Free Web NovelThe door to the captain's cabin was tightly shut.
Thick silk carpets covered the floor, making footsteps nearly silent.
In the corner stood a chandelier carved from a single piece of crystal, an old style from the Emerald Federation workshops; the light it cast was fragmented and gentle.
A full set of gold wine utensils sat on the table, the walls of the cups so excessively thin that they seemed meant for display rather than use.
Ambergris was burning, but the amount used was far too heavy.
The cloying, sweet scent hung heavy in the air, so thick it was pungent and nearly dizzying.
But even so, a lingering fishy smell remained deep in the room, like dead fish dragged up from the deep sea and left to molder under the deck for days.
The candlelight flickered slightly.
The bed curtains shook violently, emitting a series of rapid, chaotic friction sounds before suddenly stopping, followed by a deathly silence.
Balke lay flat on his back on the bed, his chest heaving heavily, every breath carrying a noise like a broken bellows.
He was drenched in sweat yet shivering with cold, his soaked back pressed against the mattress as chills seeped into his bones in waves.
He suddenly raised his hand and pushed the person beside him away: "Get lost."
The woman was pushed against the bed frame, letting out a low cry of pain.
Balke sat up and slammed a fist onto the mahogany bed frame.
The dull thud sounded particularly jarring in the luxurious captain's cabin.
A delayed sensation of pain followed; he stared at his hand as if it didn't belong to him.
Damn it, failed again.
Even with such a beauty lying beside him, his body had no reaction, like a broken ship grounded in the mud, motionless.
He looked up toward the side of the bed, where Meryl was half-kneeling, her long hair draped over her shoulders and her skin as white as snow.
Her eyes were moist and soft, as if she had been wronged, yet she was still cautiously trying to please him.
But a corner of the quilt had slipped down.
The candlelight shone on her bare shoulders and back; that layer of skin held no color, only a pallor that was almost ashen.
As she turned, a few small scales on the back of her neck twitched slightly, as if they were breathing.
Balke looked away, noticing his hand was shaking uncontrollably.
Outside the window was the sea. The night hung low, and the surface of the water rose and fell slowly, like a sleeping giant beast. He stared into that darkness, but his thoughts were dragged back to a long time ago.
Twenty years ago, he could lift an iron anchor with one hand. Hundreds of pounds felt like a spear in his grip; he could hurl the entire anchor to snap the mast of an enemy ship.
The port taverns always reserved a seat for him. Dancing girls would surround him, their laughter loud enough to cause a headache.
He remembered those nights; the next morning, there were always a few people who couldn't walk.
They called him the Prince of Black Reef, the head of the Seven Pirate Lords, the King of the Ocean, possessing the strength of a Peak Knight.
And now? He looked down at his hands, which once could grasp anything, now shaking like a raw recruit's.
The sword hilt had long since lost its weight in his palm; he couldn't even conquer a single woman.
Aging—the word slowly unfolded in his mind, crawling up his marrow like poison.
Balke grabbed the robe at the head of the bed, threw it on haphazardly, and staggered toward the table.
He brought the cup to his lips and downed a mouthful of strong liquor.
The liquid spilled over the rim, splashing onto his gray beard; its dark red color looked like blood that hadn't been wiped clean. fɾeeweɓnѳveɭ.com
Balke panted and suddenly chuckled: "Louis Calvin."
He spat the name with heavy emphasis.
"It's all because of that damned little beast." Balke slammed the wine cup onto the table with force. frёewebnoѵel.ƈo๓
"Ever since he connected Greyrock and the Northern Territory, the merchant ships in the north have completely changed!" His voice grew louder. "In the past, robbery was as simple as collecting taxes. But now? Those smoke-belching iron monsters run faster than sea beasts!"
He gestured with his hand, but it shook violently: "The hulls are as hard as turtle shells. When a cannonball hits them, all you hear is a bang!
Three years, three whole years, my brothers can only drink low-grade rum, and the treasury only sees outflows! He wants to starve me to death; he wants to drive the Prince of Black Reef to ruin!"
The smell of alcohol filled the room.
Balke blamed the dull pain in his chest and the weakness of his body entirely on that name.
In his mind, only one simple and dangerous thought remained.
As long as he defeated Louis, everything would return.
After the anger passed, Balke sat on the edge of the bed, his shoulders slumped. Once the rage receded, only a void remained.
He seemed to have suddenly aged ten years, his breathing slow and shallow, his gaze lacking focus.
Suddenly, a wave of coldness pressed against him as Meryl slid over from the side, her movements nearly silent.
She leaned in close, her icy chest pressing against his back, which was covered in cold sweat. The sensation made Balke shudder involuntarily, but he didn't pull away.
The scent in the room was changing.
The originally heavy ambergris was invaded by another smell: sweet and cloying, with a fishy undertone of decaying seawater, like the dampness left in the crevices of reefs when the night tide recedes.
