"Get moving! Get moving!"
"Quickly, furl the sails!"
On the deck of a ship sailing on the vast ocean, a gaunt man with sunken eyes roared hoarsely. Even though it was a voice he shouted with all his might, it sounded as faint as the groan of an insect in the gale-force winds blowing across the sea.
At this moment, in this vast ocean, boundless black clouds shrouded the entire sky. Although it was noon, these deep black and heavy clouds completely swallowed the sun.
Lightning flashed intermittently in the dark clouds, and with each flash, a suppressed and muffled rumble of thunder began to sound.
The wind accompanied the thunder, and a fierce gale whipped up towering waves, as if the sea was being churned up. The waves, several feet high, rolled higher and higher, and the seawater no longer appeared azure, but turned black and thick, like a black hole that could swallow everything.
Dark clouds, strong winds, and rumbling thunder—the combination of these three elements foreshadows an impending all-encompassing thunderstorm in this sea area, during which ships sailing at sea will face a brutal test.
Captain Coster, one hand protecting his hat, continued to yell at the sailors on board, urging them on:
"Damn it! You idiots!"
"You want us all to die here?! Fold down the sails!"
Urged on by him, the thirty-odd emaciated sailors with sunken cheeks finally got moving. They struggled to pull the ropes and used all their strength to furl the sails, but the gale was still blowing hard, causing their thin bodies to sway from side to side in the wind.
Seeing this, Coster rushed forward and joined the sailors in pulling the ropes to furl the sails. His hat was blown away by the gale, but Coster didn't care.
The most important thing right now is to furl the sails. If the sails are not furled in time, the ship will surely sink at sea.
Finally, thanks to everyone's tireless efforts, all the sails were lowered. But this did not mean the danger was over. After lowering the sails, Coster urgently ordered the sailors to return to the cabin immediately, because the storm was beyond human control and all they could do was stay in the cabin and leave it to fate.
Before struggling down the deck against the fierce wind, Coster took one last look at the other ships traveling with him, and then his eyes darkened. He bit his lip and sadly left the cabin.
There were thirteen other ships traveling with them, but only seven of them had completely furled their sails, four of them had not yet furled them, and the last two ships had not furled them at all.
Coster understood that the people on both ships had collapsed from despair; they had lost all courage, and even their will to survive had been completely worn away during the long return voyage.
And there are quite a few people like this in the fleet, even on my own ship.
What drove these people to despair was not the impending storm, but merely the final straw that broke the camel's back.
The root of it all comes from the naval battle that took place more than two months ago, a battle that has become a nightmare for almost everyone.
On the return journey, Coster was always awakened from his sleep by endless gunfire and the sight of human heads and corpses floating in the blood-red sea.
Every time he recalls this scene, Coster trembles uncontrollably. It is his nightmare. At the beginning of his voyage, Coster never imagined that he would encounter such a terrible thing.
The fleet, which once numbered nearly five hundred ships, has been reduced to only fourteen after that naval battle. The total number of people on these fourteen ships is less than five hundred, and half of them are on the verge of death. They have become walking corpses, as if they have left their souls in that battle.
After the storm, Coster didn't know how many ships would survive. He could only pray that his ship could withstand the thunderstorm, since they were not far from home.
Without giving it any further thought, he went straight to the cabin after leaving the deck.
The dimly lit cabin was illuminated only by a single, dim oil lamp. Overturned bowls on the table were filled with chunks of dark brown meat, and murky broth was spilled everywhere. A faint stench permeated the air. On the messy, filthy bedding lay a gaunt man, his vomit scattered on the deck.
As soon as Coster entered the cabin, he couldn't help but frown, but he still respectfully addressed the man lying on the bed:
"Marshal, we are facing a storm."
The man on the bed ignored him completely; he didn't even move an inch. If it weren't for his murky, empty eyes, he would have been indistinguishable from a corpse.
Although the man remained silent, Coster continued his report:
"Marshal, this storm is likely to continue for some time. The waves are getting bigger and bigger, and our ship will be rocking more and more. For safety's sake, I think you should probably secure yourself."
The man remained unmoved. Koster sighed softly, took a rope from the wall, and planned to tie the man's body to the bedpost. Although this could not completely guarantee safety, it would at least prevent him from bumping around during the jolts.
Where is Wilson?
Just as Coster walked to the bedside, the man suddenly spoke, his voice hoarse and clear, like a saw cutting wood.
Coster's face stiffened, his gaze sweeping over the vomit, and he said in a low voice, "The Chief of Staff was very ill; he passed away last night."
After speaking, the man was silent for a few moments, then said, "Make sure his body is properly disposed of. If you can return to China, take it to his family."
Koster lowered his eyes, shook his head and said, "You know, Marshal."
"The patient's body cannot be left on the ship; we have run out of medicine."
"We conducted a sea burial for the Chief of Staff last night."
As they were talking, Coster had already come to the bedside and reached out to help the man up, but the man waved his hand away.
"marshal?"
The man slowly sat up, supporting himself on the bed. His beard was thick and messy, all tangled together, and his deep-set eyes were bloodshot. No one would believe that this was Clemento, the First Minister of Naval Affairs of the Kingdom of Sa Ri and the Marshal of the Blazing Sun Fleet.
After that cruel and bloody night, Clemento seemed like a different person. He lost all his courage, fighting spirit, and sense of responsibility as a commander. He became afraid of firelight, loud noises, and even vomited at the sight of blood. He hid in his cabin all day, afraid to speak to his men. He completely shut himself off, becoming almost a walking corpse.
Now, just before the thunderstorm struck, Clemento stood up, pushed Coster aside, and shakily walked out of the cabin.
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