Chapter 397: Salt-Wind-Soaked Letter

Salt-wind-soaked letter

To my best partner on the sea, my most trusted friend on land:

When you receive this letter, I am likely still en route home, too far to hear the midnight bells of Holy Day, so I send my blessing ahead: may the land beneath your feet be calmer than the sea beneath mine.

This year’s main dividend has been entrusted to reliable sailors bound for Wood Town; the remainder arrives with this letter via the Guild. Please, in the presence of a third-party witness, recount it face-to-face to guard against any mishap.

I suspect you’ve already forgotten this modest income. Even in Wenden Harbor, the kingdom’s northernmost backwater, whispers reach even the most exalted figures about generous gestures.

Some rumors claim there are hidden reasons behind it, too secret to speak aloud.

Yet those who know even a little of the truth would not be surprised. Those with ability are like the keel of a great tree—born for the most treacherous routes, deserving the broadest decks, the strongest sails, no cost too great.

Immovable assets merely satisfy hoarding urges; true investment-grade materials are rare. I trust every man who rose to his station by his own merit possesses basic discernment.

Of course, this also means greater storms and longer trials. But if you could bring us back from the hell beneath the southern hills, what could possibly be harder than that?

Speaking of ships, I must introduce you to my new home. “Snowfrost”—that’s what they call her, a woman who has weathered five full years of storms.

I first saw her in Comfort Harbor, waiting aboard my own vessel for the bastards who’d gone off to revel to return. It felt like fate: she lay moored at the very edge of the port.

So massive, so still, towering over every other ship nearby. I paused for several seconds, wondering if it was the shadow of Kristen Mountain cast upon the sea.

I lowered my skiff myself and rowed to her side, just to admire the three towering masts, like lighthouses. The crossbeams were thick and strong, wrapped in old but sturdy double-layered sails, thick as dried hide from the ice plains, capable of withstanding the fiercest wind walls.

One glance, and I abandoned all prior plans to order a new ship.

She is the kind every captain dreams of—without her, a seafaring life is doomed to incompleteness. The sea cannot lose her, any more than the Church can lose Shengcheng.

At dawn the next day, I found her captain and boarded her oak hull.

Her astonishing height came from the vertical hull walls rising straight up; her deck stood a full level higher than similar ships, and standing upon it, gazing down at the sea, I felt a dizzying unease.

The hull’s interior was reinforced with pine, sealed with pine resin—no trace of leakage. The cargo holds were wide and deep, stacked in tiers, perfect for storing diverse goods requiring different preservation methods.

The stern’s stepped superstructure was divided into two levels: the upper held the helm and lookout platform; the lower housed a spacious captain’s cabin. Beyond a large bed and a long table for charts, there was still room for cabinets, without crowding—so much so that one almost forgot they were still at sea.

I cannot describe how I felt then. The mortal sin of envy devoured my reason, and my tongue spoke without control:

Is there any way to obtain her?

At the time, I regretted it. Such a vessel is typically commissioned by large trading guilds or wealthy families for bulk cargo or special purposes. Unless desperate, they are rarely sold. My question was surely an insult.

Yet now I must admit—even if the Devil himself had spoken those words, he was a Devil with a touch of humanity.

The captain hesitated—and I saw my chance.

As expected, she came from an ambitious guild, designed and built over years, solely to carve a share of the trade between the kingdom and the continental nations.

But sea trade shifts with the wind, and building a vessel like this takes too long. No one can predict what lies beyond the horizon tomorrow.

After a series of unexpected—but not unheard-of—setbacks, the guild’s excessive, overly “ambitious” investment had plunged them into crisis. They urgently needed a large sum of liquid capital to keep going, or face bankruptcy.

Other guilds showed no willingness to help, and ordinary captains could not possibly provide the required funds.

Perhaps in desperation, or perhaps as a bitter joke, the captain offered me a price—low, yet still far beyond the entire fortune of any ordinary merchant.

She was never meant for me.

Fate chose her for me—not I for her.

You know I have always been the most devout believer in the Father’s will, and the devout never refuse the destiny the Lord ordains.

With your investment and Father Adrien’s, I had just enough to buy her—and still had a little left over. I didn’t need to sell my Bingshan, and there wasn’t even time to try.

So now, I am no longer merely a captain—I am the master of a fleet. Though it is only two ships.

Correspondingly, I must now bear the responsibility of feeding her and dozens of crewmen.

The cost of a large ship is no longer ordinary; I must adjust my routes to ensure sufficient profit. As an investor, you have the right to know the details.

As previously stated, long-distance trade with the continental nations remains unreliable, and I have no connections there.

Therefore, I have turned my gaze once more to the ice plains. My old friends there are not as fickle as merchants—they are always willing to fill my holds with furs and ore.

A single round trip by Snowfrost and Bingshan empties their entire year’s stock, returning fully laden.

But do not fear returning empty next time—my old friends have already arranged connections with other tribes to supply the fleet.

They were even clever enough to send samples of ore for selection. The blacksmiths and Guild confirmed some pieces are highly valuable; others are peculiar, even veteran craftsmen have never seen their like.

I suppose rarity commands value. I hear you have dealings with the Higo family in Dunling. I’ve enclosed some fragments with this letter—perhaps you can use your channels to identify them.

The year draws to a close. The brown bears have retreated into their winter dens, and even the most diligent craftsmen prepare to rest. But a competent captain never releases his helm, no matter the season.

I intend to make one final voyage before the winter storms arrive. A timely delivery of grain will greatly improve our relationship with our new clients—and add another bonus to next year’s dividend.

Bless me. May your blessing fall upon me, and upon her wooden bones. When Holy Day arrives, my belly will hold hard bread and ale, while she will swallow a hold full of gold and silver for us.

Your friend, still upon the sea—and forever upon it:

William