Chapter 59

No one spoke after that, as Miguel had curled up into a trembling ball of pain, while Caesar… Caesar, having swept away his earlier displeasure, reopened the compass and found that it was finally working properly again. In a good mood, he hummed a tuneless pirate song.

Miguel: “Bastard… Ah, don’t stab so deep…”

“Measure our territory, look at our homeland~ This is my empire, its power sweeps across all land~… Ah, curse away, little slave, if it makes you feel better.”

“Hey, didn’t you say we can’t just sing pirate songs on the ship?”

“I can sing if I want,” the man said gruffly and arrogantly. “Step out of the cabin, look around, everything you see belongs to me—get it straight, this is my territory, big trash.”

Sitting firmly on the black-haired young man’s buttocks to keep him from squirming, the Captain had by now completed the center of the compass design in the shape of a rose. He narrowed his eyes slightly, seemingly satisfied with his masterpiece. Along the delicate curves of the pattern, the swollen skin rose in ridges, surrounded by a large area of redness—

“This will soon be the only thing on your body that can be called ‘beautiful,’ trash,” the Captain said with great self-satisfaction. He extended his thumb and gently pressed the swollen skin—

Amidst the pig-like howls of pain from the person beneath him, he chuckled and tossed the most delicate fishbone back into the wooden box. His long fingers hovered over the box for a moment, then he paused, selecting a slightly larger fishbone. Casually dipping it in ink, he flicked open the compass with his other hand and glanced at it lazily. “I remember this fishbone was made by my own hands, from a seven-gill shark, a little cutie eight feet long…”

An eight-foot-long little cutie? Miguel struggled to turn his head to see if the man behind him had gone mad, but from his angle, all he could see was his boss’s gleaming white teeth—

Alright, compared to a big pervert, anyone would be a little cutie, whatever… Miguel silently turned his head back and lay still.

“My Bikini was swallowed whole by it,” Caesar continued on his own. “After that red-haired dwarf blew its head off, my poor little Bikini fell from the high mast and landed right into the shark’s mouth. It was Leoza’s pet back then, raised in a tank on the ship since it was a baby shark…”

The resentment runs deep, huh? Clearly a tough exterior with a soft heart, a furry-loving animal protector, just as I expected. A worthy Miguel target… Wait, who’s Bikini? Captain, who names their monkey ‘Bikini’? (╯‵□′)╯︵┻━┻

Miguel: “You and Leoza are both perverts.”

Caesar: “Oh? I’m glad, my Navigator, you’ve finally realized Leoza isn’t a good guy.”

Miguel: “Heh, because I suddenly realized you two are cut from the same cloth.”

Caesar snorted dismissively. “Would a bad guy let you climax so easily, kid? Laozi has ways to make you hard and soft, soft and hard again. If I were a bad guy, this process could last until sunset, making you cry for your mommy.”

Miguel: “…”

Caesar: “Spread your buttocks a bit.”

Miguel: “…?”

Caesar: “Ah, sorry, forgot you don’t have hands—this petal will go into your crack, might hurt a bit, bear with it and don’t scream. I’ll count to three, ready, one…”

Miguel: “Ahhhhhhhhh!”

“What are you screaming for?” The Captain, with professional ease, reached out his thumb and wiped away the blood seeping from the front of the Navigator’s crack, then smeared it on Miguel’s back. “You’re bleeding, all because of you. Don’t move, relax.”

Miguel: “It hurts, it hurts… What happened to ‘two’ and ‘three,’ you bastard?!”

“If I finished counting, would you still lie still for me to prick?” The Captain smirked slyly. “Clearly, by ‘one,’ your ass muscles were already tense, ready to start squirming and running by ‘two’—I could see it clearly from my angle, big trash. Trying to play mind games with your dad? You’re ten years too early.”

“I’m not in the mood for role-playing games right now.”

“Then lie still and don’t move, it’s almost done.”

The man said expressionlessly, glancing down at the tattoo on Miguel. The outermost circle of petals was complete, only the directional indicators remained…

Though, a single rose-shaped compass tattoo seemed a bit too plain.

Miguel: “You know, when you start thinking, I get a bit nervous.”

