, his dark eyes wide with uncharacteristic wonder as an oversized flying fish skitters alongside the ship's gunwale.
"Did you see that tail kick?" Comtois shouts, his loud, boisterous voice ringing out across the deck as he rapidly traces a fin structure. "The muscle density in its hind section must be insane! It literally uses the water surface like a spring board! Hano, look at this!"
Hano doesn't immediately look up. He is sitting cross-legged, his sliding spectacles pushed dangerously far down the bridge of his nose as he dips a goose-feather quill into a tiny horn of dark ink. He blows gently on a series of neatly drawn geometric diagrams on his parchment, his fingers covered in dark smudges.
"I am looking," Hano mutters dryly, his quill making sharp, precise tapping sounds against the rough paper. "I am also calculating the drag coefficient of its pectoral fins. If the surface tension of the water holds, its glide ratio is nearly fifteen to one. It is essentially an organic glider using wind currents over the bow wake."
Beside them, Ryong Min Ki hunches low, his cheek almost touching the deck as he stares through a gap in the wooden bulwark, tracing the sleek, terrifying silhouette of an orca swimming less than ten feet below the surface.
"Look at the counter-shading on the apex predator," Ryong whispers, his breath catching in his throat as the massive creature rolls slightly, exposing its stark white belly before disappearing into the cobalt depths. "Black on top to blend with the deep ocean floor, white on the bottom to blend with the sky light from below. It's perfect natural camouflage."
Onaga sits on an overturned rope coil, his charcoal stick making soft, heavy strokes as he quickly renders the silhouette of the breaching whale far out on the horizon. He pauses, his thumb smudging the black charcoal to create depth in the spray of water, a faint, rare smile touching the corners of his lips.
"Incredible," Onaga mutters softly under his breath, his eyes fixed on the distant water spout. "Back on Earth, you only saw things like this in high-definition documentaries or behind glass tanks. Here, it's just raw, untamed nature rolling right past our boots."
Aldo kneels slightly apart from the rest, his parchment neat and organized into precise grid columns. He isn't drawing artistic landscapes; instead, he is carefully recording the speed of the schools, estimating their mass, and calculating the potential food yield per net throw. Yet, despite his clinical layout, his eyes flicker with a bright, youthful curiosity as he watches the water.
A few yards away, leaning against the mainmast with her arms crossed tightly over her leather brigandine, Lourdes watches the five young men with a raised, arching eyebrow. Her sharp, weathered face softens slightly, though she shakes her head in exasperation.
"Look at them," Lourdes says, her voice laced with dry amusement as she nudges the man standing beside her. "One day they're mapping out bloody political revolutions and drilling men with iron pikes, and the next they're giggling and rolling on the deck over flying fish like five-year-olds."
Lei Delun stands beside her, his tall, lean frame resting comfortably against the wooden ship railing. He rests his calloused hands on the polished rail, his gentle, easy smile radiating warmth as he watches the boys debate the aerodynamics of sea life.
"Let them be, Lourdes," Lei Delun replies softly, his deep, soothing voice carrying a touch of quiet nostalgia. "They were boys long before they were forced to become soldiers. Let them have the ocean for a few hours."
Scattered around the main deck, the newly hired Ofliran and Wanghai mercenaries sit on barrels and gun carriages, mending leather straps or sharpening their iron blade tips. They watch their young commanders huddled on the floor, soft chuckles and hearty snorts rippling through their ranks.
"Look at the little commanders," a broad-chested Ofliran veteran mutters, taking a long swig from his wooden tin cup before setting it down with a wet clatter. "You'd think they never saw a fish before in their lives."
"Better they draw fish than draw battle lines for one afternoon," a Wanghai crossbowman grunts, leaning back against a coil of heavy hemp rope and closing his eyes in the warm sunlight. "Let the boys play. The wind will blow again soon enough."
Even as the mercenary recruits relax and enjoy the unusual entertainment, the veteran Ofliran ship crew never stops moving. They step carefully around the huddled teenagers, their calloused hands deftly adjusting the thick rigging, coiling heavy hemp lines into perfect circles on the wooden cleats, and lowering weighted lines into the dark bilge holds to check for water leakage. For the sailors, the calm is merely a brief window to prepare the four heavy galleons for the harsh weather that invariably follows a dead sea.
By late afternoon, the blazing sun begins its slow descent toward the western horizon, dipping halfway below the glassy edge of the sea. It paints the sky and the vast ocean in brilliant, fiery shades of burning orange, deep crimson, and soft violet. The water catches the light, glowing like molten copper as the shadows lengthen across the timber decks of the fleet.
Aldo carefully rolls up his parchment, places his charcoal stick into a small leather pouch at his belt, and stands up. He brushes the dried salt and dust from the knees of his trousers, adjusts the high collar of his coat, and walks slowly up the short flight of wooden stairs to the high quarterdeck.
The female captain stands near the ship's wheel, her broad back turned to the setting sun. She is leaning her heavy elbows against the polished oak spokes, looking out over the glowing sea with a calm, practiced eye.