This scent entered his nostrils and clung to his thoughts; his tense nerves loosened bit by bit, and his mind became dull, yet comfortable.
Meryl's fingers slid slowly across his abdomen, where the skin had long since grown slack.
"Don't blame yourself." Her voice was low and soft against his back. "You have carried too much—glory, hardships, blood. You are just tired."
Balke's Adam's apple bobbed.
"Aging is not your fault." Her tone was gentle, almost merciful. "But you are a king, and a king has the right to refuse it."
Those words were like a hook, snagging his heart.
"In my hometown," Meryl continued to whisper, "there is a secret art of the deep sea that can make withered wood sprout anew. It can allow the strongest of men... to transcend their original limits."
Balke didn't respond, but he slowly raised his head.
Meryl reached out and pulled a slender fish-bone bottle from under the pillow.
The bottle was translucent, and the liquid inside was a murky green, viscous and slow-moving.
Balke's fingers tightened as his intuition screamed that this thing was extremely dangerous.
He held the bottle, pausing in mid-air: "This thing... doesn't look like it's meant to save lives."
Meryl was in no rush; she simply held the bottle to his lips.
Just then, a thud came from outside the cabin door, followed by chaotic footsteps and the stench of alcohol.
"Prince!" The adjutant's voice was low but couldn't hide his panic. "Broken-Tooth Jack has had too much to drink! He's making a scene on the deck, saying you... saying you've lost your teeth and should give up your position!"
Those words were like a heavy blow to the chest; Balke's heart tightened and spasmed.
Jack was young, fierce, and at his peak, possessing the strength of a mid-tier Extraordinary Knight.
Twenty years ago, a character like that wouldn't even have been fit to approach him.
And now? Balke suddenly realized he was afraid.
He wasn't sure—he wasn't sure if he could still suppress that stray dog if he actually stepped onto the deck.
Meryl looked at him, the corner of her mouth curling almost imperceptibly as she leaned into his ear and gently bit his earlobe: "Do you hear that? That little dog wants to step on your head."
"Drink it. For your dignity, for this ship—don't you want to crush his throat with your own hands? Don't you want to... prove yourself one more time?"
She grabbed Balke's hand and guided the mouth of the bottle to his lips.
The insults outside the door grew clearer and clearer.
Balke closed his eyes, fear surging in them before being suppressed by something else.
He tilted his head back and swallowed the cold, viscous liquid in one gulp.
The world suddenly sank.
A ball of fire seemed to explode in his abdomen.
He felt his dried-up Battle Qi being violently refilled; his heart thudded heavily, each beat pushing a new wave of heat through him.
Exhaustion was crushed, and dullness was torn away; he felt as though he could rip through the deck itself.
In reality, he suddenly arched his back, an incoherent low growl escaping his throat.
The veins under his skin quickly turned black, bulging and twisting like living worms.
His nails shattered in an instant, replaced by new ones that were pitch-black and sharp, while his pupils contracted and elongated.
It wasn't a return to youth; something inside his body was being replaced.
Balke walked out bare-chested, wearing only a heavy coat. The torches on the deck flickered, and a wave of heat mixed with a fishy stench spread out.
Broken-Tooth Jack was stepping on an old crew member; he looked up and saw Balke, freezing for a moment before grinning. "Old man..."
Before he could finish, his vision went black.
Balke's figure was already upon him.
He grabbed Jack's neck with one hand and lifted him straight off the deck.
His fingers tightened, followed by a crisp snapping sound.
Jack's body instantly went limp, and blood splashed onto Balke's face.
The deck was deathly silent.
Balke licked the corner of his mouth and smiled: "Who else?"
The only response was the sound of people kneeling.
He laughed loudly and turned back toward the captain's cabin.
The candlelight was still flickering.
Meryl was waiting for him, and Balke lunged toward her.
...For the first few days after drinking the potion, Balke felt as if he had been rewound like a ◈ Nоvеlіgһт ◈ (Continue reading) clock.
He was on the deck bare-chested, facing the midday sun, wrestling with five sturdy sailors.
The wooden planks creaked under the strain, and the sailors' wrists made crisp snapping sounds under his grip.
Balke laughed, his voice booming yet carrying a dry rasp, like metal scraping against metal.
No one dared to challenge this Pirate King.
His skin was cold, feeling like a dead fish when it touched others.
Under the blazing sun, he didn't shed a single drop of sweat.
When the cook brought a delicious roast lamb leg, Balke took one sniff, roared that the meat was rotten, and killed the cook on the spot.
But some crew members saw him crouching in a corner of the deck, grabbing live fish from a barrel and eating them, scales, guts, and all.
Starting from the sixth day, the power within him was no longer stable, and each time it receded, it happened faster.
