Chapter 15

The most troublesome captain in the world finally relented, but before his poor first mate could muster a genuine smile, Caesar’s next words completely wiped it off his face—

“Just a reminder, the black-haired, black-eyed dancer is mine,” the man said as he walked out, “just like the new navigator we’re about to swindle—they’re both mine.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re a complete bastard, Captain?” Rick growled through clenched teeth as he followed the man. “And it’s me who’s short a navigator, why are you butting in?”

“Ah,” this question seemed to remind Caesar of something. He stopped in his tracks, turned around, and gave his first mate a thorough once-over before nodding with a smile. “How about I give you Billy as a replacement?—he’s my personal navigator, after all.”

Rick: “…How can you say something so shameless with that ‘you’re getting a deal’ look on your face?”

Caesar: “Because I’m the captain, and you’re the first mate. Rank has its privileges, poor little Rick. Thank me for turning you from a boy into a man. It’s time you learned the rules of the game adults play.”

Rick: “Thanks, but no thanks. When I was fourteen, at a tavern in a German port, a kind, unnamed sister already took care of that process for me.”

Caesar: “Disgusting.”

Rick: “Shameless.”

“It seems you’ve finally found a suitable and reasonable label for yourself, trash.”

The afternoon sun on Djerba Island was annoyingly bright. Lazily placing his favorite naval officer’s hat on his head, the man squinted. The sound of waves mingled with the clinking and clanging of the ship’s repair crew, filling him with genuine contentment—

The sea breeze blew, and the ships docked at the port flew the German flag uniformly. This was his fleet. Casually taking the inventory list handed to him by a squad leader, the black and white text clearly listed the spoils he had squeezed from the Barbarossa brothers. This was his wealth. When the beloved sailors waved at him with respect and joy, greeting him with a loud “Good day, Captain!”, Caesar raised a finger and lightly pushed up the brim of his hat—

Blue skies, white clouds, and the sun still shining. It was a fine day.

Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the realm of the Black Sea Wolf, Caesar.

Pirates, thieves, robbers, prostitutes, gamblers, and merchants—all sorts of professions mingled on Djerba Island, making this small island bustling with activity every day. As they weaved through the merchants’ hawking, their eyes subtly scanned the various goods on the stalls—low-quality gems, low-quality weapons, and probably unusable muskets, face powder, perfume, and various fresh fruits. None of these caught the eye of the noble captain of the “Wind Fury.” However, Caesar remained composed as they made their way to Babatra—

Until a pepper vendor recognized the famous Caesar, who had once haggled with him for ten minutes over two silver coins.

“That’s quite amusing, Captain,” Rick said with a sly smile as he followed the grim-faced captain. “You actually bargained with words—remember the last Spanish fleet? I thought your usual method was to arrogantly press a gun to the other person’s temple to get your way.”

“That’s called ‘negotiation,’ trash,” the man said in a low voice. “Before you embarrass me, you’d better go read the Maritime Convention and memorize it. I don’t want people saying the first mate of the ‘Wind Fury’ is a clueless idiot.”

“I don’t want to read those useless papers, and even without reading them, I know no one uses a gun to the temple for ‘negotiation,'” Rick rolled his eyes.

As if greatly pleased, the man gave a lazy but domineering smile: “That’s because the Maritime Convention doesn’t specify the posture for ‘negotiation,’ so I just chose the fastest and most effective one.”

Rick pursed his lips. Staying silent was the best way to show his composure. The two reached their destination. Pushing open the door of the tavern with the shiny “Babatra” sign, the noise, laughter, and clinking of bottles inside made it clear that the two tall, strong men were not the earliest guests waiting there today.

And it was even more obvious that on this sunny afternoon, the invitation doused in cheap perfume was not exclusive to the “Wind Fury.”

Caesar paused, then stepped inside. The tavern was packed. Pirates sat on the stairs, the floor, and chairs, playing instruments and singing sailor songs from around the world. Prostitutes with exposed chests laughed and flirted. The enclosed environment and dim candlelight created the illusion of nighttime, even though it was midday. Some were already drunk and babbling nonsense. Along the way, some recognized him and raised their glasses in salute—they shouted the name “Black Sea Wolf” and various blessings. In front of outsiders, the Black Sea Wolf was a “Gentleman of the Sea,” so whether the other party had a large fleet or a small boat with a self-proclaimed captain, Caesar nodded and smiled, returning the greetings with a gentlemanly demeanor.

