Chapter 399: Gazing Across the Distance

Did they hear it?

They probably did, First Mate. The sailor licked his lips—the icy horn had just peeled off a layer of dry skin, feeling like a bite from cast bronze.

He stared at the First Mate’s face, stiffer than frozen meat, and suddenly remembered something; with a tone designed to toughen a fist, he feigned a belated realization:

“Oh, wait—now you should be called Captain. Hey, Captain Oliver—what a fine title. How does it feel?”

Oliver clenched his fists, harder than frozen rock. In the past, he would have taken time to help this man vividly recall where the First Mate’s authority truly came from.

But not now.

Now he was temporary Captain of the Bingshan, and a steady captain did not literally mix with the crew.

He stood beside the helm, hands away from the ropes he had once known best, yet still unable to find a comfortable grip on the wheel.

Twelve polished wooden handles—too slippery, too rough, none fit his hand—as if they had grown accustomed to their former master’s firm grip and could not tolerate even the slightest difference in palm print.

Each subordinate had imagined himself at the helm: familiar with the route, aware of the wind, even able to recite the water depths of ports by season—eight out of ten believed they knew as much as the Captain.

But the appointment came not by gradual progression, but overnight—because of William’s sudden whim to buy the ship, the Captain’s cabin key had been tossed into his hands, as casually as assigning a routine watch.

Personnel shifted abruptly; most of the old hands were reassigned to the new ship, replaced by new crewmen filling the old posts.

When these half-familiar, half-strange faces turned toward him, all accumulated experience felt thin and fluttering, like unpressed hides, always leaving gaps waiting to be filled.

He never doubted he could set the ship in motion, send it sailing. What kept him tossing through sleepless nights was this: if circumstances changed suddenly, if his judgment failed, would everyone still believe the vessel was under control?

Like now.

The sea mist grew thicker; the storm’s hem brushed the late arrivals, intending to keep them forever.

What seemed as soft as milk could, at its extreme, turn a careless night watchman into an ice statue, to fall from the mast the next morning and shatter like plaster into pieces.

Their link to the lead ship had grown fainter too—first they communicated by flags, then only by horns, and even the firepots used to judge distance flickered in and out.

But getting too close was no good idea—two heavy behemoths should keep distance at sea, especially in such weather.

“Aren’t we a bit too far?” the sailor asked.

Too close, and a sudden current or brief loss of helm might cause a collision; too far, and signals vanished into wind and fog, even lost entirely.

In fact, this same question had been raised too many times. Disgruntled old veterans and new troublemakers whispered among themselves, judging the new Captain’s decisions.

“Don’t rush to close in—we’re still accelerating. Once the ship picks up speed, it becomes harder to control.” After much hesitation, Oliver made what he deemed the safest decision: “And night’s coming—firepots will be more visible then.”

“Alright, Captain. We’ll follow your lead.”

“Can you stop calling me that?”

“No way. We follow you—but not everyone on this ship is willing to take orders from you.” The sailor’s playful expression vanished. “Act like a Captain. Think how William would act. Don’t keep second-guessing yourself.”

“….”

Oliver gazed at the firelight and slowly nodded. He had never imagined he’d ever, outside shift changes and paydays, long so desperately to see William.

“You’re right.”

“Go on. Do what you need to do. We’ve sailed this route countless times—even if we lose them, it won’t stop us from finding our way back.”

“Alright, I’ll check the cargo hold.” The new Captain stretched his shoulders, hands behind his back, trying to appear more confident.

But the cramped cabin quickly shattered that illusion. He squeezed sideways through the hatch, descended the steps, and above the sailors’ bunks lined along the hull, a single oil lamp swung back and forth, illuminating piled clothes, blankets, and spare ropes.

Heavy snores, muffled whispers. In the dimness, someone lifted their head to glance at him—the whispers ceased, as if uncertain whether to rise and salute.

Oliver lit a lamp and carried it with him, didn’t linger, and passed through this territory still half-rejecting him, continuing downward.

The air grew damper, the steps steeper; the wooden planks, long soaked, darkened like shadows that refused to lift.

The oil lamp entered the hold ahead of his steps. He waited for the flame to burn steady, then stepped onto the creaking planks below.

The smell came before the space itself—cold, astringent dust and rock powder, partially masked by lingering stench of fur and fat, like iron ore wrapped in flesh, heavy and clinging to the floor.

The Bingshan’s cargo hold was not spacious; all goods were piled together, separated only by crude divisions.

Ore barrels were neatly stacked along both sides of the keel, wedged at the bottom for stability, serving as ballast.

He kicked each wedge in turn, ensuring they were firmly secured and wouldn’t roll from lateral heave. Then he checked the nailed-down barrel lids, especially those marked with special signs, for signs of forced entry.

Results were good: the main cargo was properly placed, sealed intact, no issues at all.

He could breathe a little easier. Beyond navigation, the greatest worry was new crewmen tempted by greed, thinking no one noticed them tampering with cargo—once overlooked, there’d be a second time.

He flipped through the furs stacked high above, found no unwanted moisture—these he wasn’t afraid of being stolen, only of dampness.

Before leaving, one final item needed checking.

Technically, not one item—but a collection of things used as filler. The Icelanders had apparently learned their lesson, guessing the fleet didn’t want to haul back the remaining grain, so they exchanged it for piles of scattered odds and ends.

Thinking the hold was empty anyway, William agreed to the trade.

So after a cursory sorting, these items were dumped haphazardly into whatever empty barrels remained. The precious metal ores and potentially valuable beast tusks had already been removed; what was left were all sorts of unknown junk.

Perhaps mere stones and trash, perhaps still salvageable—William didn’t care, and didn’t even bother sealing the lids.

Duty demanded Oliver check them anyway.

Those barrels were stacked in the darkest, farthest corner of the hold. He walked over and kicked them twice. The barrels shifted, and a rustling of loose contents echoed inside.

Was it his imagination, or were the barrels not properly set? He was certain he’d adjusted them just yesterday.

Peering inside, he saw a few dull, glittering low-grade ores stacked atop sawn bones; beneath them, a torn pup’s pelt, rolled with unnatural neatness.

Heavy on top, light below—arranged more like padding for volume than tossed in casually.

“Hmm?”

?? The author is fighting the flu; recent work intensity has been terrifying.

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