Chapter 1

He, the son of a business tycoon, was once as rich as a king.

…Now, he’s broke as hell.

He, at eighteen, abandoned commerce for the skies (…), made a name for himself in the college entrance exams, ditched finance, gave up IT, and stepped into Meteorology University.

…Too bad he hasn’t graduated yet.

He, dashing and charming, with a strong and flirtatious yet not lewd demeanor, is skilled in all eighteen martial arts.

…Except for climbing trees.

He, though lacking irises of seven colors, possesses astonishing intelligence, fluent in the languages of the ten ASEAN countries, including Chinese (…), English, Thai, Vietnamese, Khmer, and Burmese.

…Unfortunately, he can’t understand a single punctuation mark in Arabic.

He, once a transmigrator whose former name on the household register of the People’s Republic of China is no longer important.

He, now goes by the name Miguel.

A transmigrator who, after deep contemplation, still can’t figure out what bizarre posture he must have been in to transmigrate so strangely.

Year 1488, Mediterranean Sea, Djerba Island, Tunisia

The salty sea breeze swept over the bustling pier. Against the backdrop of the azure sea and sky, seabirds fluttered their wings, creating a melodious symphony. They had traveled a long way from the other side of the Mediterranean, cutting through the white clouds, passing by this island that was both awe-inspiring and brimming with life.

Djerba Island, a paradise for pirates, the best haven. Every year, it attracted hundreds of pirates with its unique charm—landing, resupplying, indulging, and leaving.

From a bird’s-eye view, this prosperous island was like the most dazzling pearl of the Mediterranean, embedded along its coast—it had the freest port, the richest resources, the most enchanting and passionate prostitutes, and countless young strongmen. Every summer, during the peak season when pirates returned to shore for supplies, they lingered here, trying to find a way to survive.

“Rum! Wheat beer! Fiery whiskey! Want some cheese, big guy?—”

“Freshly delivered coconuts and jujubes, buy a coconut and get a hardtack for free!”

“—The pirate kings of the Mediterranean, the Barbarossa Brothers, are recruiting—twelve sailors, two cooks—one helmsman with brains—”

“Yo! Pirate kings? Bullshit! What kind of kings are the Barbarossas?”

“Who’s got a death wish? Our captain just beat up some Germans and is about to get the queen’s letter of marque—our ship will sail sideways in the Mediterranean, who dares block our way?!”

“Hahaha, I’m counting on this joke to get through the day! Last week, the German ships Barbarossa repelled were just a small squad under Caesar, wake the hell up—”

“Caesar’s dead! We found his charred body in the ship’s hold! The Germans’ pirate career is over!”

“Don’t be naive, I heard Caesar wasn’t even on the ship—”

Amid the noisy pier, voices in the crowd argued chaotically—

Miguel rubbed his ears, feeling a bit of a headache as he glanced at the burly man hiding behind a crate of rum, occasionally sticking his head out to join the heated argument. He took a few steps to distance himself.

“My pirate, my dream~ My mission of plunder~ On the dark blue sea~ The water splashes with joy~”

“…” Squinting, Miguel looked up at the distant blue sea. After a moment of hesitation, he stopped in front of the old man who was singing cheerfully. His tall figure cast a shadow that enveloped the busy old man. He moved a crate of goods behind him, then expressionlessly extended two fingers, holding them up in front of the old man’s nose.

“Our hearts are so free~ Where the long wind blows—”

The old man’s singing abruptly stopped, as if startled. He jumped up, nimbly dodging to the side, cursing and shouting—

“No negotiation! Miguel! Four gold coins, not a penny less! This boat is a top-notch vessel my son risked his life to drag from the shore yesterday, fast and stable, you can sail on cloudy days with a single sail—”

Miguel frowned. He only had three gold coins. If he spent them all on the boat, he wouldn’t know what to do for breakfast tomorrow, and…

“Frowning won’t help! Don’t play pitiful with me, you’re not a woman—” The old man grumbled, throwing the knife he was polishing back into the crate, ignoring the handsome young man’s troubled expression.

Old Fante was sixty-five. He had spent the first half of his life yearning for the sea but was repeatedly rejected by various fleets because he couldn’t carry heavy loads or wield weapons. So, he lived out the second half of his life on Djerba Island, and just when he was nearing the end, he hit a small climax in his life—well… strictly speaking, it wasn’t exactly a climax—at least Fante himself believed he must have had the worst luck in eight lifetimes to have fished this black-haired, black-eyed, yellow-skinned man out of the sea that year… Of course, when Fante fished Miguel out of the water like a dead dog, he was still quite pale.

Not anymore, though. Life had turned him into a healthy and charming wheat color (…).

That said, ever since this man who couldn’t even speak properly came along, the trouble was endless! Eating his food, drinking his drinks, and finally moving out to live independently at the beginning of this year, now he’s here like a debt collector blocking his path to wealth.

He wants to buy a German ship for two gold coins!

Looking up, the young man stared at him with a blank, innocent expression, his two fingers still sticking out like a fool—clearly showing he didn’t understand a word he was saying. The old man was instantly furious: “Why don’t you become a pirate, Miguel?—You’re only missing burning and killing from your pillaging—no wait! Before you moved out at the beginning of the year, you burned my stove… Miguel, why don’t you become a pirate? You’re so suited for it—”

Under the sunlight, the young man’s face reddened slightly—though it wasn’t very noticeable in the dazzling light—as he understood the old man’s deliberately slow-paced teasing. He awkwardly rubbed his bare upper body, then drew a circle in the air with his hand, his thin lips parting as he spoke in awkward Arabic: “…I get seasick.”

Fante: “…”

Miguel: “…?”

Fante: “Besides eating and causing trouble, what else can you do?”