Handing the invitation to the bartender, they were led to a sofa directly facing the stage—no one was sitting there, unusually quiet amidst the lively surroundings, clearly reserved for them.

The table was already filled with absinthe, whiskey, and the cherry brandy rumored to be the Black Sea Wolf’s favorite.

Settling comfortably into the sofa and taking the half-filled glass Rick handed him, Caesar casually tossed an ice cube into his drink with two fingers. As a series of rapid drumbeats sounded, the man chuckled meaninglessly and lazily lifted his eyelids—

The tavern’s lights dimmed, and the noise quieted slightly. The drunken patrons lifted their heads from the prostitutes’ chests, their previously glazed eyes now showing a glimmer of alertness—

In the dim light, a dancer appeared at the center of the stage. Her long, straight hair reached her waist, and her wheat-colored skin stood out from the usual fair complexions. Her face was half-covered by an exquisite white veil, revealing only her black, pearl-like eyes. The huge white ruffled skirt accentuated the bright pink bow tied in her hair—

The dancer began to move slowly, and more prostitutes joined her on stage. The crowd began to boil with excitement, whistling and cheering, eager to watch a spectacular striptease in the best tavern in the Mediterranean.

“How is it?” Rick nudged his boss amidst the noise.

“Rare indeed,” Caesar sneered, his amber eyes glinting with amusement. “At least I’ve never seen such a… robust dancer.”

Rick: “…Probably a different race.”

“You really should read more, Rick,” the man said casually, the ice in his glass clinking as he gestured toward the stage with his hand. “Eastern maidens are known for their slender and delicate figures. Fugar brought this one… ha.”

Rick: “…What are you laughing at?”

“This tall, sturdy lady almost killed herself with her high heels,” Caesar chuckled from his throat, a hint of genuine amusement in his eyes. The red-haired first mate glanced at Caesar in surprise, unsure what could make him laugh so sincerely—

Meanwhile, on the stage, amidst the fast-paced dance and formation changes, no one could hear what the dancers were saying—

Prostitute A: “Miguel, steady! You can’t break your ankle on stage!”

As soon as she spoke, she saw the black hair flying as Miguel did a sharp backbend, swiftly kicking off ‘her’ high heels and sending them flying into the crowd—the move caused an uproar, and the drunken patrons scrambled to grab the oversized dancer’s shoes.

Prostitute C: “…Stripping doesn’t usually include taking off shoes.”

“I’m new,” Miguel shrugged, spinning around and casually pulling off the white petticoat under ‘her’ skirt. The crowd roared with excitement again, banging their glasses on the tables as they watched the petticoat spin twice on the dancer’s fingertips before being flung into the air with a sharp drumbeat—

As a group of captains and first mates scrambled for the petticoat, the other dancers on stage were instantly overshadowed.

Prostitute A: “Go ahead, take it all off!”

“…” Miguel awkwardly twisted ‘her’ waist, blowing a kiss to the audience before turning back and whispering, “I can’t, I’m wearing boxers.”

Prostitute B: “You can tell them it’s a modern chastity belt.”

Miguel: “…Where’s Caesar? Alice, quick, see if he’s going for my petticoat!”

Tossing a kiss in the direction of the Black Sea Wolf, Prostitute A lazily removed her bra, muttering, “Nope,” she paused, “but he seems to be laughing quite a bit.”

Miguel: “…I’m doing a striptease, not stand-up comedy. What’s he laughing at?”

Prostitute C: “Add some spice, darling. Take off your shawl and show them your sexy collarbone.”

The lights dimmed further, the specially arranged candlelight now fully focused on Miguel’s upper body. As the audience watched eagerly, ‘she’ slowly began unbuttoning ‘her’ shawl—

The buttons finally undone, the patrons held their breath, ready for the moment of revelation—

Suddenly, the dancers on stage let out a series of startled cries. In the confusion, a tall, strong figure agilely leaped onto the stage in two strides, effortlessly scooping up the Eastern dancer, who was only a head shorter, into his arms.

“Tell Fugar to name his price,” the Black Sea Wolf drawled lazily, holding the dancer as if she weighed nothing. “I’m taking this one.”