Aldo approaches her side, stopping a respectful distance away. He clears his throat softly, adjusting his collar once more as he looks at her with a quiet, thoughtful expression.
"Captain," Aldo begins, his tone crisp and direct, "with eight hundred and twenty men crammed into these four vessels on a long ocean voyage, how do you prevent scurvy without access to fresh citrus?"
The female captain pauses, turning her head slowly to look down at the young officer. For a second, her weathered face remains blank, and then a booming, thunderous laugh erupts from her chest. She slaps her thick, leather-clad thigh with a heavy, echoing bang that startles the wheelman standing nearby.
"You think Ofliran sailors just sit around waiting for their bloody teeth to rot and drop into their broth, boy?" she roars with delight, her eyes crinkling with rough humor.
Without waiting for his answer, she turns sharply on her heel, her heavy boots thudding against the deck as she gestures for him to follow. She leads Aldo down the narrow, creaking companionway stairs, diving deep into the dark, cool depths of the ship's lower storehold. The air down here is noticeably colder, rich with the heavy smells of aged oak, sea salt, wet rope, and sharp vinegar.
The captain halts in front of long, neatly organized rows of massive wooden casks stacked three high and bound with thick iron hoops. She raises her brass oil lantern, throwing a warm, golden glow over the stacked timber. She taps the side of a heavy barrel with the toe of her boot, the wood emitting a dull, solid thud.
"Wild berries preserved in sour whey," she explains, pointing her lantern closer so Aldo can read the charred markings on the barrel head. "Seaweed harvested from the coastal reefs and dried into sheets. Pickled cabbage, salted onions, and crocks of sour cucumbers." She steps down the row, patting another heavy wooden barrel with her broad palm. "And barrels upon barrels of sharp apple cider."
She leans in close to Aldo, her weathered face illuminated from below by the flickering yellow flame of the lantern, her dark eyes glinting with fierce amusement.
"And if that's not enough for your delicate, high-born stomach," she whispers conspiratorially, "we drop the heavy drag nets over the stern. When you catch fish out here in the deep currents, you eat the eggs. Lightly cooked if your stomach is weak, raw if you can handle it like a real sailor—just don't overcook them, or you'll completely ruin the rich flavor."
Aldo stands perfectly still in the dim, cool hold. His expression doesn't shift in the slightest. He blinks flatly at the captain, his dark eyes entirely unamused by her theatrics.
"Did you bring the pine needles I requested before we departed Almathea?" Aldo asks, his voice entirely flat and devoid of any emotion.
The captain's booming amusement instantly vanishes. She lets out a long, dramatic groan, throwing her free hand into the air and rolling her eyes up toward the deck beams above.
"Pine needle tea tastes like boiled tree bark, Aldo!" she snaps, shaking her head in utter disgust.
"A single cup of thick, pungent pine needle tea provides more than adequate ascorbic acid to maintain cellular integrity and prevent tissue degradation," Aldo replies instantly, his tone deadpan, without even a hint of irony or humor.
The captain sighs deeply, her shoulders slumping as she lowers her brass lantern. She looks at the teenage commander with a mixture of disbelief and affectionate irritation.
"You are far too practical, kid," she grunts, shaking her head as she turns back toward the wooden ladder leading up to the main deck. "Come on. Stop lecture-tasting my ship's supplies and get down to the galley. The cooks need extra hands to scale tonight's catch, and since you care so much about nutrient value, you can scrape the guts yourself."
The sun drops fully beneath the dark western horizon, plunging the vast, mirror-like ocean into a deep, velvety indigo. Overhead, the sky transforms into a sparkling tapestry of cold, sharp stars that reflect perfectly in the motionless sea, making the four galleons appear as though they are floating through the middle of an endless cosmos.
Down in the ship's narrow, stifling galley, the thick heat of the hearth fires presses against the low timber ceiling. Comtois, Hano, and Ryong Min Ki sit on low wooden stools around a massive, iron-bound trough filled to the brim with fresh, silvery fish caught during the late afternoon haul. Their sleeves are rolled up past their elbows, their hands slick with wet scales, ocean water, and dark blood as they work side-by-side with the ship's greasy cooks.
Comtois holding a small, iron scraping knife, handles a large, flat-bodied fish with quick, practiced movements. Squeak, scrape, squeak. Silver scales fly through the air, sticking to his bare forearms and sweat-sheened face.
"I'm telling you," Comtois grunts, flicking a cluster of scales off his knife blade into a wooden bucket below. "If we can preserve enough of these fish in salt and sour whey like the captain showed us, we won't have to touch our grain reserves until we're well inside the territory of Sapocitradansia."
Hano sits beside him, holding a small fish delicately between his thumb and forefinger. He scrapes the scales with excruciating, agonizing slowness, his brow furrowed in intense concentration as if he were performing delicate surgery.