“Too late, I’ve already thought it through.”

The Captain said lazily, his fingers moving as he reopened the compass and meticulously added the details to the tattoo on the man beneath him—

“Don’t sneak a bath these two days,” Caesar instructed. “Be careful your skin rots.”

“…”

Rot rot rot rot rot… This is the first thing the tattoo artist says after having his fun? Terrible review!

“Wait, don’t move, it’s not finished yet.”

Placing a hand on the young man’s back as he tried to get up, Caesar bent down and took out the largest fishbone from the edge of the wooden box. The moment Miguel turned his head and saw it, he could only manage a look of terror before the Captain unhesitatingly plunged it deep into the center of the rose, about four centimeters above.

Blood flowed down the pale waist, dripping onto the sofa beside them, staining it a dark red.

Miguel lay on the sofa, feeling as though the Grim Reaper was riding his waist, stabbing holes into pigskin with its scythe—he could feel warm, sticky blood seeping from each hole on his back, which had just scabbed over and fallen off. The sensation was subtle, painful, and itchy.

The Captain’s Cabin was quiet, only the sound of Caesar’s soft breathing and the Navigator’s heavy panting could be heard.

The last prick wasn’t just a simple stab—the fishbone moved, seemingly cutting a slit in the skin. The hand on his body turned slightly, and there was a sharp pain again, as if Caesar had carved a small hook-shaped link—

Because this pain suddenly connected with the pain around the original rose tattoo, where the skin was swollen.

Behind him, a cold, large hand reached out and roughly wiped the fine sweat from his forehead. With the sound and smell of a lit cigarette, Miguel felt as though someone had reached out and untied the belt restraining his wrists.

Then, using that force, the person yanked his wrist and forcibly pulled him up from the sofa—

“Get up, take a look at my masterpiece.”

Caesar spoke somewhat indistinctly with the cigarette in his mouth. He squinted slightly, pushing the weak-legged Miguel towards a full-length crystal mirror that had been looted from some ship at some unknown time—Miguel looked up dazedly, and in the mirror, a monster with a messy black bird’s nest of hair and bloodshot eyes looked back at him.

He was completely naked, his waist slender but firm, and below, an organ of just the right size and color lay quietly nestled in the hair between his legs—

Behind him, a man half a head taller stood lazily smoking, one eye glancing casually into the mirror.

For some reason, Miguel suddenly remembered sneaking a watch of Titanic during his childhood… On that midsummer afternoon, he sat cross-legged on the sofa, sucking on an ice pop while the electric fan blew, holding the DVD remote, fast-forwarding, rewinding, playing, rewinding, playing again…

“I told you to look at the tattoo, not to stare at yourself like a narcissist, trash.”

A large hand landed on his shoulder, the fingers completely covering his collarbone. The hand turned him with brute force, and the Navigator, caught off guard, staggered. Before he could fall to the ground, a broad, firm chest caught him—

He froze for a moment, then realized his chin was resting on Caesar’s shoulder, the man’s body exuding a faint scent of sweat and masculinity.

“Turn around and look,” the man said impatiently, patting the head resting on his shoulder. “If you dare say it’s not good, you’re dead.”

“Got it, stop nagging, your attitude alone makes me want to leave a bad review—”

Miguel turned his head, and his voice was swallowed in his throat, stunned and bewildered by what he saw.

At the base of his tailbone, a blue-green rose bloomed silently on the pale skin. Unlike the soft and seductive tattoos typically seen on women, this one had sharp, angular petals, resembling the face of a mechanical watch—

The two snake-like pointers symbolizing the compass formed a strange angle, suggesting something. The longest one extended vertically from the center of the rose, pointing straight down at a six o’clock angle, disappearing into the cleft of the firm buttocks, with no one knowing where it ultimately pointed.

The indigo ink on the snow-white skin resembled a perfect piece of blue-and-white porcelain.

A large semicircle began at the top of the rose, like a crescent moon or the sharpest scythe. The perfect arc followed the curve of the rose, ending at the top of the cleft, where a small hook casually yet delicately connected the arc to the rose.

It was a letter.

C.

Miguel grinned lewdly.

Caesar’s C.