The salty sea wind whipped like an invisible scourge against Li Yiming's chapped lips and exposed skin. Every breath he took sent a searing pain through his lungs, not only due to prolonged running and dehydration but also because the stench—a mixture of fish, iron, and some indescribably foul decay—was mercilessly eroding his weary nerves.
He stumbled along a muddy dirt road, his legs heavy as lead, each step leaving uneven footprints in the soft ground. In the distance, the outline of a city shimmered faintly in the pervasive morning mist. That was Miragliano, the famed mercenary capital of the Tilea region.
He couldn't remember how long he had been fleeing. The concept of time had blurred amid the endless terror and despair. The only thing that remained clear was the coast boiling with fire and screams behind him, and a nightmare-like name: "Black Sail" Baltok Buckland.
Li Yiming. This name was not his by birth. It was a warm mark, inherited from a kind old man who had long since passed away. His true origin, however, was like an inescapable curse branded deep into his soul.
Har Ganeth. The Dark Elf city built upon obsidian and blood, the most terrifying slaughterhouse under the Witch King Malekith. He was an outcast, an existence considered defective within Har Ganeth's cold, ruthless social structure. This was only because his mother was a low-ranking, obscure priestess, and his father... he didn't even know who his father was, only having heard that he was a son of the city of Har Ganeth itself.
Once the floodgates of memory were opened, the deeply buried, rotten past surged forth, one memory vying with the next, bringing suffocating nausea. The most profound of these was the night that changed his life forever.
At that time, he was only a Night Child, around ten years old, frail and insignificant, a speck surviving in the shadow. The nights in Har Ganeth were perpetually filled with an unsettling brilliance, the air thick with the stench of blood and the mingling of corruption and magic. That day was an important day of sacrifice for Khaine, the Bloody-Handed God, and the entire city was plunged into a frenzied, fanatical craze. The blood-bathing ritual performed by the Blood Queen, High Priestess Hellebron, marked the climax of the madness.
He shouldn't have been there. Any male, especially an orphan as lowly as him, who dared to glimpse the blood-bathing ritual, would face only one fate—instant sacrifice, becoming yet another nameless offering at the altar of Khaine.
He was driven by an inexplicable, childish curiosity, and perhaps a desperate yearning for the ritual that was rumored to grant eternal youth and godlike power, as well as a morbid fascination with Hellebron's unparalleled beauty. Using his small frame, he silently crept like a gecko into the restricted area of Hellebron's temple, hiding behind a twisted obsidian statue.
Then, he saw it.
In the giant bronze cauldron, a sticky, crimson liquid churned. It was the "Fountain of Life," made of the aggregated blood of countless slaves and foes. Hellebron, the Blood Queen famous for her cruelty and beauty, stepped naked into the blood pool, assisted by her handmaidens. Her limbs glowed with a terrifying, pale luminescence in the bloodlight, and her eyes burned with a maniacal flame. As she immersed herself in the blood, the entire temple echoed with her satisfied, twisted sighs, accompanied by the fervent chanting of the surrounding priestesses.
Li Yiming's eyes widened. His young heart was utterly seized by the bloody, terrifying sight before him. What he saw was not divinity, not power, but a deep-seated, chilling terror and disgust. That churning blood, the lingering shadows of the slaves who struggled at the edge of the pool before being mercilessly pushed in, the expression on Hellebron's face, a mix of agony and ecstasy... all of it branded his memory like a red-hot iron. He felt his stomach churning, on the verge of vomiting immediately.
It was then that Hellebron seemed to sense something. Her eyes, sharp as black obsidian, pierced through the bloody mist and locked directly onto his hiding spot. In that instant, Li Yiming felt like a frog spotted by a viper; his entire body's blood froze.
"...A little rat?" Hellebron's voice carried a hint of dangerous hoarseness, but was saturated with undeniable menace.
He was dragged out, like a sheep awaiting slaughter. The surrounding priestesses and guards showed malicious, bloodthirsty grins. He thought he was surely going to die—to be sacrificed instantly and dismembered, or thrown into that terrifying blood pool. However, Hellebron merely scrutinized him for a moment with detached interest, her gaze observing him as if he were an amusing toy.
"Har Ganeth has no need for snoopers, especially weak males," her voice was ice-cold. "But Khaine smiles today, and I grant you a chance. Get out of my sight, leave Har Ganeth, and never return. If you manage to survive, that is Khaine's grace. If you die, it is the fate you deserve."