If he went half a day without a supplement, his skin would begin to feel tight and itchy.
Balke was restless, his fingers scratching back and forth across his chest and arms. When dead skin was torn away, what was revealed wasn't red new flesh, but a layer of translucent, hard material that felt like an unformed shell.
He stared at that layer for a long time before looking away.
When Meryl approached, the scent arrived first.
That fishy smell grew heavier and heavier; a normal person would have felt nauseous.
But in Balke's nose, it was a maddeningly sweet fragrance.
He buried his face in her hair, breathing greedily, like a drowning man catching his last breath of air.
He began to despise his own form; the figure in the mirror seemed bloated and inefficient to him.
In contrast, the tentacles and slime Meryl occasionally revealed seemed smoother and more logical in his eyes.
"This is true evolution," he told himself.
On the twelfth day, the door was burst open, and the old adjutant rushed in with a group of men, his face pale.
He had followed Balke for thirty years, yet at this moment, it was as if he were seeing the man for the first time.
"Captain," his voice trembled, "look in the mirror."
Balke stood in the shadows, his shoulders hunched and the sides of his neck covered in fine, hard ridges.
"You've grown scales," the old adjutant choked out.
Meryl hid behind Balke, pressing close, her voice so low it was almost inaudible: "He's jealous of you. He wants to stop you."
Balke looked at the old adjutant; he remembered countless nights when this man had blocked blades for him and guarded his ship.
That last bit of lingering affection flickered in his chest, and then the craving overwhelmed it.
He let out an incoherent roar and lunged forward.
Mutated claws tore through the man's throat, spraying blood onto the cabin walls.
The old adjutant wasn't dead yet as he was dragged to the gunwale.
"Don't blame me," Balke said. "The road to the throne must always be paved by someone."
The sound of the splash was very faint, like a thread being snipped.
On the fifteenth day, under Balke's compulsion, they sailed deep into the Broken Isles.
The sea cave was called the Eye of Serenity; there was no wind, the water's surface was like a black mirror, and pink mist flowed at the lower levels.
In Balke's eyes, it was a waterway leading to a temple.
Silver armor lined both sides of the rocks, and the air echoed with praise.
Meryl held his hand. Her lower body had long since turned into tentacles, climbing along the rock walls.
But in Balke's eyes, she wore a floor-length gown, her every step blooming with lotuses.
The scent deep in the cave became excessively sweet, like honeyed fruit on the verge of rot, and the air was filled with a warm pink light, so soft it felt unreal.
Balke stopped in the center, unbuckled his sword, laid aside his armor, and took off his heavy coat.
He knelt down, his bare knees sinking into the softness.
In this moment, it wasn't just equipment he laid down.
Vigilance, tension, self-preservation—the things that had accompanied him his entire life were discarded one by one.
A long-lost sense of relaxation surged up.
His breathing became steady, and the feverish look left his face; he was like a child who had finally returned home, wanting only to sleep and never wake up.
The shadow above slowly descended.
It was a parasitic Brain Jellyfish, its tentacles translucent, light, and soft, emitting a faint glow.
Meryl stood to the side, her voice low as if she were singing a lullaby: "There is no need to fight anymore, no need to be angry. Close your eyes and accept this gift."
Balke closed his eyes; he didn't feel anything foreign.
He only felt the back of his head being cradled by a pair of warm hands and gently lifted.
The sky seemed to open a crack, and golden rain fell—warm and pure, pouring in from the top of his head.
Exhaustion was washed away, fear was soothed, and aging dissipated.
He saw himself sitting on a throne amidst the clouds, the sea spreading out beneath his feet.
Those enemies shrank to dust, not even worth mentioning. He didn't need to move his arm; with just a thought, the ocean bowed its head.
An extreme sense of satisfaction welled up, complete and perfect.
"Ah..." he sighed in his heart, "this is fulfillment."
In reality, tentacles gently wrapped around the back of his head, as his scalp and bone quietly softened.
Balke's body went completely limp.
His head tilted back, and an extremely happy smile appeared on his lips, innocent and peaceful.
A tear fell from the corner of his eye, but before it could reach his chin, the light in his eyes went out.
A brief silence followed.
Then, when those eyes opened, there was no flame of ambition, only a bottomless calm.
Empty, yet seemingly compassionate.
The creature at the back of his head had already fused with him, its tentacles turning into pale blue veins beneath the skin, flickering slightly with his heartbeat.
Balke raised his hand and flexed his fingers, as if adapting to a new instrument.
The wide brim of his hat cast a shadow, just enough to hide the mutation at the back of his head.
He turned and walked toward the exit, his pace light.
Over the past two days, I've reorganized the outline. If I continued to write about climbing the tech tree and farming step-by-step, the pace would be too slow and it would easily turn into a mundane account.
So I've decided to cut most of the farming content.
