Chapter 42

Realizing that he might have done something inappropriate, Caesar turned his head and pretended to gaze out the window at the scenery.

“Absolutely no mistake, I knew it was you the moment I saw you lifting your skirt and showing off those thick legs,” Rick said shrewdly. “I was wondering at the time why a dancer would have such muscular calves.”

Miguel: “…Dancers who perform leg dances all have strong legs.”

Rick didn’t believe a single punctuation mark of it: “Bullshit.”

“Really,” Miguel said earnestly. “They need to lift their legs frequently, hundreds of times a night. Over time, the muscles develop—like this—”

The black-haired young man lifted his skirt and stretched out his stiff legs as if doing calisthenics. The tiny, brush-like hairs that had recently regrown on his pale thighs were particularly striking from a distance. Standing beside him, Caesar almost felt the urge to gouge out his own eyes at the sight. His facial muscles twitched, and the captain, suppressing the strong urge to throw Miguel out the window, yanked the skirt back into place and commanded in a deep voice, “Go shave your leg hair.”

Miguel: “Again? No way, this is a man’s symbol—why! On what grounds!”

Caesar: “Shave your armpit hair too.”

Miguel: “…”

Caesar: “Keep asking. Didn’t you want to know why? Didn’t you want to know on what grounds?”

Miguel: “Never mind, I’ll shave.”

So, handing Miguel a razor, the captain and first mate comfortably settled on the sofa while Miguel stood in the center of the captain’s cabin, holding the razor and contemplating whether it would be simpler to just slit his own throat—quick and clean, leaving his innocence intact in this world.

Caesar: “…Wait, hold on, don’t do it yet.”

Like a prisoner sentenced to execution being informed at the last second that the prison had lost power, Miguel turned around abruptly, his eyes shining with hope. “What is it?”

Caesar: “Find an old map to put down first. Don’t get hair all over my carpet; it’s hard to clean.”

Miguel: “…”

Then the prison guard said, don’t worry, buddy, we can generate power manually with a hand-crank generator, and we’ll still send you off on time.

…

As Miguel bent his head, diligently shaving his hair, Caesar finally took pity and explained the reason—he needed a map. That map had been in the possession of the Spanish royal family since its creation, with no copies or reproductions. To obtain it, he would have to take it directly from the hands of the Spanish emperor. If Caesar were Spanish, it wouldn’t be a big deal—after all, there’s always some murky relationship between a country’s pirates and its royalty. However, the Wind Fury was clearly a German fleet, which created a problem—

No matter how powerful Caesar was in the Mediterranean, in the eyes of the Spanish navy, he had one word written on his face: pirate.

And if an adjective were to be added, it would be: a pirate who must be captured and hanged.

“But money can move even ghosts,” Caesar said irritably, tapping the armrest of the sofa. “In my letter of inquiry, I mentioned exchanging three islands near Algiers for the map with the Spanish royal family…”

Miguel: “Wow, that’s a heavy price.”

“…” Caesar took a deep breath. “I’ve noticed you have a real talent for pissing people off.”

Miguel, holding the razor, obediently made a zipping motion over his lips.

“…A few days ago, I received a reply. Juan II is quite interested in the deal I proposed,” the man said, giving him a warning glance. “…But they made it clear they don’t want me to appear in Spanish royal territory with a large entourage.”

“And then?” Miguel sat on the floor, legs splayed, inspecting whether he’d shaved cleanly, then tucked one leg back and continued scraping the other.

“…” Caesar paused, looking somewhat uncomfortable. Rick, sitting beside him, patted his shoulder in understanding.

“…Go on,” the navigator, completely unaware of what was happening, urged without looking up. “So you’re supposed to go ashore alone? Aren’t you afraid they’ll just arrest you the moment you step on land—I mean, come on, you’re Caesar. Capturing you would be a huge feather in their cap.”

“There will be a symbolic dance on the day of the exchange,” Caesar said. “Since there’s a dance, it’s only natural that I bring a dance partner—your skills are… passable.” Also, in terms of build, aside from the kids on the ship, Miguel was the closest to a woman’s physique among the entire crew—saying that out loud would offend people, so Caesar wisely kept it to himself.

“So you’re not going alone, you’re dragging me to hell with you?” Miguel stopped what he was doing and looked up, studying Caesar seriously for a moment before lowering his head and continuing his task. “Fine, I’ll do it. Just because you’re somewhat handsome.”

Caesar was almost pleasantly surprised by Miguel’s boldness—he had expected someone as shameless as Miguel to drive a hard bargain, but instead…

“I thought you’d refuse,” Rick laughed, voicing the man’s inner thoughts. “Back when you were stripping on stage on Djerba Island, you were absolutely murderous.”

“Once you’ve hit rock bottom, you realize how wonderful the world can be. If you don’t push yourself, you’ll never know how great you can be… Oh, and by the way, let me emphasize again, you’ve got the wrong person. What’s stripping? Can you eat it? Is it delicious? Does it melt in your mouth? I’m a proper kid from a proper family, I’ve never done anything like that—do you know the Viennese Waltz? Sorry to brag, but Laozi’s an expert at it.”

Adhering firmly to the revolutionary line of “I’ll die before I admit it,” Miguel was determined to stick to his story.