He was roughly hauled away, without food or water, and tossed like baggage onto the deck corner of a slave ship bound for unknown waters. He didn't know how he survived on that ship, which reeked of despair and death. Perhaps it was the sheer instinct of self-preservation, or perhaps the final thread of "grace" in Hellebron's words played a part. The ship was forced off course during a fierce storm and eventually ran aground on the coast of Cathay. Most of the slaves and crew died, but he miraculously survived, washed up on a desolate beach.
Exhaustion, cold, fear, and the relentless playback of that bloody memory nearly pushed him over the edge. Just when he thought he was about to join the dead souls from the ship, a figure appeared in his blurry vision. It was a kind-faced Cathayan old man with a long white beard, wearing a plain silk gown, followed by seven or eight young men dressed similarly.
The old man discovered him—this scantily clad, wounded Dark Elf child speaking a strange language. He did not show the malice or cruelty Li Yiming had become accustomed to in Har Ganeth; instead, his eyes showed pity. The old man took him back to the port city of Haichai, gave him food, clean clothes, and called for a doctor to treat him.
For the first nine months, Li Yiming barely spoke to anyone. The shadow of Hellebron's blood bath haunted his dreams nightly, like a malignant tumor. He was terrified of blood, terrified of the color red, and even terrified of the people who were kind to him. But the old merchant, a benevolent man named Li Dehai, used his gentle patience, like spring rain, to slowly melt the ice in Li Yiming's heart.
Li Dehai never probed his origins. He simply gave him a new name—Li Yiming, meaning to change one's fate and remember new life. He taught him the language of Cathay, taught him to read and write, instructed him in the principles of trade, and even taught him a simple self-defense skill—a set of Cathayan boxing techniques focused on using skill to overcome force. Although Li Yiming never mastered it, it granted him agility superior to his peers.
The months in Haichai were a period of rare calm in Li Yiming's life. He gradually emerged from the shadows of the past. Although those memories could never be erased, he learned to bury them deep inside. He regarded Li Dehai as his true father, and Li Dehai treated him as his own, compensating for the paternal love he had never experienced.
However, good times don't last. In the year Li Yiming turned eighteen, Li Dehai suddenly passed away from a brief illness. On his deathbed, the old man entrusted Li Yiming with the trading company he had managed for years and his meager savings, urging him to travel to the western world if he had the chance, where there were different sights and opportunities.
Li Yiming inherited the company. He wasn't a born merchant, but he was clever, meticulous, and had learned enough experience from Li Dehai. He led the caravan along the ancient "Ivory Road," trading back and forth between the cities of Cathay and the border rivers of the west. This road was fraught with peril, not only from hostile natural environments but also from various brigands—Goblins, Orcs, and even degenerate Human bandits. But Li Yiming managed to keep the company running, relying on prudence, a little luck, and the smooth diplomacy he learned from his adoptive father. He even acquired a strangely shaped repeater crossbow from a down-on-his-luck Cathayan craftsman for a low price. It came with a small bolt magazine that allowed for quick reloading and firing, making it a crucial self-defense weapon.
This time, his destination was the approaching maritime fortress: Barak Varr. He had heard that the people there had a strong interest in Cathayan silks and artifacts, and he hoped to acquire some fine metal goods from the western port. The caravan was small, consisting of only nineteen carts and employing about twenty laborers, most of whom were experienced but underpaid old soldiers.
The first half of the journey went smoothly. He crossed through the eight mountain passes of the World's Edge Mountains and avoided some small Greenskin tribes. However, as he reached the coastline outside Barak Varr, preparing to wait for entry permission, disaster struck.
That day, a heavy fog rolled in over the sea. Just as the caravan members were lighting a fire in a sheltered area to cook and discuss the next day's trade, a desolate horn blast suddenly tore through the peace. Out of the fog, a fleet of menacing black ships emerged like ghosts. Their prows were carved with various twisted and horrifying sea monsters, and their sails were marked with a giant, black, dripping anchor—the flag of the notorious Coast of Despair pirate, "Black Sail" Baltok Buckland!
Li Yiming's heart instantly plummeted. He knew Baltok Buckland's infamy: he was a plunderer far more cruel and ruthless than ordinary pirates. Rumor had it that he was intricately linked to the Dark Elves, and some even said he had Dark Elf blood flowing in his veins.
The battle was practically over before it began. Pirates swarmed ashore like a tide. They were well-equipped, coordinated by beasts, and filled with bloodthirsty frenzy. Although the caravan laborers tried their best to resist, they were like paper before these experienced sea veterans. Screams, the clang of weapons, and the crackle of burning flames interwove into a symphony of despair.
