The ship "Violet" drifted unhurriedly across the calm waters of the boundless ocean. The season was favorable on both sides of the equator: the days were warm, and the winds soft and steady.
For a sailing vessel to cover thirty thousand leagues from the continent of Alaz to Nightingale, no less than half a year was required—and that was only with fair winds and the regular use of magic to hasten the voyage.
On the deck of the ship, Grace stood as though frozen mid-dance: arms extended, muscles taut, breathing deep and measured. From a distance it looked like some peculiar form of gymnastics, yet in truth she was trying to sense the power of her magical core according to her mother's method.
Having passed the awakening ceremony, Grace had taken her first step along the path of practice. She had officially reached the level of Rudiarius (1), having awakened her magical core.
The name was deeply symbolic.
In ancient Rome, Rudiarii were ordinary gladiators who had earned the right to freedom. They were not yet truly free, but they had already crossed the boundary that separated them from mere slaves.
So it was here as well—any mortal who awakened a magical core rose above the ordinary. They became someone who could move forward. But the path itself had only just begun.
For a month now, following her mother's guidance, Grace had trained to reach the next level—Legionary (2). If a Rudiarius merely gained power, a Legionary learned to wield it.
The essence of this path lay in opening the medians—subtle natural channels through which magical energy could freely circulate throughout the body.
The system was astonishingly simple, and perhaps that was precisely why it had once brought Rome such glory. Catherine had explained it to her daughter only once—and Grace had understood everything at once.
To advance to the level of Legionary, only one thing was required: circulate the core's energy through the body and search for the places where it flowed more easily.
These paths of circulation were the very medians—natural channels along which mana was meant to flow. They could not be seen or touched by hand. To sense the medians required nothing but attention, patience, and repeated practice.
But discovering them alone was not enough.
For the medians to strengthen, one had to drive the magical core's energy along the discovered path without pause, again and again. Gradually, the body would grow accustomed to the power, becoming its conduit, and mana would begin to flow more easily—like a river that, over time, carves out its own bed.
Thus every day since their departure, Grace had trained on the deck: moving smoothly, holding still, listening inward, trying again. She was exceedingly diligent, pausing only for meals, sleep, conversations with her family, and the rare games with the sailors.
Ever since she and her brother had been beaten at the market, the girl had fully understood what it meant to be weak.
More than once she had heard him whimper pitifully in pain while Catherine and Cassia treated the aftermath of his injuries.
Grace blamed herself for everything and desperately wanted to make things right. She had sworn that she would never again be a burden, that she would protect her brother and never allow him to suffer. That was why she trained with such relentless dedication.
As for Gray, whose magical core had been destroyed, he had to find another path of growth. Following his mother's advice and under her careful supervision, he began training with a sword, hoping to awaken an aura and become a specialist.
The boy repeated the same movements again and again like a poorly calibrated machine: a vertical slash, a thrust, a defensive stance. He constantly received sharp raps from his mother's stick when his hands failed to obey him. He was at the level of an absolute beginner.
He was nothing like the boy who had fought off that gang of young thugs.
In truth, he did not remember that day at all. He was not even certain who had saved them. Perhaps that mysterious figure in black?
Neither he, nor Grace, nor even Catherine could connect Gray's unnatural radiance with the deaths of the teenagers, attributing his condition to a relapse of an old injury instead. The entire family avoided the subject. Gray had suffered enough already, and Grace blamed herself for everything. They did not want to burden the children any further.
An hour passed, and Cassia clapped her hands, signaling the end of the training session.
Catherine walked over to the twins and gently wiped the sweat from their faces with a damp towel. For an entire month she had watched them train with such diligence. Their perseverance filled her with genuine pride, yet like any caring mother, she worried and did not want them to lose all their playfulness and spontaneity so early in life.
"My dears, you mustn't exhaust yourselves with training. Rest is no less important for your future growth," she coaxed in a gentle voice.
