Chapter 56

Having lived this long, no one had ever so seriously told Miguel that he was expected to have “an IQ just a bit higher than a monkey.”

Having lived this long, no one had ever so earnestly and infuriatingly looked at Miguel and told him, “If you dare die recklessly, I’ll whip you.”

Having lived this long…

Miguel realized something: both he and Caesar seemed to be treating each other like pets.

To Miguel, Caesar was like a husky—once you let go, he’d dash off, and the more you called his name, the faster he’d run. You’d want to jump into a taxi and tell the driver, “Chase that dog in front!” When he’s happy, he’ll roll around and act cute to make you happy; when he’s not, he’ll smack you in the face with a paw, and it’ll hurt like hell.

But he’s not so heartless that you’d actually want to abandon him on the street.

For instance, when you fall into someone else’s pit and get hurt, he’ll come back, baring his teeth at your enemy, ready to bite their neck off, and then he’ll whine and act cute around you, stop causing trouble, and even fetch the newspaper and your slippers, sticking to you like glue.

Once you’re healed and your heart is softened, he’ll still smack you across the face, looking down at you: “If you’re healed, get up and take me for a walk, you trash.”

It’s so damn challenging, making you feel like you’re being abused into a rhythm, abused into pleasure.

As for Caesar…

Miguel thought that, in his eyes, he was probably like that unfortunate monkey that got shot by Leoza—always hanging around his neck as a monkey-shaped decoration, never leaving his side during sleep, meals, baths, or drills.

Sitting in the bathtub, Miguel’s thoughts wandered off into the distance, and he started counting on his fingers to recall his limited past life memories: Are monkeys and dogs a good match?

Until Big Dog extended his paw and smacked him again.

“Snap out of it, you big trash,” the man said lazily, cigarette in his mouth. “You’re done. Climb out yourself.”

After lying in the same position for a week, Miguel actually had to crawl out. Caesar sighed, found a large blanket from somewhere, and wrapped it around him, carrying him up—this posture would have looked quite endearing if Miguel were a petite girl, but since he was a guy over 1.75 meters tall, it looked more like carrying a dead pig (…).

He was placed back on the original couch, and the cushion had been replaced at some point.

The blanket was spread out, covering only his pale buttocks as usual.

But this time, Miguel was allowed to wear his floral underpants for modesty.

After the bath, feeling refreshed, Miguel looked around for something to entertain himself. When he looked up, he noticed that Caesar was doing the same—”looking for entertainment,” that is.

Usually, given Caesar’s ferocity, Miguel would choose to amuse himself. But Caesar wouldn’t. Rather than playing with himself or mud, he preferred to find amusement in others… A cigarette hung from his lips, the smoke curling upward from the ember. His amber eyes narrowed as he stood by the couch, arms crossed, looking down at Miguel’s back.

He stared so intently that Miguel’s hair stood on end.

“The knowledge assessment is in three days,” Caesar suddenly said with a relaxed smile. “What do you think?”

“I’m still recovering from my injury,” Miguel said, feeling a pang of discomfort. “Please, let it go.”

“Not a chance.”

“Then… how about leaking the questions?”

“Dream on.”

Miguel fell silent. He knew Caesar wouldn’t bring this up without a follow-up. Sure enough, after not getting a response, the captain wasn’t in a hurry. He leisurely sat down on the couch, his face level with the navigator who was lying on it—during these seven days, whenever they finished arguing and needed to cool down for a peaceful conversation, the captain would assume this posture.

Miguel felt something was off. If it weren’t for his currently weak limbs, he would have jumped up and bolted out the door.

“If you don’t want to take the knowledge assessment, the only way is to join the official crew of the Wind Fury,” the man said slowly. “What do you think?”

“I’m the great navigator. With this position, the world is mine.”

“You’re also my personal slave. On my ship, I’m the one who rules.”

“…”

“Tsk, tsk, what a pity. Slaves are almost the most in need of taking the assessment,” the man said, pretending to be casual, one hand propping up his chin while the other slowly smoked his cigarette. “Well, let me give you a friendly reminder. Do you know how to make everyone completely forget your status and always remember that you’re a pirate of the Wind Fury, not a slave of the Wind Fury?”

