leonardwarren Chapter 817 - 446: The Fleet’s Glory
Chapter 817 - 446: The Fleet’s Glory
The mist hasn’t fully lifted.
Dozens of pirate speedboats rocked in the gray-white waves, like a pile of broken wood shattered by breakers.
But suddenly, some invisible string tightened.
The bows twisted, and the rigging creaked with tension.
The commotion wasn’t like a fleet changing formation; it was more like a pack of sharks suddenly turning at the scent of blood.
Without any hesitation, they bit fiercely into the approaching squadron.
At this moment, the scene on the sea was bizarre.
On one side, gray steel, with black smoke spewing from chimneys, drawing straight lines in the air.
The vanguard ships of the Red Tide sliced through the ocean at a constant speed, like precisely calibrated scalpels.
On the other side, decayed wood, with tattered canvas hanging on crooked masts, and figures densely packed on the decks, like a nest of exploded ants.
No shouting could be heard over the sea, only a sticky sound surging in the mist.
It was a "clucking" sound squeezed from thousands of throats, intermittent, like drowning people bubbling underwater.
On the high rear decks of each ship, a few dark green shadows stood out.
Those fishmen were taller than the regular kin, with a greasy sheen on their dark scales.
They neither touched the rigging nor tended to the cannons; they just stood there like shepherds.
The pulsating tumor in their hands was squeezed into deformation, and with each squeeze, a high-frequency tremor filled the air.
It was a command drilling directly into the mind.
The protruding eyes of the fishmen fixed on the distant steel warships.
In their murky eyes, those black smoke-emitting iron ships were not war machines but the most perfect nestbeds, sacrifices to the deep sea.
Smash them and lay eggs inside!
And in the hold, the real "fuel" was burning.
Hundreds of shirtless pirates were tightly bound to their seats with belts, and rough wooden oars flew in their hands at an unreasonable speed.
It was a frequency that human muscles could no longer endure.
Some had shoulder muscles that tore directly, blood dripping down their elbows; others had broken forearm bones, the splintered edges piercing through skin, glaringly white.
But no one screamed or stopped.
The same expression was fixed on their faces, mouths stretched to the ears, drool dripping from chins to the boards, eyes unfocused yet brimming with joy.
The voice in their heads kept ringing.
Faster! Even faster! Crash into that iron wall!
They overused every last breath to push this heap of broken wood to its limits.
The ship’s keel groaned under the unbearable strain, the entire vessel lurching uncontrollably like a wayward cannonball towards the indifferent steel.
The smoothbore cannons on the deck were already scorching hot.
In order to fire one more round before contact, the heat waves from the gun barrels would sear eyebrows from afar.
A loader, annoyed by the wobbling of the cannon, threw himself upon it, wrapping his arms tightly around the scorching copper.
"Sizzle—!"
Skin and flesh instantly burnt and smoked rose with a scent of roasting meat.
He didn’t flinch; instead, he shuddered with excitement.
Those murky eyes looked at the skin from his hands sticking to the barrel, lips twitching uncontrollably in a grateful smile.
Even though his hands were ruined, he numbly braced his body against the cannon to finish the last aim.
At this moment, he wasn’t a person; he was a disposable part.
The puppet-like captain on the bow stretched his arms, welcoming the sea breeze.
The main guns of the Red Tide vanguard had already turned, the dark barrel enlarging in his vision.
Even in his eyes, it wasn’t death; the flare from the barrel was a pink, warm door.
"How beautiful..." he drooled, like a child seeing candy, piously crashing into it.
......
On the other side, the air inside the armored command tower was a bit stuffy, carrying the scent of machine oil and heated brass.
Special glass filtered out the sound of waves, leaving only the constant humming of engines, like a massive steel beast snoring below.
Cortez stood in front of the command console, reaching out to touch the nearby speaking tube; the coolness of the copper pipes reassured him.
This ship was too good.
Sometimes he’d wake up at midnight, instinctively worrying if the hold was leaking or if the mast would break in a storm.
After all, in his previous sailing years, he had only piloted those rickety wooden vessels that creaked all over when the waves got high.
Back then, when encountering pirates, the first reaction was to check the wind direction, and the second was to calculate the load; if escape was impossible, he had to be ready to toss the cargo overboard to save his life.
Until the people of the Red Tide found Cortez and asked, "Dare to sail a ship that doesn’t watch the wind?"
And so, here he stood.
Steel underfoot, steam-driven, wielding firepower sufficient to send any navy from the old era to the seabed.
Cortez glanced at the Red Tide emblem hanging on the bulkhead.
"Red Flame." He chewed on the name in his mind.
Lord Louis gave him this ship; he had to prove that this investment was worth it.
"Sir, the target is within range." The voice of the first officer pulled him back from his thoughts, "There are forty-two of them, still accelerating."
Cortez didn’t turn around; through the observation window, he could see everything clearly.
Those lunatics were coming.
In the mist, dozens of ramshackle wooden ships were madly rushing forward.
Sails full of wind, bows cutting the waves, those freaks on the decks waving rusted swords and bone clubs, mouths wide open, shouting who knows what.