Li Yiming did not participate in the fighting. He knew his limitations; his meager skills and repeater crossbow were useless in a conflict of this scale. His first thought was to protect the caravan's most important assets—the few chests of valuable silks and jade artifacts he planned to use for bribes. He directed a few loyal assistants to try and hide these items, or at least take some away.
However, it was all futile. A burly pirate leader with a hideous scar on his face noticed their actions. He grinned maliciously, waving a blood-stained cutlass, and charged over with several of his men.
"Little brats, where are you trying to hide the good stuff?" the scarred man's voice was as grating as a rusty gong.
The assistants scattered in terror, but Li Yiming, governed by a calmness (or perhaps numbness) that stemmed from his bloodline when facing desperation, instinctively raised his repeater crossbow.
"Pew! Pew! Pew!" Three bolts shot out in a triangular formation.
He didn't aim for vital spots. Since witnessing Hellebron's blood bath, he had developed a morbid aversion to attacks intended for an instant kill. He preferred to make his enemies bleed, bleed profusely, as if only this could purge the terror of that bloody sea deep within his heart. At the same time, the Dark Elf tradition of capturing slaves was also imprinted in his blood. The three bolts struck the scarred man's shoulders and one thigh, respectively.
The pain made the scarred man roar like a wild beast, but he didn't fall. Instead, he charged even more ferociously. Li Yiming knew he wouldn't get a second shot. He discarded the crossbow, turned, and fled. He didn't look back at the scattered valuables or the assistants and laborers lying in pools of blood. He had only one thought in his mind—survive!
He ran frantically along the coastline. The pirates' shouts and the dying men's wails followed closely behind him like the beat of a drum of doom. He didn't know how far he ran; he only knew his lungs felt like they would burst and his legs were numb. Just as he thought he was about to collapse, he saw a small fishing boat beached in the shallow sand.
Without any heroic resistance, he used his last strength to push the small boat into the sea, haphazardly rowing the oars, fleeing toward the open ocean. He didn't dare look back, afraid of seeing Baltok Buckland's black sails in pursuit.
After drifting at sea for an unknown amount of time, his food and fresh water quickly ran out. Hunger, thirst, sun exposure, rain, and despair about the future nearly consumed him. Just as he was on the verge of collapse, he spotted a merchant ship flying the banner of Tilea's twin-tailed mermaid.
He was rescued. The merchants aboard questioned him about his ordeal and expressed shock and condemnation over the pirate raid outside Barak Varr (though Li Yiming felt they were more relieved that it hadn't happened to them). They gave him some food and water and agreed to take him to their destination, Miragliano in the Tilea region, in exchange for the last of his meager silver coins.
This was why he was here now. Ragged, penniless, and filled with bitterness about the past and uncertainty about the future. His company was gone, his wealth lost, and the loyal assistants who had followed him for years were mostly lost as well. Once again, he was a man who had lost everything.
But he had survived.
That was the most important thing. As long as he was alive, there was hope. This was what Li Dehai had taught him, and what he had learned from Har Ganeth's cruel law of survival.
The morning mist gradually dispersed. The tall walls and scattered towers of Miragliano revealed their clear outlines in the dawn light. The noise of the city faintly reached him, full of vitality and life, a stark contrast to the deathly silence of the coast behind him.
Li Yiming took a deep breath, trying to expel the sickening stench of decay from his lungs and replace it with a bit of hopeful, fresh air. He straightened his slightly stooped back, and a tough resolve, befitting his Dark Elf heritage, flashed in his dark eyes, which had been softened by years in Cathay.
The past was the past, no matter how terrifying, how unbearable. He had to shake off those shadows, whether they were the bloody memories of Har Ganeth or the painful failure he had just experienced. He needed a new start, a new life.
"Miragliano..." He whispered the name, as if tasting a foreign fruit. This was the city of mercenaries, a paradise for adventurers, and a place full of opportunity and danger. He didn't know what awaited him, but he knew he had to find a way to survive here.
The commitment to survival became incredibly clear at this moment. He had to live, not just for himself, but to honor the hopes of his adoptive father, Li Dehai. The promise to escape the past was like a heavy shackle he had to strive to break. The search for a new life was the only motivation driving him forward.
He tidied his tattered, eastern-style short jacket, trying to make himself look less miserable. Then, he quickened his pace and walked toward the city standing in the morning light. Each step was more determined than the last. The survivor of the Boiling Sea must find his own course in this new harbor.