Through the veil of endless darkness enveloping the mind of the two-meter-tall dark-skinned man, consciousness began to pierce through. It was like a smoldering ember from a long-forgotten fire, persistently moving toward the light. Upon reaching its destination, the man woke up and opened his eyes.
A terrible headache pulsed in his temples, making him wince as if he had just experienced the most terrifying nightmare. He slightly opened his eyes and saw the familiar yet chaotic cabin, still in disarray from the recent events. The wooden beams overhead seemed crooked, and the light filtering through the cracks reminded him that the world still existed despite his suffering.
Images of the battle, no the slaughter flashed before his eyes. The memories made the man shiver, a chill running down his spine. "Because I was then on the deck, having already pretty much said goodbye to life; I guess it's too early for that."
Masser exhaled, sitting on the bed; a fire ignited in his heart— a fire of hatred. And the cause of that blaze was Prince Edward— a stupid and infuriating brat.
Just thinking about him made Masser feel a surge of concentrated hatred, compared to which even his battle rage felt like child's play.
"What the hell am I, a captain, even doing in this position?"
Having sat for a bit longer on the uncomfortable bed, he eventually donned his military cloak and rose heavily to his feet. His heart pounded as if consumed by worms, but he forced himself to stand and, swaying, headed toward the door.
As soon as Masser opened it and stepped outside, a throaty sound of emptiness resounded on the deck — as if everyone aboard the ship had simultaneously held their breath. Emotions mingled curiosity and fear— as the crew stood frozen, as if they had just seen a real ghost instead of their captain.
Though, considering how many wounds he had sustained during the battle, he clearly outlasted any living dead.
"Why are you looking at me like a herd of sheep at a new gate? Get back to work!" shouted the captain, and immediately, like by a wave of a magic wand, the crew sprang into action. Usually, he was much gentler in his remarks, but right now, he simply lacked the energy for delicacy.
"What the hell is going on here?!" he shouted, unable to contain himself. Masser heatedly glanced at his crew. "Where's my assistant, Alan?!"
The ship moved again, like a flock of frightened birds, and soon an important figure with a trustworthy face appeared from the hold. It was Alan— a loyal friend and capable assistant, without whom the captain felt uneasy.
"Welcome back to the land of the living, my friend!" Alan said, stepping forward, his voice sharp but full of respect.
"What the hell is going on? Why does the ship look like you lazy rats didn't even think to repair it?" Masser said angrily, but now noticeably quieter; the loud sounds felt akin to a sharp blade lodged in his liver— very painful.
Alan took a deep breath, desperately searching for the right words.
"You've been asleep for nearly two days, captain. We won the battle, but we suffered heavy losses. The landing forces have full control of the city. And Prince Edward has ordered you to be brought ashore as soon as you wake up for a new military council," he said, looking into his friend's eyes, trying to convey the seriousness of the situation.
Masser, clenching his teeth, felt the anger that had just released him return with renewed strength. "Damn it, Menos, I've only just returned to the land of the living, and for what, tell me kindly, just to see the face of that self-satisfied idiot again?"
His god remained silent, as he always did. After mentally exercising his rhetoric a little longer, he resignedly exhaled and looked at Alan, saying,
"Alright, let's depart immediately."
After a few minutes of hurried activity from the sailors, Masser and Alan sat in a small dinghy, cautiously making their way along the shallow shore of the ruined port.
The water was calm, but its surface was occasionally rippled by light breaking through, creating an illusion of tranquility that sharply contrasted with what Masser saw. His gaze lingered on the wrecks of ships scattered in the shallow waters. These nearly burned-out wooden skeletons, not having sunk, resembled the ghosts of fallen warriors, bitterly bearing witness to the recent battle.
"I still can't believe they managed to attack us so organized," Masser said, pulling himself away from his thoughts. "We fell into one of the most sophisticated traps I've ever seen."
Alan nodded in agreement, looking at the debris.
"It was a well-planned ambush. We underestimated their capabilities at such a deep level. They knew our goals and weaknesses," he replied, thoughtfully rubbing his chin. "We need to get out of here while we still have the chance."
And Masser agreed with him; this expedition, or rather its organization, had originally seemed to him like the living embodiment of idiocy. And here they were, on the shore of a foreign land, in a considerably reduced number, without a plan, without communication with each other — scattered across different parts of this cursed, god-forsaken kingdom.
Masser continued to gaze at the shipwrecks, battling his anger. "Why didn't I foresee this?" the question arose, tormenting his mind. For him, it was not just a loss but true ill fate.
To calm his thoughts, he turned his attention to the ruins that were gradually starting to materialize through the morning fog.
When they finally reached the shore, the landscape struck him. With each step, it was as if Masser was entering a world where reality had shattered into tiny shards, leaving behind only a picture of destruction.
Ruins of buildings, several-meter-deep craters in the ground, weary shadows of barely living houses that seemed to stand on mere words, and a strong, soul-piercing smell of burnt wood.
"Damn it," muttered Masser, stunned by what he saw. He felt his heart freeze in horror. "What happened here? What happened to the damned landing? Don't tell me..."
"You can breathe easy, Captain; the ground battle did not occur. What you see now is the result of our ship's artillery work." After a brief pause, the young man continued.
"We obediently danced to the tune of the natives. They skillfully lured us into a trap, to be honest…" Here, Alan looked at the captain with respect and a kind of awed trepidation. "If it weren't for you and your instincts, none of us would have survived that night."