With an innocent expression, Miguel tilted his head and said, “Now Laozi’s going to start shaving my armpit hair. It’s going to be bloody and violent, really intense. You two still want to watch?”

Thirty seconds later, the captain’s cabin was empty except for Miguel, sitting on the carpet in a skirt, legs splayed, with a discarded nautical map under his butt.

“Goodbye,” he said to the empty doorway, not turning around, his sarcasm in full force. “Live long and prosper.”

…

Two days later, about twenty nautical miles from Benidorm, Caesar’s fleet encountered the Spanish navy. The other side had sent over a dozen of their most advanced warships to greet the little overlord of the Mediterranean. The display was grand, with dozens of ceremonial cannons fired as a gesture of courtesy.

Tsk tsk, as the saying goes—the little overlord (tycoon) has boundless strength!!

Caesar had reluctantly taken off his favorite captain’s hat—the one he had personally snatched from the head of a Spanish naval officer years ago—and dressed up in formal attire.

As the two ships were about to dock, the poor Spanish navy had no idea that on the deck of the Black Waves, a certain navigator was, with the help of the first mate, frantically trying to put on a wig.

“…It’s backwards!! Damn it, Redhead, did you bring your brain today? The front hair is so long—this look isn’t suitable for dancing, it’s suitable for crawling out of a mirror in the middle of the night!” Angrily, Miguel turned the long, straight black wig (which he had no idea where these geniuses had procured) around. As Rick tried various enormous lace bows on it, Miguel was busy applying something resembling lipstick to his lips—

“How’s this?” He turned to Rick and puckered his lips.

The first mate paused, almost poking Miguel’s eye with the bow, and offered a sincere evaluation: “A gaping maw.”

“Perfect, that’s the effect I’m going for,” Miguel said with satisfaction, putting down the messy, outdated makeup. He adjusted the wig, which was secured with a hairnet and fit perfectly. The long hair and neat bangs softened his overly masculine features, leaving only a small, delicate face.

The powder was too thick, and when he smiled, it cracked and fell off like plaster.

With a snap, he opened a feathered fan, covering half his face, and fanned himself. “Do I look like a woman?”

“…Passable.”

“That’s a pretty half-hearted answer.” Miguel, ever the professional, insisted on doing things right, even when it came to pretending to be a woman.

“The captain might end up with a reputation for having… eccentric tastes.”

“That’s fine. Once I’ve turned him gay, he’ll have the reputation of not only having eccentric tastes but also liking men.”

“…”

And so, chaos reigned backstage.

But when the dozens of ceremonial cannons fired in broad daylight and the opposing army began to play music, the real show began.

What appeared before all the naval officers was a belated Oriental beauty—she walked slowly, holding a fan that covered half her face. She looked frail, supported by the Wind Fury’s first mate, Rick, as she made her way forward. When she reached the leader of the Spanish navy, she nodded slightly, then leaned against Caesar in a delicate, ladylike manner.

The naval leader’s face turned a bit green.

…Luckily, Caesar was tall enough.

Otherwise, the “little bird” standing at 175 cm would have looked more like a fat sparrow.

“I told you not to wear such high heels. Why don’t you listen?”

Turning his head, Caesar, with a flawless smile, pretended to chide the beauty leaning against him. His voice was just loud enough for the naval leader across from them to hear. Miguel lifted his eyelids slightly and noticed that the gullible middle-aged man’s expression immediately improved—at least returning to a normal human level.

Miguel fanned himself and let out a couple of coy giggles.

He could feel the body he was clinging to stiffen slightly, but the other man, having seen his share of big scenes, kept his smile intact. Turning back, he playfully tapped Miguel’s nose behind the fan: “Still laughing, you little rascal.”

In reality, Caesar’s finger was pressing so hard it almost went up Miguel’s nostril. And that sweet, affectionate phrase, when translated, actually meant: If you fucking laugh like that again, I’ll throw you into the sea, you trash.

Life, after all, is about knowing your own suffering ╮(￣▽￣”)╭.

“—Esteemed Captain Caesar, please.”

Amid the deafening music, the naval officer made a gesture of invitation. Caesar moved his feet, dragging Miguel along as he followed the middle-aged man, listening to his chatter—

“I’ve heard you’ve been engaged in maritime trade. This sudden visit to our country has been met with great importance by the king.”

…Maritime trade? That’s a polite way to put it. Good one.

“To better receive you, our king has spent a considerable sum to invite a special advisor who is also involved in maritime trade—”

…Huh?

“Count Leoza mentioned that you and he are old acquaintances. I truly hope this transaction will proceed smoothly—Ah, Count, this way, please.”

Leoza?……

Leoza!!!!

Bad review!!!

The fan in Miguel’s hand froze. He didn’t know how much effort it took to keep himself rooted to the spot rather than kicking off his shoes and jumping into the sea—

Smiling, the man subtly patted the navigator who was stiff as a board against his chest. As the naval leader busied himself introducing Leoza from his ship, Caesar leaned down and whispered in Miguel’s ear—

“Don’t panic.”

And so, throughout the entire meeting, facing that smiling, pretty boy face, Miguel couldn’t muster the courage to lower the fan covering half his face.

He stood there like a proper lunatic, holding a tattered fan, and held it up for an entire morning.