CHAPTER 63: FUCKING BRUTE
A cold, salty breeze blew across the coast, carrying with it the heavy stench of rotting fish, sea monster oil, and cheap booze.
The harbor was a chaotic pit of scum and villainy—a lawless border port infested with mercenaries, black-market smugglers, and former pirates.
Crass, sun-bleached sailors shouted vulgar profanities at one another as they hauled heavy wooden crates onto squeaking docks.
Half-naked men covered in faded rune-tattoos were drunk on cheap rum before noon, picking fights in the muddy alleys while toothless wenches shouted down from the balconies of decrepit coastal taverns.
It was loud, smelly, and filthy.
Standing near the edge of the pier, John pulled his thick and fur-lined coat tighter around his shoulders, shivering slightly against the biting ocean wind.
Despite the bitter cold, he couldn't deny that it felt damn good to finally wear a fresh change of clothes.
He was dressed in a sleek, high-collared black coat over a clean tunic and leather boots—a massive upgrade from the blood-soaked and torn garments he'd been wearing since arriving in Oakhaven.
Beside him stood the Bestiar girl, whom he had decided to call Lea.
She was wrapped in her own oversized winter coat, standing obediently at his side like a silent sentinel.
Her face was as expressionless as ever, but her tail gave away her mood, flicking back and forth beneath her coat as her dog-like ears twitched at the loud noises of the harbor.
A few paces away stood Princess Raven.
She kept a deliberate distance from John, her arms crossed over her chest, her crimson eyes staring out at the ocean horizon with an icy glare. She looked furious—so mad that the air around her felt five degrees colder than the rest of the dock.
John glanced sideways at her, wincing slightly as the motion irritated the bruised skin on his face.
Right under his left cheekbone was a swollen, dark purple black eye.
He gently probed the bruise with his fingers, shaking his head with a bitter sigh as he recalled the absolute disaster of a fight they'd had back in the Governor's lounge.
The second he had brought up the idea of breaking Thanatos's taboo, the conversation had degraded into a heated shouting match. Before John could even finish explaining his theory, she got physical.
Raven hadn't used her magic, but she had straight-up thrown hands.
That psycho is a fucking brute, John thought, gingerly touching his swollen eye again.
She acts like a refined, dignified princess on the outside, but the second she gets pissed off, she fights like a tavern brawler.
He had tried to defend himself, but his pathetic body had failed him completely.
Not to mention, even without his faulty physique, as a mere Stage 2 weaver, he stood no chance in a fistfight against a Stage 3 Manifestation expert like Raven, whose physical traits and Ether control were infinitely superior.
They hadn't spoken a single word to each other since stepping out of Oakhaven, maintaining a quiet, suffocating cold war all the way to the coast.
Lea looked up at John, her quiet gaze drifting to his black eye, before shifting over to stare blankly at Raven.
"Don't look at her," John muttered under his breath, adjusting his collar against the wind.
"She might try to give you one, too."
As they stood waiting by the docks, heavy footsteps crunched against the wet gravel behind them.
A short, middle-aged man waddled over, wiping his greasy hands on his pants. He had a faded rag wrapped tightly around his balding head, a thick black mole sitting right beside his wide nose, and yellowed teeth visible through a lopsided grin.
"Ahoy there! You three must be the high-and-mighty passengers Governor McGraw arranged passage for," the man called out with enthusiasm.
Raven didn't even turn her head. She gave him the coldest shoulder imaginable, her crimson eyes staring fixatedly at a distant seagull as if the man didn't even exist.
John let out a tired sigh, stepping forward to cover for her lack of hospitality.
"Are you our ride?" he asked, skipping any polite pleasantries and getting straight to the point.
The short man let out a raspy, wheezing laugh, rubbing his chin.
"Ha! Not one for small talk, I see! Fair enough, fair enough. Come this way, then."
He turned and gestured for them to follow down the rickety wooden planking.
"Name's Bob. I'm the Quartermaster aboard The Walrus."
John walked alongside him, Lea trailing silently behind while Raven kept her distance at the back. John eyed the rough-looking crew members milling about the docks, all carrying cutlasses, flintlocks, and broad daggers infused with low-grade elemental iron.
Passing close to Bob, John's perception picked up the quartermaster's subtle energy signature.
Bob was a Stage 3 Manifestation expert—not quite on Raven's tier of refined mastery, but potent enough to keep a crew of thugs in line.
"The Walrus?" John repeated, raising an eyebrow.
"Are you guys pirates?"
