"Marco, why are you here?" Max blurted involuntarily, eyes widened with disbelief.
With knitted brows and pursed lips, Marco kept staring back. At last, he asked, "Master Max? I've been with you since we departed from London."
"London?" Max whispered in confusion. "What're you—" His words died in his throat mid-sentence.
Ding—!
A chime intervened abruptly. A sudden system interface cloaked his vision.
[Transferring the memories.]
Before he could understand, a rush of memories poured into his brain, almost melting him as blazing heat surged within.
Similar to a furnace, he felt the hammering of a blacksmith and the scorching onslaught.
Grr—
Max grabbed his head, eyes closed, the intense pain piercing him like numerous needles, as a groan of defiance escaped him. The more he resisted, the more intense it became.
Redness crawled up his neck and face, making his earlier pallor stark in contrast.
He stumbled back, legs wobbly and weak. His hand shot to the railing for support.
"Master Max!"
Terrified, Marco rushed forward, gripping Max's shoulder to steady him.
"Master Max, what happened?" Concerned, he turned and cried aloud, "Fetch the doc! Something's wrong with the captain!"
"Wait." Max waved his hand, his harsher and rough breath calming to a visible degree. He gritted his teeth and exhaled slowly.
His pale face returned to normal. The redness vanished like never before.
The torrent of memories had passed, leaving him breathless, but no longer lost. Max was beginning to understand who he was... and why he was here.
At least most of it.
His eyes stared at Marco, and understanding and wisdom were apparent, replacing his earlier frantic state.
He straightened his back with Marco's help.
"Are you sure, Master? You don't need the doc?"
Max shook his head at Marco's words. Instead, he wished to ask something else.
"Marco…" He hesitated but built courage and asked, "If you don't mind me asking… what happened to your wife, Carla?"
Marco's breath hitched. He asked cautiously, "Master, why're you asking about Carla all of a sudden?"
Max smiled weirdly, scratching his cheek. "Just wanted to know."
There was a strange silence between them. Marco watched Max, his head churning with many thoughts, but couldn't conclude.
He sighed in surrender. "I don't know what's in your head, but Carla died long ago—in childbirth, with the kid." His gaze was distant, and the wrinkles on his face shimmered with his grief.
Cough—
Max felt burdened by that expression. He cleared his throat awkwardly. "Sorry about that," he whispered in guilt.
"Don't be, Master. I've been in service to your family for so long—you must've had sufficient reason for prying."
Max managed a faint smile. His fleeting curiosity about Marco had been satisfied, now replaced by the clarity of why this man stood loyally by his side.
In this world, Max or Maxwell, had been born into this era. So had the people around him, shaped by a reality where piracy reigned and empires still vied for control of the seas.
However, unlike in the modern world, this era, had subpar medical facilities.
Childbirth deaths were common, and hence, Marco was the only one left in his family, resuming to work for the house knights.
Meanwhile, Max, for the first time, let his eyes wander around, and the view made him hiss. A whistle left his lips softly.
His gaze fell over the wooden beast stretching past—a beautiful ship, a marvel of this era.
The vessel sliced through the open sea like a blade through silk.
Its proud hull carved from dark, seasoned oak, with accents of tarnished gold still clinging to the edges—a fading echo of the nobility that commissioned her.
The last asset of the Knights.
It proudly cleaved through the crashing and coiling waves, mounting over them and raging across, speeding past the gushing winds.
Three towering masts rose above the deck, fully rigged with sails like the wings of some grand seabird, catching the wind with restless grace.
She bore the speed of a frigate, the lines of a merchant ship, and the lean hunger of a predator.
Her figurehead, once a stately lion in polished brass, had been weathered by salt and cannon fire, but its snarl still crowned the prow with defiance.
Gunports lined both sides of her flanks like gaping mouths, twenty-four on the main deck and a few more hidden beneath, compact twelve-pounders, primed for deadly broadsides.
A pair of long, narrow chasers jutted from her prow, perfect for running down slower ships or punching through a fleeing vessel's sails.
The crew, donned in light, windy outfits, perfect for sailing in such sunny, breezy weather, moved about, while a few clouds glimmered in the sky.
Max sucked in a breath, the smell of salt, the air carrying oceanic winds, and also the scent of the crew graced his nostrils. His nose scrunched somewhat; he waved it off.
He shook his head at the crew's hustle-bustle. "What madness."
Looking around, he found himself standing on the quarterdeck.
Atop the quarterdeck stood the wheel, not far from him, wide, worn, and wrapped in leather bindings, beside a brass-cased binnacle housing the ship's main compass.
A copper spyglass hung from a rail, and beneath his feet, sunlight poured through slatted skylights into his quarters below.
This ship was the gamble of the Knights, sailing in all its glory.
Her name, etched into her stern in worn gold lettering.
A breath of admiration left Max as he muttered, "The Knight's Oath."
….
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