"The mathematical ratio of salt to meat volume must be exact," Hano mutters, his voice muffled as he pushes his sliding spectacles up his nose with the clean back of his upper arm. "Too little salt, and anaerobic bacteria will rot the flesh within three days in this tropical heat. Too much salt, and the men will consume their daily water ration twice as fast, leading to dehydration before we hit the deep currents."
Ryong Min Ki lets out a low, breathless laugh, slicing open the belly of a fish with a quick, clean pull of his blade. He reaches inside, carefully scooping out a dark, glistening cluster of fish eggs and setting them onto a clean wooden tray.
"Look at these," Ryong says, pointing the tip of his bloody knife at the eggs. "The captain said to eat them raw if we can handle it. Who wants to test the captain's medical theory first?"
Comtois immediately grins, his dark eyes lighting up with reckless enthusiasm. He reaches out with two scale-covered fingers, scoops up a small cluster of raw fish eggs, and tosses them straight into his open mouth without a second thought. He chews slowly, his jaw working as his face undergoes a rapid series of intense expressions—from deep suspicion, to intense evaluation, to sudden, surprised delight.
"It pops!" Comtois exclaims loudly, slapping his bare knee with his wet hand. "It literally pops in your mouth like salty butter! Hano, try this! It's actually incredible!"
Hano stares at the glistening tray of raw fish guts with absolute, unadulterated horror, his face turning a pale shade of green under the dim lantern light. He leans as far away from Comtois as his small wooden stool allows, holding his scaling knife up like a defensive weapon.
"Keep those unsterilized, raw marine gametes at least three feet away from my person," Hano says, his voice rising an octave in genuine panic. "I would rather chew on Aldo's pine needle bark tea until my gums bleed than ingest raw, unheated fish tissue."
Comtois bursts into a loud, booming roar of laughter that echoes through the tight confines of the galley, causing the ship's cooks to look over and shake their heads in amused disbelief.
Up on the main deck, away from the heat and noise of the galley, the cool sea breeze sweeps gently across the polished deck timbers. Aldo stands near the bow railing, his hands clasped tightly behind his lower back as he gazes out into the dark, star-lit ocean. The night air is crisp and clean, carrying the sharp scent of salt and sea kelp.
A soft pattern of light footsteps sounds against the deck planks behind him. Lei Delun approaches quietly, his hands tucked into the wide sleeves of his long robe. He stops beside the young commander, leaning his shoulder gently against the wooden bulwark as he looks out at the glowing reflection of the stars in the sea.
"You look heavy with thought, Aldo," Lei Delun says softly, his calm, gentle voice cutting through the quiet night. "Even when the sea grants us peace, your mind remains at war."
Aldo doesn't shift his stance. His eyes remain fixed on the dark horizon where the sea meets the sky.
"Peace on the ocean is an illusion of distance," Aldo replies calmly, his voice dropping to a quiet, cold register. "Every day we spend gliding over this mirror-like water is a day our supplies shrink, a day our men grow accustomed to stillness, and a day the enemy in Sapocitradansia reinforces their positions. The calm doesn't slow down time; it merely masks the approach of the storm."
Lei Delun turns his head slightly, watching the young boy's stoic, unyielding profile under the starlight. A faint, gentle sigh escapes the older man's lips, his expression filled with a quiet, profound empathy.
"A good captain prepares for the storm," Lei Delun mutters softly, "but a wise captain does not forget to breathe while the sea is quiet. Look at the water, Aldo. Just for a moment. Look at how bright the world is, even in the middle of a dark ocean."
Aldo slowly lowers his gaze, looking down at the dark water beneath the bow. The moving hull of the Julia gently slices through the calm surface, creating long, curling wakes of brilliant, bioluminescent green foam that glow like liquid fire against the black sea. The glittering green light dances across Aldo's sharp, pale features, illuminating his dark eyes for a fleeting second.
He remains silent for a long time, his jaw set firm, his breath rising in a faint white mist in the cool night air.
He is right. The moment we make landfall, this stillness will be gone forever. There will be no time for star-gazing, no time for sketching fish, no time for quiet thoughts. There will only be blood, iron, and the endless march forward.
Aldo lets out a tiny, almost imperceptible breath through his nose. He turns his head slightly toward Lei Delun, his expression relaxing just an inch.
"The bioluminescence is caused by microscopic dinoflagellates reacting to mechanical stress," Aldo says flatly, though his tone lacks its usual icy sharp edge. "It is a chemical defense mechanism designed to draw predators to whatever is disturbing them."
Lei Delun chuckles quietly, a warm, rich sound that fills the night air. He reaches out and gently pats Aldo's shoulder with a firm, comforting hand.
"Of course it is, Aldo," Lei Delun smiles softly, his eyes reflecting the warm starlight above. "Of course it is."
Far out across the dark, motionless expanse of the deep ocean, the four heavy galleons continue their silent, steady course toward the south. Their dark sails hang full against the gentle night breeze, carrying eight hundred and twenty men closer and closer to their uncertain destiny, while deep below the quiet, glassy surface, the hidden marvels of the vast sea swim on in the dark.