Miguel: “Fishing.”

Fante: “…Shut up.”

Miguel: “Fishing, need a boat.”

Fante: “Shut up, shut up!”

Miguel: “Fante.”

Fante: “I can’t hear you! Don’t bully an old man! I’ll have my son beat you up later!”

Miguel: “Fante.”

Fante: “…”

Miguel licked his dry lips, his shoulders slumping: “…Fante, please.”

“Damn it, damn it, damn it!” Fante looked furious, throwing the rag he was using to polish the knife back into the wooden crate and standing up abruptly. “How much do you have?”

“…Three gold coins.” Miguel said slowly. “Yesterday, moving goods, got paid.”

The old man looked up at the sky and sighed: “Three gold coins! Robbery! Add a barrel of fresh water—give me the coins, take the boat—and don’t show your face in front of me again, or I’ll beat you up every time I see you!”

Seeing the old man finally relent, Miguel smiled, his neat white teeth dazzling… There was a reason this guy, who couldn’t even speak the language and acted like an idiot, was so beloved by the town’s prostitutes. Fante’s head hurt from the glare of those teeth, and he added fiercely: “What are you smiling at? I’ll beat you up every time I see you! Front and back!” With that, he reached out with his thin hand and smacked the young man’s sturdy chest.

Miguel easily caught the old man’s hand and gently shook it in gratitude.

The joy in his heart was impossible to hide.

He had his own boat now! With a boat, he could fish near the shore when the pirates were out at sea, no longer relying on hardtack and nasty jujubes to survive. The gold coins he earned from moving goods could be saved for winter supplies, he could buy a pair of slightly less worn-out shoes, oh, and some basic anti-inflammatory medicine… and… compared to hardtack, fish soup was more nutritious.

Ever since transmigrating, he had never felt so full of bright prospects for the future.

The smile on the young man’s face deepened, filled with an annoying love for life. Handing over the three gold coins to Old Fante, Miguel happily carried a barrel of small beer the old man had shoved at him as he left. He walked past a few fishermen drying their nets, passed a group of sailors singing and laughing, his feet treading on the soft, fine sand. Before the sun set, Miguel finally saw his simple hut, nestled under the shade of some coconut trees.

It was the only private property he had acquired after a year of struggle in the 15th century.

A house in one year!

A house and a boat in one and a half years!

Just thinking about it made him feel so capable! Miguel thought happily, but his movements became gentler as he carefully pushed the door open and peeked inside.

The room was dark, no kerosene lamp lit. There was a damp, musty smell from the sea breeze. In the center of the room was a simple table, on which sat a lonely plate with a few crumbs of hardtack from breakfast. Besides that… Miguel’s eyes immediately fell on the man lying motionless like a corpse on the only wooden bed in the room. His chest was wrapped in messy bandages, his breathing even, his eyes tightly closed—he was lying there peacefully, clearly in a deep sleep.

Looks like the high fever from yesterday has subsided? Feeling slightly relieved, Miguel gently walked to the bed and quietly opened the window above it, letting the sea breeze in to dispel some of the stuffiness.

After opening the window, he leaned down to carefully examine the sleeping man—his high nose bridge, thin tightly pressed lips, a perfectly chiseled jaw, his overly tall and muscular frame filling the entire bed. Because he was so tall, one of the man’s feet had to hang off the bed awkwardly, while the other was slightly bent on the edge—this was an extremely, extremely handsome male. His body was covered in scars from battles, some of which had already healed, but the marks remained like medals permanently etched on him.

Though scars on a man didn’t matter much, women went crazy for them. Miguel pouted slightly with jealousy, then crouched down, staring at the sleeping man for a while before reaching out and poking his temple mischievously—the area was wrapped in bandages, covering his eyes, the bandages stained with blood.

“Wake up.” Miguel said hoarsely in Chinese.

No response.

“HI, MAN, WAKE UP?”¹Originally in English. There are a few instances of text that are originally in English. They’re written in all caps, and some have broken grammar. I won’t be pointing them out, but you can easily recognize them.

No response.

“Loser, wake up.” He switched back to Chinese.

Still no response.

Heh heh. Miguel scratched his head and laughed to himself. It felt so good to be able to speak Chinese freely.

Before he could finish laughing, a deep, hoarse, and magnetic voice sounded in his ear.

The guttural German sounded incredibly sexy, but the voice was full of impatience.

“What’s the noise?”

Miguel’s silly grin froze.

“I’m sleeping.”

Miguel: “…”

“Get out.”

The man on the bed shifted, turning over. The movement must have pulled at his wounds, as he groaned softly, but quickly fell silent again.

Was he planning to keep sleeping?

Of course, Miguel, who didn’t understand a word of what the man had said, didn’t leave. He scratched his head.

Big temper, huh? Grimacing, the young man poured a cup of the cold small beer and pressed it against the man’s exposed, muscular back—

Feeling the coolness of the liquid through the cup, the man shifted but didn’t turn around.

Miguel thought for a moment, then said to the man’s back in Arabic: “Beer.”

Still no response.

…Well done, buddy. You’ve completely demonstrated with your cold and aloof demeanor one thing: this is how you treat your savior.

“Stop being such a jerk.” Miguel patted his butt and stood up, muttering in Chinese.

He poured himself a cup of beer and took a sip. The cool, refreshing sensation made Miguel squint with joy. Ignoring the man who had just fiercely expressed his desire to sleep, the young man leaned comfortably against the cabinet, singing in a playful tone—

“If I saved you~ No need to be too grateful~ And don’t ask my name again~ Just call me Red Scarf~”

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  Originally in English. There are a few instances of text that are originally in English. They’re written in all caps, and some have broken grammar. I won’t be pointing them out, but you can easily recognize them.