“I don’t know,” Miguel said, “but… suddenly, I don’t think I want to know.”

“The answer is—”

“Please, don’t say it!”

“To get a pirate tattoo on your body,” Caesar said, extinguishing the cigarette, his voice calm and even. “Especially one done by me.”

Of course, it was this. Miguel burrowed into the couch—only to have a large hand grab his chin and force him to lift his head. He opened his eyes to find Big Dog’s handsome face right in front of him. Their noses were almost touching, but this time, the man didn’t threaten him with something like “If you get closer, I’ll break your legs.”

“Let me give you a tattoo.”

Caesar said it lightly.

As he spoke, the breath from his mouth carried the lingering scent of tobacco. His face was hidden in the swirling smoke, the amber light in his eyes flickering faintly—only those who witnessed this scene firsthand could truly understand that when a man as tough as stone suddenly got serious and wanted to play a trick, it was basically…

Irresistible.

Miguel was stunned—if it weren’t for his proud self-control (which he didn’t have) and his fear of pain, he might have nodded and said, “YES I WANT.”

“My skills are good,” the captain said, not flustered by the lack of response. He continued to coax softly, leaning closer to Miguel with a smile. “I won’t hurt you.”

I won’t hurt you, I won’t hurt you, I won’t hurt you, I won’t hurt you, I won’t hurt you, I won’t hurt you, I won’t hurt you…

Please… hurt me.

In an instant, Miguel, now a barely restrained pervert, trembled. “C-Captain, you’re not playing fair…”

“Oh, is that so? This isn’t cheating. Sometimes, I just feel like breaking the rules.”

With a light laugh, Caesar lit another cigarette. His eyes half-closed, he held the cigarette between his lips. In Miguel’s eyes, all that remained were the man’s thin lips and, behind the pink moisture of those lips, the teeth biting the cigarette butt… Unlike those messy pirates, even after long-term use of tobacco, God had still opened a back door for Caesar—

He had never seen anyone with whiter teeth in his life.

So white that all he could think about was those pearly whites.

Miguel swallowed hard. He could hear his heart pounding, beating strongly. He gripped the soft cushion beside him, his mind screaming—

Here it comes, Big Dog’s fluffy ears are out; Big Dog’s bushy tail is wagging; he’s acting spoiled, he’s rolling around, he’s asking for hugs and to be lifted high—

“I won’t hurt you.”

“Why?”

“Hmm, because I’m not as clumsy as you.”

“Why do you have to tattoo my back?” Knowing full well that the other was deliberately avoiding the question, Miguel wasn’t angry. His face pressed against the soft couch, he continued to ask.

“Probably because I suddenly noticed the scars on your back for the first time,” the man’s voice sounded lazy and relaxed. “They’re the ones I left behind.”

“…Obviously.”

“But one day, they’ll probably fade, grow lighter, and eventually disappear completely, right?”

“Huh?” Miguel blinked, finding the statement strange. He wanted to refute it but realized it made sense, so he nodded. “Yeah, probably.”

With the cigarette in his mouth, Caesar chuckled.

“So I want to do something to make them last forever.”

“…”

“Whatever I give, no matter what it is, should last forever.”

“…”

It was as if he had encountered an incredible disaster. The world seemed to have nothing left in it.

The surroundings were eerily quiet. The cries of seagulls, the flapping of wings, the shouts of sailors, the music of the drummers on the deck… all of it was gone, completely gone.

The two were so close that Miguel had no doubt the other could easily hear his pounding heartbeat. In those amber eyes that were gradually filling with amusement, Miguel knew his interpretation was correct. The man was confident, knowing he was wavering. He stood at the finish line, smiling as he waited for the navigator to walk toward him and raise the only white flag.

The calloused fingertip gently brushed over the pink, newly healed skin on the black-haired young man’s back—the touch was light, and wherever the finger passed, goosebumps would rise.

Finally, the finger stopped at the edge of the navigator’s floral underpants.

Caesar smiled, his voice calm.

“Come on, take it off.”