"Serra…""Ah… Nick…"
The sultry beauty, drenched in sweat, pushed the boy off her with a gasp, her delicate face flushed like she'd had too much wine.
"I'm telling you, it's hot enough to catch fire. Can you stop sleeping on top of me? You'll roast me alive!"
"Just a little longer…" Nick murmured, refusing to get up. She clung to Serra like an octopus, burying her face deep in the older woman's ample chest.
"What a weirdo. Haven't you ever been breastfed?"
"Wouldn't know. My mother tossed me out the moment I was born."
"You little monster. If I were your mom, I wouldn't have wanted you either." Serra pinched Nick's cheek affectionately. When this kid cleaned her face, her features were actually quite refined and pretty. Probably years of poverty and hunger had stunted her body's growth.
"You're a girl, and yet you act like such a little brute."
Serra thought of a daughter she once bore years ago but couldn't keep. She'd watched helplessly as the child was taken away, never knowing if she'd lived or died. Sighing, she said, "Nick, this job of yours, you earn a lot—but it's the kind of work that damns your soul. If there's a God, you'll go to hell for it."
"Hell? Hah…" Nick rolled onto her back, staring blankly at the ceiling. "I've been there. Wasn't that bad. Besides, if I didn't do this, you wouldn't let me live here."
"Ugh, must you be so blunt?" Serra knew she was right. In a city like Algiers, caught between rival powers, she needed protection. And Nick? She needed a cover—and a place to stay.
Mutual benefits. Who had time for sympathy?
She sold wine, sold herself too. Maybe she didn't kill anyone, but would God spare her after death?
Serra, disinterested now, got up and began dressing. "Got plans today?"
Nick: "Just reporting to the captain. That's all."
Serra: "Eat before you go. And come by Medusa tonight for a round."
Nick buried her head in the pillow. "Mm-hmm…"
"Keeping watch" at the bar mostly meant sitting around and throwing out the occasional troublemaker. But ever since Nick started, no one dared stir up trouble.
Serra added, "Drink some milk! You're malnourished. Ugh… feels like I've adopted a son again…" She grabbed a mirror, checking for new wrinkles.
Nick didn't get up until the sun was already high. Normally a light sleeper, she'd startle at the slightest sound—but when embraced, especially by someone like Serra, warm and soft, she slept like a rock. That peace alone was worth paying top coin to live in the madam's house.
"My mother tossed me out when I was born." That was a lie.
Nick vaguely remembered a tender embrace, someone humming softly to her. But that was long ago. What she really remembered was her uncle. Everyone else was just a passerby in her life.
From afar, the white palace on the hill amazed her. Up close, it left her speechless.
So this was what real money looked like.
Though perched by the sea, Algiers was dry and arid—people queued hours just for well water. But inside Khayr al-Din's palace, fountains flowed with crystal water. White marble basins, carved aqueducts, and steps of imported stone told of obscene wealth.
Luxury wasn't about the best. It was about the most expensive.
Dazed, Nick wandered through fluttering white curtains, dreaming of eating white bread to her heart's content. This palace could buy enough to last a lifetime.
Despite its grandeur, the palace was nearly empty. Only in the back courtyard did she spot a tall man with red hair. Khayr al-Din wore long leather bracers, and a sharp-eyed black hawk perched on his arm.
The hawk glanced at her and screeched. The captain fed it a piece of raw meat, then turned with a grin.
"Our little tough guy has arrived."
In the Persian-style reception room, Khayr al-Din sprawled onto a cushioned bench. A woman in pink veils glided in with a tray of fruit.
She looked like someone from a sultan's harem—translucent veil, poetic eyes. Nick stared dumbly. She was even more beautiful than Serra, and with a bigger chest.
Catching his gaze, the woman giggled, twirled with a flourish, and vanished behind the curtains.
"You into that type?" Khayr al-Din teased. "Heard your lady's a mature one too."
"No, I just like to slee—cough, these fruits are really fresh." Nick grabbed a peach, hoping to change the subject.
Khayr al-Din studied him—maybe the woman's care had softened this child's edges. He looked less like a skinny waif and more like a flushed apple.
Nick devoured fruit like a squirrel. Only after swallowing a mouthful did he remember:
"I'm here to report in, Captain. Got something for me?"
"Just checking if your goodwill funds have run out."
"I've got six gold left. Treated people to drinks: 12 gold, 16 silver, 4 copper. Cleared debts: 15 gold, 2 silver. Paid medical fees for injured fighters: 7 gold, 32 copper. These debts… mostly unrecoverable."
Nick listed everything carefully, feeling guilty—he'd secretly kept 3 gold for Serra's 'monthly support.'
Khayr al-Din chuckled dryly. "I didn't tell you to lend money. Kindness doesn't come with refunds."
This kid was fuzzy in many ways but sharp as a blade when it came to food and money.
"Money should make more money," Nick protested. "Spending without return is bad business."
"Who taught you that?"
"My uncle. Asa."
Khayr al-Din frowned. "Now you work for me, you follow my rules. If I say spend, you spend like water."
"That's wasteful…"
Seeing the puzzled and pained look on Nick's face, the captain sighed. Aside from raising birds and beasts, he hadn't mentored anyone in a long time.
"The assault squad isn't about solo heroics. You're not a war god. You think you're invincible? You think you can fight from dawn till midnight?"
