While Max was soaking in the chill of the passing wind through his skin, letting the sensation settle into him, a few hushed whispers and bustling murmurs tickled his ears.
"Captain seems out of it."
"Hush, think before you speak… Maybe he's sick or something."
"Haah. What do you know? He just needs the embrace of a woman. I'll introduce him to Jane—she once made me forget all my stress."
"Jane of Port Royal?"
"Yeah. She even confessed to me that night. But...I'll sacrifice her for the Captain."
"… she told me I had the biggest one she's ever seen and said she fell for it."
"…"
A vein pop on Max's forehead. This banter strangely flaring his irritation. His head throbbed as he turned toward the noise, scowling fiercely.
However, he wasn't the first to react.
"YOU BASTARDS!"
A thunderous roar exploded behind him. He flinched, nearly bolting, before gulping hard and cautiously turning around.
Marco stood behind him, a venomous glare on his face, eyes locked on the crew.
The sailors, ready to duke it out seconds ago, froze, fists clenched mid-air. They swallowed their words and quickly looked away, whistling as they dispersed.
"We just wanted to help…"
Though they shuffled away, they still whispered shameless things under their breath.
'Are these guys crazy or what…?' Max sighed tiredly. These bastards were fearless, daring to gossip about him and challenge Marco head-on. Everyone aboard knew Marco's loyalty ran deeper than the ocean itself.
Yet these sailors carried a mischievous grin, completely unbothered by his wrath. Marco frowned, his gaze following them until they vanished from sight.
Max shrugged, the corners of his lips twitching with amusement. Rough they may be, but these men were among the last loyal remnants of his family's legacy.
"Let it go, Marco," he said calmly.
"Master, they need restraint. I'll increase their drills later."
Max noticed a glint in Marco's eyes and felt cold sweat trickle down his spine. He prayed silently for the crew's survival.
Diverting the topic, Max asked, "Marco, when will we reach our destination?"
"Hmm… destination?" Marco turned to him. The cold glare vanished from his face, replaced by his usual composed tone. "Port Royal is about a day away. Tomorrow morning, I'll serve tea there."
"Oh." Max nodded, thoughtful. "I'll be in my cabin. Call me if necessary."
"Master…"
Just as Max turned to leave, Marco's hesitant expression caught his attention. Max raised an eyebrow, urging him to continue.
Marco stammered, but braced himself and asked, "Have you decided what to do about the warning… from London?"
The sudden mention stung. Bitter memories surged, memories belonging to Maxwell Knight of this world. His gaze darkened. He remembered the real objective of his mission.
His expression turned uncertain, shadowed by firm resolve.
"I'll think about it," he replied indifferently.
Marco looked like he wanted to say more, but Max's eyes silenced him. With a bow, Marco stepped back. Max left without another word.
His steps carried him toward the captain's quarters. As the heir of this ship—Knight's Oath, built under his family's name, it was rightfully his.
Descending the stairs, he passed reinforced wooden doors with heavy iron locks.
Behind them lay the captain's domain.
Creak—
He grabbed the knob and stepped inside.
Dark wood panelling greeted his eyes. Bookshelves, old maps sprawled over a desk, some rare artefacts, and a faded velvet chair that once adorned a noble estate added to the regal aura.
A separate compartment held a bed and a curtained alcove. Custom-made, of course.
This little section had a chamber pot and a slot to dump the waste out to sea.
Max grimaced. He gulped nervously.
"Let's not focus there…" he muttered, a shiver crawling down his spine.
He walked toward the chair. Running his fingers over the armrest, he took a deep breath before sitting down.
The soft cushion embraced him. His eyebrows raised.
"Even in this era… this quality?"
Clearly, this wasn't mass-produced. Hand-crafted, most likely—some skilled artisan must've been paid a fortune. In fact, the entire ship bore the artistic signature of the golden age of knights.
Unlike merchant vessels or even royal navy ships, Knight's Oath had been commissioned custom made during the Knights' rise, when their name hadn't yet faded.
It had continued to receive upgrades over the years and now stood superior to many newer models.
Not that it was ancient, just… expensive.
The money poured into its construction could rival the treasury of a mid-tier noble house.
A smile crept across Max's face. Slowly, it twisted into something darker. More memories returned, memories tied to this ship.
He shook his head.
"Sorry… but I have to focus on my mission. I can't afford to solve your problems right now."
Whom those words were for, even he didn't know. Still, his fingers danced across the desk, the chair, the walls.
The soul might forget. Identities might shift.
But the body remembers.
He closed his eyes, heavy with exhaustion, and leaned back for some much-needed rest.
….
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