Chapter 12

Miguel, twenty-one years old, believed in the existence of all the gods in the world. He firmly believed that his transmigration was retribution… Yes, retribution. Back when he was twenty, young, flamboyant, and with a bright future ahead of him (…), he stepped into Meteorology University as a righteous, completely non-superstitious, good socialist youth. All his misfortunes began one early winter day after failing his midterm exams in the second semester of his sophomore year.

That day, as he walked along a path where the cold winter wind howled, his eyes, heart, mind, and even the songs in his head were all filled with that glaring red 58-point exam paper. Just then, a bespectacled man approached and stopped him.

The bespectacled man: “Young man, wait a moment.”

The young man who was not yet called Miguel: “?”

The bespectacled man leaned in, looked around mysteriously, and lowered his voice: “Young man, do you believe in gods? Want to join a religion?”

“…” The young man who was not yet called Miguel flashed a cocky, devil-may-care smile, took a deep breath, and asked the man, “I believe in communism, young man, do you want to join the Party?”

…

The day after he said those words, he woke up to find himself lying on a ship, soaked to the bone, with the bright sun shining above and the sound of waves crashing in his ears. The people around him were all speaking Arabic.

Miguel believed that his transmigration was retribution.

Falling for a scumbag pirate captain who would only hand him a rotten wooden barrel to puke into when he got seasick—that was also retribution.

Now, he was reduced to hugging a rotten barrel and vomiting like a glorious idiot—this was all fucking retribution!!

“…Is this barrel specifically for vomiting?” Miguel, his neck stiff and head spinning, asked the fat pirate who had handed him the barrel with a forced smile and a pale face.

The fat pirate, who probably wasn’t German, spoke decent Arabic and grinned: “What difference does it make?”

“…If it’s specifically for vomiting, I might not hug it so tightly.”

“The captain can’t stand dirty things. We all vomit into the sea. Don’t worry, just hold onto it.”

Can’t stand dirty things? Miguel snorted. Keep up the act, Caesar. While you’re still young, keep acting all high and mighty.

Berry: “Mr. Caesar is such a refined man, so different from us rough folk.”

Refined? Young man, have you lost all sense of decency? “Mr.? You actually call a pirate captain ‘Mr.’?” Miguel looked at the young man as if he were a monster, his mouth unbearably bitter—literally bitter. He hadn’t eaten anything all morning, and now all he was vomiting up was the alcohol he had drunk the night before.

“What’s wrong with calling him ‘Mr.’?” Berry looked as if his parents had been insulted.

“Nothing,” Miguel sneered, “It’s just that I’ve never seen a ‘Mr.’ with someone else’s brain matter stuck to his face.”

After that, Berry refused to talk to Miguel anymore, and Miguel was perfectly fine with that. He hugged the rotten barrel and found a corner to vomit his guts out.

Caesar wasn’t lying when he boasted about his ship’s efficiency. The ship covered the less-than-four-nautical-mile distance to Djerba Island’s dock in no time. Amid the shouts of the sailors, Miguel put down the barrel and stood up, looking down to see the dock crowded with a sea of people, cheering and celebrating as if a day of amnesty had come early. He twitched his lips, not quite understanding why these local Arab pirates were so overjoyed about the guys from across the sea being wiped out.

The head of Big Barbarossa hung beneath the Black Wolf Flag on the main ship, swaying in the wind. Little Barbarossa had fled, and their first mate had died in the boarding battle three hours earlier. Crazy Dog Rick had personally chopped off his left hand before driving a bayonet deep into his chest.

These two Arab brothers, who had jointly commanded a fleet, might have once been among the most notorious pirates in the Mediterranean. But now, their story was coming to an end.

As the Arabs sang pirate songs, watching the last charge captain’s head fall with a spray of blood on the dock, Caesar yawned and walked out of the cabin.

A wooden barrel rolled nearby, and the man, eyes closed, lifted his foot and stepped on the barrel at the perfect moment.

“Heh.” He curled his lips and lazily opened his eyes, only to meet a pair of strikingly bright black eyes in the sunlight.

At that moment, Miguel, tied up with ropes, stood at a distance, looking at him with an air of defiance. The black-haired young man’s chin was tilted at a perfect forty-five-degree angle—an angle that was not only full of melancholy but also incredibly provocative and punchable.

Caesar paused, and in the next second, he suddenly connected the rotten barrel at his feet with Miguel. Disgusted, he frowned and kicked the barrel away, saying unhappily, “You’ve got vomit all over the deck.”

“It’s not like you have to clean it up,” Miguel said, completely unapologetic.

“But I do,” Rick’s voice came from behind Caesar. “See the ‘Jolly Roger’ flying? This is my ship.”

“You see, kid, your tantrums are causing trouble for my crew,” the man’s voice was low and unhurried. He suddenly dropped his displeased demeanor and lazily leaned against the cabin door, completely unfazed by the screams and bloodshed on the dock behind him. He smiled warmly, looking at Miguel, “I’m a considerate captain.”