Nick shook her head. Endurance was her biggest flaw. She couldn't afford injuries—if her body failed, the sea witch wouldn't fly again.
"You're fast," Khayr al-Din continued. "But charging too far ahead, getting surrounded—how many times has that happened now? If your teammates can't back you up, you'll go down hard someday."
Nick listened quietly.
What did teamwork mean? No one had ever helped her when she was starving, when she was beaten. She had always, always been alone.
Khayr al-Din stood, tossed her a pouch of coins. "Think about it. Keep spending."
Nick took the pouch, pocketed a tangerine, and headed down the hill.
Obeying the captain's orders, Nick began tossing money around among the pirate crews of Algiers. And it worked.
The assault squad's job was to be the first to board an enemy ship and carve a path for others. The danger was extreme. And their leader's courage and generosity (with the captain's money) earned their loyalty.
Soon, "Captain Nick" of the Medusa became a respected name.
From then on, Nick believed: money wasn't everything—it was ten everythings. A hundred. A thousand.
But Khayr al-Din's worry proved valid. No matter how loyal her crew was, not a single one could match Nick's speed.
One August day, the Red Lion caught a large Genoese merchant ship near Sardinia. Under Khayr al-Din's command, the Sea Witch fired from upwind, killing a third of the enemy's crew. Then, sails half-lowered, they moved in.
Nick flung herself aboard with her scythe whip to clear the way. But a sudden gust of wind caught the merchant ship's full sails—it surged ahead half a mile, snapping the boarding hooks. Nick was stranded.
Normally, she'd manage, but this ship had top-tier weapons. A volley of musket fire left splinters in her shoulder and leg. Her speed dropped instantly.
Several mercenaries—wielding iron maces immune to her blades—surrounded her. She couldn't dodge, couldn't parry.
Fortunately, Nick was a master of getting ganged up on. She dropped to the ground and attacked their legs.
Ten minutes later, the Sea Witch caught up. Khayr al-Din handed off command and personally jumped aboard. He found his assault captain amid a pile of bloody legs.
He scooped her up, leapt back to the Sea Witch, and threw her onto a cot in the infirmary. His face was thunderous.
"Next time you charge like that, go straight to hell!"
He reached to tear open her shirt around the wound. Nick paled. Victor threw down his silver scalpel and lunged.
"Did you wash your hands?!"
Khair al-Din glared. "Your germophobia is getting absurd. Want to sterilize the air before breathing it?"
Victor blocked him. "Absolutely. Unfortunately, the tech isn't there yet. Captain, in this room—I'm the boss. Out."
Khair al-Din hesitated. But Victor's contract gave him full medical authority. He pulled aside the curtain and left.
"Don't leave splinters in. Stitch neatly," he warned before going.
Victor raised a hand solemnly. "I'll make her look like she was never hurt."
As the captain exited, Victor locked the door and yelled:
"Look at your shirt—torn to shreds! And how filthy are you? You dare lie on my clean bed like this?"
Nick protested, "The captain put me here!"
Victor glared at the muddy sheets. "I've never seen that man rush like that over an injury."
Nick's eyes sparkled. "Victor, did you see him? The captain is so cool! He cut a mace in half with one swing! I wish I had that kind of strength."
Victor snorted. "His arms are thicker than your legs. You think you can match his muscle fibers? Maybe next life."
He cleaned the wound, dumped alcohol in like water. Nick flinched but didn't cry out.
Victor grumbled, but was secretly impressed—this kid had a pain tolerance better than any veteran.
As he cut open her trousers to treat her leg, he saw countless old scars.
"What happened here?"
"Dog bites," Nick said casually, eyes scanning for food. "Got anything to eat? I'm starving."
"You just had lunch less than ninety minutes ago!"
"Fast metabolism."
Victor muttered about dissecting her stomach, then pulled a small gingerbread from his drawer, wrapped in silk. He handed it over using two fingers.
"What did you steal that made dogs bite you?"
"Just some oranges."
Victor examined the scars. No way that was just one dog—or one time.
"You stole a family heirloom or something?"
"Nope. Just picked fruit. Didn't know the grove had guard dogs."
Victor clenched his teeth. To sic a whole pack of dogs on a starving child—only a monster would do that.
"Honestly, without those dogs, I wouldn't be so fast today. And with my scythe, there's not much difference between a pack of dogs and a pack of men."
She reached for another biscuit.
Victor cleaned the wound and applied a light bandage. "Don't touch it. With the heat, too many layers will fester."
Looking her over, he cringed. "You're filthy. Mud, oil, dried blood in your hair—how can you even eat?"
Nick dusted off cookie crumbs. "That ship carried olive oil. Barrels broke. I rolled on the deck—how could I not get messy?"
Victor pulled out a rare rose-scented soap, holding it like it was toxic. "Go wash. Don't get the wound wet."
Nick sniffed the soap—pink and sweet, like a candy.
But where could she bathe? Freshwater was scarce aboard; two or three liters per person a day, most of it for drinking.
Just then, outside the porthole, a few naked men jumped into the sea, scrubbing off grime in the clear, cool water.
"…I'm not eating fish tonight," Victor said, face pale with disgust.
"Being a man is so convenient," Nick sighed enviously.
The only private bathroom on this ship… was in the captain's quarters.