"Mom, but it's so boring here! There's nothing but water, water, and more water everywhere. I feel like I'll go mad if I don't keep moving. I thought sailing would be full of adventures, like in the stories you used to tell," Grace complained. She truly sounded on the verge of despair.
Catherine could not hold back her laughter. "Fufufu, but you were playing cards with the cook and the boatswain, weren't you? I've heard they've been avoiding you like the plague ever since."
"Hmph, they're just too weak!" the girl snorted proudly, lifting her chin. "If Uncle Captain hadn't called them away, I would've left them without lunch for at least two more rounds."
[Little devil, you just got lucky with the draw a few times. Nothing to be proud of! If it weren't for the captain's order, I would've spanked your little backside with my frying pan a week ago. You've left me without breakfast more than once, and it's still not enough for you? Just wait—Uncle Jack will take care of you when the captain gives the order to begin the operation], grumbled to himself the fat cook, a pot perched on his head and a frying pan clutched in his hands.
He had been passing by at that very moment when he heard the girl's disdainful words.
While mother and daughter whispered about something, and the cook muttered darkly under his breath, Cassia was explaining to Gray why the ship could not capsize, even though it listed rather heavily. The boy listened attentively, but suddenly he could not hold back a shout:
"WHAT'S THAT?!"
"Did you see something, Gray?" Cassia asked, straightening to her full height and peering over the ship's rail.
"Yes, yes! Over there!" Gray cried, pointing his finger at a black speck in the water.
Squinting in the direction the boy indicated, the cook jolted upright and roared at the top of his lungs: "Starboard side, ahead and downwind—wreckage in the water!"
His shout stirred the entire crew.
Sailors off watch rushed onto the deck. Sinbad stepped out of his cabin. Catherine, Cassia, Grace, and even the unflappable narrow-eyed pilot leaned against the railings, studying the black speck with intense focus.
The object bobbed on the waves roughly three miles from the "Violet."
"What is it?" the cabin boy asked.
"Looks like the belly of a Red Orca to me. Those monsters are common in this part of the ocean. Let's just hope we don't run into a pack of savage scavengers. They get aggressive when someone approaches their prey."
"I don't think so," the youth replied doubtfully.
"And what do you think, Peter?" another sailor asked.
"This time I'm with the fat cook. That's a ship's hull listing on its side. I can even see the wood glinting."
"Bear downwind, Bolton, hold her steady!" Sinbad commanded, as he too favored the shipwreck theory.
"Aye, Captain!" the helmsman replied.
"I stand by what I said," the sailor declared confidently. "Without a doubt, that's a sea beast. I'll wager five cigars from the Barbarian Plains and a jug of monkey wine on it."
"Done. One gold says it's a ship's hull," Catherine interjected unexpectedly.
"Ease her, Bolton, ease her!" Sinbad barked. "No need to get closer than half a mile. We might not be able to harm that wreck, but I've no desire for it to scrape the sides of my 'Violet'!"
With a slight turn of the helm, the vessel veered a little to the left.
The sailors stared greedily at the sunken vessel. Perhaps there was valuable cargo in its hold, something they could transfer onto the "Violet."
If the contents had not been ruined by the water, the crew might haul in a true "catch"—enough in a single day to pay for half a year of carefree living in Tortuga, the notorious pirate haven near the continent of Velnora.
About five minutes later, the "Violet" was within half a mile of the drifting object. There was no longer any doubt: it was indeed the hull of a galley overturned onto its side.
The deck stood almost vertical. Fragments of oars floated nearby. The masts had been torn away. A large breach gaped along the starboard side. The frame and planking had been crushed inward around the hole.
"It's a Roman galley. Most likely she collided with another vessel and went straight down!" the cook exclaimed, pleased to have been proven right.
"Exactly," Sinbad confirmed. "But it astonishes me that she didn't sink at once. It's nothing short of a miracle."