“…” Miguel took a deep breath and then realized with a headache that if he continued this conversation with Caesar, he might end up covering every inch of the deck with stomach acid today.

Rick’s reaction was more direct. He sneered three times, his mocking attitude crystal clear.

“Now’s not the time to laugh, trash,” Caesar flicked his fingers, “We’re already close to the dock.”

Rick was slightly taken aback, sensing that something bad was about to happen.

Sure enough, the next moment, the man chuckled, “The pirate flag looks great—300 gold coins, deducted from your salary this month, my dear… first mate.”

Article 15 of the Maritime Convention: When approaching public areas such as shores or docks, as a sign of goodwill, the pirate flag must be taken down and replaced with the national flag. Similarly, when encountering unknown fleets at sea, the same must be done to express friendly intentions.

Article 16 of the Maritime Convention: The pirate flag must only be used during battles or raids.

“Violating each article results in a fine of 150 gold coins,” the man said slowly, spouting the most detestable words in the world, “I’m such a fair captain.”

“Go to hell, all that money just ends up in your pocket anyway,” the first mate, who had just lost an entire month’s income for no reason, was practically spitting blood.

“Hey, are you two done?” Miguel hopped around—the year’s hardships had made him a bit skinnier, so when he did this, it didn’t look as lively and cute as when young Berry did it. The entire deck creaked under his weight, “Untie me!”

“Untie you?” Caesar narrowed his eyes slightly, tilting his head as he studied Miguel, seemingly seriously considering the request.

An awkward silence and tense atmosphere lingered for a long while, long enough for Rick to almost think that his boss was concocting some “most shameless” and “tyrannical (and idiotic)” reason to refuse this walking piece of Eastern silk from leaving.

And just then, Caesar moved. He leisurely reached into his pocket, pulled out a rolled cigarette, lit it, took a deep drag, and then lazily waved at his first mate, mumbling, “Go untie him.”

Rick: “Huh?”

Caesar: “Stop pretending to be cute. I said untie him. Your deck’s about to be jumped through, you idiot. Repair costs are on you.”

Rick: “Stop jumping!”

Miguel stopped jumping.

In fact, he couldn’t jump anymore.

Seasickness is exhausting.

He turned his back and cooperatively let Rick untie the thick hemp ropes binding him. After flexing his wrists, which were already bruised from the tight bindings, Miguel’s expression wasn’t exactly pleasant: “Where’s Fante? And Lake?”

“I thought you’d say ‘thank you’ first.”

“Stop the nonsense. Where are they?” I saved your damn life, and you didn’t say ‘thank you’ either. Why are you demanding so much from me now?

Miguel raised an eyebrow, his chin tilting even higher than when he was tied up. The sight of this amused the Black Sea Wolf, a hint of playful laughter creeping into his otherwise emotionless eyes. He took the cigarette from his lips, casually extinguished it on the doorframe, and stomped on the butt with his foot. Without looking up, he said, “Get on my ship, and I’ll tell you.”

“Not a chance.”

“Huh, that’s new,” the man stroked the stubble on his chin that hadn’t been shaved yet, showing a mocking expression, “No one’s ever refused me so directly before…”

As he spoke, he raised his hand and pointed lazily toward the dock. Miguel was startled, then instinctively followed the direction of his finger—when he saw what was happening below, his pupils slightly contracted.

He saw a young man who had lost one arm. His arm was haphazardly bandaged, and at that moment, the young man, who should have been tall and strong, was hunched over, carefully supporting another person—clearly, the other person was elderly. The old man had his back to Miguel, and it was unclear if he was injured, but he was slowly, very slowly, moving forward with the young man’s help.

Miguel stood on the deck, silently watching Lake, who had lost an arm, helping Old Fante move step by step.

He noticed that every step Old Fante took seemed hesitant—

He had only seen this kind of behavior in three types of people.

The first, those who had suddenly lost their eyesight due to extreme nearsightedness.

The second, night-blind patients in the dark.

The third, the blind.

“…What did you do to him?” When he spoke again, he found his voice was frighteningly hoarse.

However, Caesar’s answer was simple yet brutally honest: “Guns and swords don’t have eyes.”

Without turning his head, Miguel jumped from the ship onto the dock as quickly as possible—the movement was so loud that even Lake turned around in surprise to see what was happening. When he saw Miguel, he looked both delighted and disbelieving. Miguel quickly joined the father and son, and they spoke in low voices. The black-haired young man’s expression was far from pleasant, and within less than five sentences, it seemed an irreconcilable conflict had arisen between them.

On the ship, Rick leaned over the side, propping his chin with one hand, looking somewhat reluctant. When it was just him and Caesar, he chose to speak in German: “You just let him go.”

“Have some dignity, trash. I didn’t know you were into kidnapping men,” Caesar scoffed, leaning against the ship’s railing, seemingly completely uninterested in what was happening on the dock. He reached into his pocket and lit another cigarette, “I want him to come back on his own.”

“That’s so despicable, Captain.”

“Of course. Anyone who can refuse me…”

“Yeah?”

“Hasn’t been born yet.”

“…”