Chapter 207 Naval Battle
Unlike during the day, the ocean at night presents a terrifying presence that seems capable of swallowing everything. No matter how expensive the masthead light, it can only illuminate the waters immediately before your eyes. Beyond that, the deep, surging waves seem to devour the light, until everything within sight is plunged into a void of darkness, leaving only the water beneath your feet, churning with unknown foam and whispers.
Thus, the belief in Poseidon was born.
Aboard the HMS Glory, the largest and most luxurious battleship, Darren Ruskin stared at the darkness before him, a cigar dangling from his lips. The young master, sent by the Ruskin family to Port Morris for gilding, had been beheaded. The heirless patriarch, enraged, saw the royal court unable to dispatch troops. He spared no expense, dispatching three heavily armed battleships to this port city, suspected of divine punishment, intent on hanging and burning those daring slaves on the shoreline.
Port Morris was teeming with wealth, and the local Chamber of Commerce had even extended an olive branch to the Ruskin family. A mere bunch of slaves, if successful, would both earn them respect in front of their masters and allow them to make a living. It would be a perfectly acceptable position—if there were no "divine punishment."
The daylight suddenly darkened, animals died, buildings decayed, there were sorcerers who had lost the protection of the gods, slaves who were fearless of death, and the army that was running around like headless flies... In the mouths of well-informed bards, Port Morris had already gained a reputation of being despised by the gods.
The deck beneath his boots suddenly vibrated violently, accompanied by the harsh sound of claws scratching iron and muffled roars. Caught off guard, Darren Ruskin grasped the mast beside him, his cigar falling from his mouth.
"Damn it, what's wrong with that thing?!" He growled in a low voice, "Make it quiet!"
"Commander, it needs to eat." The warlock standing beside him whispered, "We have starved it for too long."
"Can't you just endure it for another day?" Darren Ruskin said with an impatient tut. "The flesh and blood of those slaves in Port Morris is the most suitable dinner for this beast."
"...I'm sorry, Commander," the warlock replied awkwardly, "but if it gets extremely hungry and goes berserk, I'm afraid it'll throw us into the sea first."
So two soldiers dragged a dazed slave and pushed the skinny unlucky guy into the dark bottom cabin, then quickly locked the cabin door tightly, fearing that they would be dragged down by the monster as well.
Following a terrified and shrill scream and a low roar, the only sound left was the faint sound of chewing bones and tearing flesh. Many soldiers could not help but shiver and dared not look in the direction of the cabin.
As dusk fell, the Ruskin family's lookouts finally caught sight of the tall lighthouse of Port Morris, which was carved into the shapes of four gods.
"Sound the Thunderhorn," Darren Ruskin ordered coldly. "Tell the people of Port Morris that the fleet will wait until sunset. If they can hand over all the rebellious slave leaders before then, especially the murderer of Master Ruskin, then the Ruskin family will forgive the crimes committed by civilians in Port Morris who assisted the slaves."
"But if the Ruskin family doesn't get the answer they want before sunset..." The magic tool "Thunder Horn" faithfully reproduced every word the commander said, and it echoed sharply in the sky above Port Morris: "I, Darren Ruskin, swear in the name of the Ruskin family that the entire Port Morris will be reduced to a dead city burned to ashes!"
Time ticked by. The sun gradually set, and twilight poured through cracks in the gray-yellow clouds, casting a shadow on the crimson crests of the waves. The statue of Samuel, the god of night and death, on the far left, had completely faded into shadow, while the tip of Zephyr, the god of light and glory, on the far right, still gleamed with a final golden gleam.
Darren Ruskin grew impatient. He raised his hand, signaling the fleet's gunners to aim their guns at the coastal buildings and docks, ready to fire.
But a lone whaling ship suddenly appeared on the sea. Because it had to fight with whales in the ocean to obtain precious whale oil, it sacrificed its size for speed and flexibility. Therefore, in front of the three behemoths, it was extremely petite, as if it would break into pieces with a slight collision.
The whaler drew closer, a scarlet rag dangling from its mast rustling in the sea breeze. On the deck stood a man, his clothes torn, his hands raised in a gesture of surrender. His face was covered by a turban, his features obscured, only a faint black blood mark visible on his forehead. Darren Ruskin raised an eyebrow at this humble gesture.
Surrender, or lure the enemy? It didn't matter. He sneered, snatched his subordinate's gun, aimed it at the man's forehead, and fired a shot. The man's skull was shattered, and his body stumbled back, but strangely, he didn't fall. Before Darren Ruskin could ponder it, with a loud bang, the entire whale-hunting ship suddenly turned into a fireball, illuminating the sea below.