Bob waved his hand dismissively, letting out another chuckling snort.
"Pirates? Ah, perish the thought, mate! We've left that bloody life far behind us. We're legitimate merchant sailors now under a Governor's charter. Mostly."
John didn't buy it for a second. As they walked down the pier, he quietly observed the men loading cargo onto the massive, weather-worn vessel.
Every single sailor carried the hardened, ruthless aura of someone who had gutted men for looking at them wrong. Their bodies were covered in scars, and their eyes tracked John, Raven, and Lea like wolves eyeing fresh game.
Power-wise, most of the crew sat firmly at Stage 1, Awakener, or Stage 2, Weaver, making them dangerous muscle for ordinary folk.
Soon, they reached the base of the gangplank leading up to The Walrus.
John stopped, his gaze drifting upward toward the quarterdeck of the massive ship.
Standing at the very top was a man, staring down at them with an unreadable gaze.
His dark hair was tied back neatly behind his head, accentuating the harsh, angular lines of his face. He wore a long, dark leather coat, a heavy sword strapped securely to his hip.
He stood with his hands folded casually behind his back, his posture radiating absolute, unwavering authority—backed by the distinct, pressurized aura of a true Stage 4 Sage.
The sheer density of his Ether was oppressive, eclipsing everyone else on the docks.
His cold, calculating eyes swept over John's bruised face, Lea's quiet demeanor, and Raven's noble stature, evaluating them in a single, sweeping glance.
"That up there," Quartermaster Bob said, pointing a thumb toward the quarterdeck with a grin, "would be our Captain."
Bob led them up the creaking gangplank and onto the main deck. As soon as their boots hit the wooden planks, the captain stepped down from the quarterdeck to meet them, his boots echoing with heavy, deliberate thuds.
Up close, his presence was even more commanding. His gaze lingered for a split second on John's dark, swollen eye, then flicked to Lea, and finally settled on Raven's icy, aristocratic posture.
"Welcome aboard The Walrus," the captain said, his voice a gravelly baritone that effortlessly cut through the chaotic noise of the harbor.
He extended a broad and calloused hand toward John.
"I am Captain Flint."
John extended his own hand and gripped the captain's, matching his firm pressure. "John. This is Raven, and the girl is Lea."
"A pleasure," Flint replied, releasing his grip.
His sharp eyes lingered on the black eye sitting right beneath John's cheekbone, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
"Looks like you ran into a rough storm before even setting foot on my ship, lad."
John's jaw tightened slightly, though his face remained unreadable.
"Just a minor disagreement."
Without breaking eye contact with John, Flint turned his head toward the deck. The ship had fallen quiet; dozens of hardened crewmen had stopped hauling ropes to ogle the new passengers, their predatory eyes lingering on Raven's noble features and Lea's animal ears.
Flint let out a quiet, humored chuckle—a sound completely devoid of warmth—and raised his voice so it carried across the entire main deck.
"Listen up, you bastards!" Flint called out, a razor-sharp smile spreading across his face.
"These three are our paying guests under the Governor's charter. I expect every single one of you to act with dignity while they are aboard. Lock up your animalistic tendencies, or I'll personally throw you overboard to feed the sea beasts. Am I understood?"
The crew instantly looked away, muttering curses under their breath as they hurriedly returned to their duties.
Flint turned back toward the helm, his expression darkening slightly as he looked out at the endless grey horizon stretching across the open sea.
"Before we cast off, you three best understand what we're sailing into," Flint said, his voice cool and pragmatic.
"Crossing to the eastern continent isn't a stroll. We'll be braving the Great Whirlpool—a place where the ocean collapses into spatial anomalies. The waters around it crawl with Deep-Sea Leviathans and rank-four aquatic beasts. If a storm hits while we're navigating the vortex, not even a Sage like myself can guarantee you'll see dry land again. Keep to your quarters when the bell rings, and stay out of my sailors' way."
He turned fully toward the wheel, taking a firm grip. "Set sail! We're finished here!"
"Aye, Captain!" Quartermaster Bob bellowed, shouting orders to the sailors to weigh anchor and unfurl the heavy canvas sails.
John side-eyed Flint, processing the warning about the Great Whirlpool, before turning away without another word. He gestured for Lea to follow as Bob led them down the narrow wooden stairs toward the passenger quarters below deck.
Raven didn't say a word either. Passing Flint with her chin held high and her eyes fixed straight ahead, she swept past him, her cold war with John continuing down into the belly of the ship.