"I wonder if any cargo's left, or if she's already been picked clean before we arrived?" one of the sailors asked, rubbing his hands together while continuing to lower the longboat into the water.
"Quiet! Everyone, quiet!" Grace cried, calling for silence. "Do you hear that? There's a dog barking! Hurry and save it. Why are you still standing around? We have to move!"
"Slow down, my dear," Catherine said, stroking her daughter's head. "The poor creature must be starving."
"Then give it my soup! I won't even finish everything I won from that fat uncle anyway. Mom, can it stay with us? Please…" Grace could not calm down; she tugged at Catherine's hand and pulled a pitiful face.
From the moment she heard that plaintive barking, her tender heart had known no peace. In her mind, the dog had already become a pet she was destined to care for.
Hearing Grace's pleas, the cook once again cursed the little devil for her black heart. Was the breakfast he had lost truly destined to become dog food? He wanted to cry, but no tears would come.
Soon the sailors climbed back up from the longboat, bringing with them a pitch-black puppy no bigger than a spitz. Soaked through and painfully thin, it looked miserable and defenseless. Yet no one could hold back an astonished exclamation when they noticed that the puppy had three heads.
"Cerberus?!" Sinbad exclaimed, unable to believe he had encountered a descendant of the legendary beast.
"Yes! You could sell that at any imperial auction. Three gold at the very least, Captain," the older sailor holding the puppy replied proudly.
"You! How dare you?! I saw him first. He's mine!" Grace shouted, unceremoniously snatching the puppy from the sailor's hands.
She immediately carried him off to feed him. They offered the puppy some stew, but he ignored it and dashed toward a barrel of water, greedily quenching his thirst.
"Why is he drinking? He could've drunk anytime. Wasn't he hungry while he was on that ship?" Grace asked doubtfully, pressing a finger thoughtfully to her lips.
"My dear, seawater is salty. It can't be drunk; it only makes the thirst worse," Catherine explained, sometimes forgetting that her clever children were still children and did not know certain obvious things.
"I see," Grace nodded.
Sinbad forced a tight smile. He had not even managed to speak before the valuable puppy was claimed by his wealthy employers. Although it was Gray who had spotted the wreck and Grace who had heard the barking, the greedy captain still had no desire to share the prize.
Three gold was no small sum, and this puppy was a descendant of a legendary beast. It might well be worth even more. Sinbad's hands itched to claim it for himself, yet he suddenly shuddered, as though recalling something, and at once reined in his greed.
"What else did you see? Describe everything in detail. Leave nothing out."
The sailor had wanted to ask something, but hearing the captain's question, he chose not to pursue it.
"Aye, Captain. Reporting: by all signs it's a Roman-style galley. Not a single living soul aboard—only the corpses of slaves and shattered oars. There are almost no identifying marks. However, after scraping away a layer of old paint, we found an inscription: 'Artea.' That appears to be the ship's name.
Although I didn't see a single coin, the hold is full of barrels of spices and goods from the Empire of the Six Pillars. Most likely a smuggler's vessel. I believe the galley collided with another ship and sank, and the other crew, in a hurry, took only the most valuable cargo, leaving the rest untouched.
The Cerberus must've been hidden well, so they didn't notice him, and as for the remaining cargo—it's worth no more than a couple of gold coins at best. The pup's price is beyond comparison," the sailor reported, unable to conceal the greedy gleam in his eyes.
Sinbad hesitated for a moment—who was he to misunderstand what was running through his subordinate's mind? Keeping his voice measured, he rebuked him with all the seriousness he could muster:
"Don't be greedy, Lok. Two gold is enough for us to live a week in Tortuga without a single care. You don't intend to risk lives over a dog, do you? Take some sturdy men and transfer everything of value onto the 'Violet.' And be so kind as not to provoke our clients—I'm already on edge since we left Stormdale."
The sailor hesitated, but after a brief pause he nodded obediently. "Understood, Captain."
He set to work, striving to act swiftly yet cautiously.