"Commander, look at the sea!" The lookout screamed. Hundreds of pitch-black whale oil barrels suddenly appeared around the three battleships, gurgling out thick, shiny liquid. A pungent smell of sulfur mixed with the stench of grease hit their faces.
The flames of the whaling ship suddenly shot higher when they met the oil, spreading rapidly on the sea surface, burning tenaciously in the waves, greedily licking the hull of the battleship, and almost reaching the mast.
The people on the boat couldn't help but panic, but Darren Ruskin calmed down and shouted loudly, "What are you panicking about! You are a bunch of short-sighted people. Don't you understand? This ship is protected by a magic circle. Even if it burns for three days and three nights, it won't be destroyed!"
But the situation did not seem as simple as he imagined. Some soldiers shouted in panic: "Commander! Our gun barrel seems to be deformed!"
Darren Ruskin shoved the soldier aside and threw himself over to the side, ignoring the raging sea of fire. His expression finally changed when he saw the strangely colored grease pouring into the gun barrels along with the surging seawater, and even the exposed muzzles softening and deforming under the strangely high temperature.
The magic circle is indeed unable to protect the muzzle of the gun, which is almost the only flaw, but how can those untouchables know - is the cannon that is about to explode attacking the enemy or themselves?
More importantly, if the explosion angered the thing deep inside the cabin...
"Damn it! These treacherous slaves added something to the oil!" He panted rapidly, gnashing his teeth as he issued an order: "Leave this oil-covered sea! No one is allowed to open fire without my order!"
"Report to the commander! About ten small ships have appeared behind us!"
Darren Ruskin was stunned when he heard this, but he sneered sinisterly.
"Warlock, get ready!" he shouted sternly, "Sink those bastards!"
In response to his command, hundreds of orange-red sparks rose from the harbor. Slaves raised the cannons they had dragged from the armory and launched their counterattack.
The professor stood in the eye socket of the harbor lighthouse statue, the night wind blowing his sleeves up, his emotionless smoky-gray eyes reflecting the glaring fire of magic and gunpowder. He looked down at the battle on the sea from a high position.
Thanks to the Chamber of Commerce's "generous gift", they actually found a batch of magic tools from the warehouse. Although they were not high-end, there were a batch of portable crystal balls among them, which were enough to pass on the battle order quickly.
Following his methodical instructions, those small whaling ships were like nimble peregrine falcons on the sea, separating the three battleships bit by bit without the enemy noticing.
...It's time to close the net.
Darren Ruskin gripped the edge of the portcullis tightly. His ship, the Glorious, was surrounded by those damned small boats. They had clearly undergone modifications, with rams added to their bows, reflecting an eerie, cold light. Whenever the warlock tried to cast a spell, he was harassed by cannonballs from inexplicable directions, causing his spells to lose accuracy.
But as soon as they left the sea of fire, these small boats circled around them like flies, not afraid of the risk of collision, making the warlocks helpless and afraid to cast large-scale spells.
Soon, the first figure climbed onto the side of the Glory, officially kicking off the bloody prelude to the boarding battle. Greven swiftly split the upper body of a warrior and dodged a bullet that grazed his ear.
The blood had made the hilt of his heavy sword slippery, but fortunately, he had wrapped a cloth around his palm beforehand. Greven aimed at the grim-faced man, presumably the fleet commander, and without hesitation, he used his heavy sword to clear the way. The expressionless, brown-haired young man looked like a walking meat grinder. The enemies around him even began to subconsciously make way for him; it was only a matter of time before their formation was shattered.
Darren Ruskin turned his head and gazed out at the vast ocean. At some point, the three battleships had been completely separated, their artillery shells unable to strike each other. One of them was even ablaze, its core clearly pierced. Some of the soldiers on board had been reduced to screaming fireballs, while others were scrambling to jump into the sea.
...The situation was over, and it happened so quickly that they didn't even set foot on the land of Port Morris, which was cursed by the gods.
Darren Ruskin stumbled. He slowly raised his head. His reddened eyes fixed on the brown-haired slave's beastly amber pupils, and he uttered a few words through gritted teeth: "...Let that thing out."
The warlock protecting him suddenly widened his eyes and stared at him like a madman: "In this situation, it will not distinguish between friend and foe and burn us all to ashes!"
"Let it out!" Darren yanked out his sword, pressing the blade against the warlock's neck. He shouted fiercely, his eyes bloodshot. "Rather than letting the Ruskin family's warship be taken over by a bunch of filthy slaves, I'd rather be reduced to ashes along with it!"
Azuka, who was accompanying the professor, suddenly frowned.
There was something wrong with the movement on the wind—something was coming out.
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