"We should have acted more cautiously. Although, what am I even saying? The decisions aren't made by me," said Masser, gathering his emotions into a fist.
Alan nodded, pointing to a surviving building not far from their landing site.
— "There, the prince and his entourage are in session. They have been unable to agree on plans for further progress for a day now; many captains and generals simply refuse to discuss anything without your direct involvement, which is quite irritating for the prince."
"It would be beneficial for him, given the mess he's put us in." Masser paused for a moment at the door, gathering himself. Properly donning the mask of his angry self, he kicked the door open and walked inside under the startled gazes of the guards.
Masser stepped in, his heart racing like crazy before dubious prospects. The first thing he noticed was the atmosphere of tension — a few captains and generals, their faces full of fatigue, were gathered in the room.
In the center, surrounded by these stern men, sat Prince Edward. However, what caught his attention the most was an old gray-haired captain, with a gray goatee, whose gaze radiated contempt and disrespect for those around him. Masser had never seen him before, neither in meetings nor anywhere else, which immediately seemed suspicious to him.
The man felt his mood darken from the general gloom of what was happening, but there was no bad without good; Masser's gaze caught on the ornate chairs and the table hastily cobbled together from debris.
""Captain Masser," the prince began sarcastically as Masser approached. His words were full of irony, and his face barely concealed a sneer. "How pleasant to see that you are still among us, captain."
The prince immediately noticed his brightened gaze and, with an affected expression, hurried to clarify.
"Those vile savages don't even know the existence of chairs. The idiots prefer to heat the floor with their butts, pathetic degenerates!"
Master leaned against the table, ignoring Edward's provocations and mutterings. The man took a deep breath, gathering his thoughts.
"Thank you, prince. Can you tell me what has happened during my... my absence?"
The old captain responded to these words, his voice sounding like rough metal.
"Losses amount to about 8,000, and 13 ships have been destroyed. Four are severely damaged. The locals have retreated. The northern group has been decimated. Only 10 ships made it to us, and the fate of the landing force remains unknown. The southern group managed to land and secure the region with minimal losses."
Master thoughtfully rubbed his chin, but his mind was in a real storm. "We are in deep trouble." The numbers indicated heavy losses, and he understood that this was no longer an "expedition," but a real war against an equal opponent. The captain looked sternly into the prince's eyes, who, unable to withstand such pressure, turned his gaze to the floor.
"You did everything possible, prince," the gray-haired captain said, trying to take the initiative in the hall. "Your bravery and firmness in leading the troops have been invaluable. For this, you should be commended, am I right, Mr. Master?"
Master only smiled wryly, but his mind was occupied with other thoughts, namely plans for the near future.
"But what now, prince? What is your plan?" he asked, looking into Edward's eyes, filled with complacency and bitterness.
"We need to continue the expedition. These lands are full of opportunities," Edward replied, leaning uncertainly over the table.
Master felt his anger rising within him; he utterly disagreed with what he was hearing:
"Prince, you don't understand what we are dealing with. We have serious losses, and we hardly have the strength for further advancement! It's time to retreat and rethink our actions!"
The prince clearly seemed confused; his face twisted in displeasure. However, before he could continue the argument, the old man intervened, his tone stern and relentless.
"Captain Masser," he said, emphasizing each word, you should remember about subordination. Your personal feelings should not interfere with the prince's decision-making. We are here to follow orders, not to discuss them!"
And then Master exploded, spitting on all decorum and the ringing pain in his head, yelling so loudly that the prince was ready to crawl under the table.
"Are you kidding? We've lost a third of our men and ships, and we know nothing about the locals; considering how they greeted us, the further journey won't be a walk in the park; you'll lead us all to our graves!"
The old man wanted to intervene, but Master was unstoppable.
"I have another question for you" the captain pointed a finger at the old man. "Who the hell are you to be giving such valuable advice?"
A heavy silence hung in the room; those present silenced Master with their gazes, varied but with one word predominating — "thank you." Few among them wanted to move forward after what had happened, and even fewer had the ability to oppose the prince's will without serious consequences.
"My name is Flint. I am the captain of the "Warrior" and an advisor to His Majesty in these inhospitable lands." The old man measured everyone with a stern look and continued slowly. "Captain Master, as far as I know, you enjoy considerable authority among the junior ranks, and rightly so for your deeds, so don't disgrace your face in the mud and speak constructively."
"We have no chance of returning home like beaten dogs; the authority of the Webian Imperial Family will be undermined, and we'll wear the burden of disgrace around our necks, and that's not the worst of it. With our flight, we will shame the glory of the Empire's warriors, which will undoubtedly have negative repercussions in the future."
"So what do you propose, old man?" Master's patience was running thin; the man clenched his fists tightly, thinking, "If this scoundrel brings up subordination again, I will snap his neck."
"What are you prepared to propose?"
Once again, silence fell in the hall, and Master was literally stunned; he hadn't expected such a generous offer from the prince, even if it wasn't personally from him, but even this was better than nothing, and his anger was slowly dissipating. Looking around at those present, he cleared his throat and, looking into the prince's eyes, said:
"We should proceed as follows."
He then laid out his plan, and after completing his rough outline, the man exhaled.
"Excellent, at least we have something to work with!" Flint summarized and smiled slyly.