Nestled along the Caribbean shoreline, Port Royal was a city of contrast, refined English civility clashing with the rough breath of the open sea.
Max, aboard the Knight's Oath, eyed the island through his spyglass.
High stone walls and towering watchtowers guarded the harbour, cannons ever trained outward, always wary of pirate sails appearing on the horizon.
"So that's Port Royal," he exhaled dreamily, recalling the details of this place, where everything began.
By some twisted fate, his own missions in this world had far too much to do with this very location.
Even the noble identity he'd inherited came with burdens, expectations, duties, and the pressure to live up to someone else's legacy.
His hopes relied on this destination.
Turning to the crew, he pulled back the spyglass from his eyes. Taking in a deep breath, he roared, "Lower the sails!"
The sailors immediately hurried, reaching out to the ropes, pulling them back and coiling them around the mast and supports.
The ship's speed receded, visible to the naked eye.
Meanwhile, Marco left to inspect the ship in preparation for the awaited harbour inspection.
A ship like the Knight's Oath, armed with cannons and battle-ready men, could not dock in the harbour, managed and controlled by the British, with impunity.
If it had been one or two people with a seemingly small ship, bribery might have worked. However, for him, carrying himself like a merchant, the risk was greater.
Furthermore, stationed officers often snatched more bribes from merchant ships than dirt-poor pirates, who were often criminals without even a ship.
While Marco and the crew were busy handling their duties, Max kept his gaze locked on the harbour, growing closer with every passing second.
He looked through the spyglass again, his gaze sweeping across the huge walls of the fort. He dug into his memories and recalled its name—Fort Charles.
Fort Charles loomed over the harbour, its guns always ready, manned by scarlet-coated British soldiers under strict discipline.
"Pretty difficult to breach," he muttered, such an audacious and dreadful thought in a whisper.
Normally, no sane person would entertain such an idea. If the citizens of Port Royal heard him, they'd laugh their asses off.
However, unknown to them, pirates were an insane breed, a large number of crazy bastards, often fearing death at the last moment.
Yet what if death refused to accept them in its embrace?
The thought alone was enough to send shivers down one's spine, soaking them in cold sweat.
Soon, the ship sailed into the shallows near the island. Max stuffed the spyglass back into its place.
His gaze wandered toward three skeletons hanging by a rock formation, supported by a wooden structure.
Beside the skeletons, a board engraved with letters hung for every approaching ship and sailor to see.
"Pirates, ye be warned," he read aloud.
The crew near him perked up at his words. They turned toward him, their gazes following, also reading the ominous board.
One of the men, brutish and rough yet somewhat disciplined, a testament to his service, stepped forward. He clearly used to be a servant of the Knights', fallen, yet noble nonetheless.
He cackled boisterously, "Captain, don't you worry. These muscles of mine have slain many pirates."
"Yeah," another one added, "these warnings scare most of the freaks away anyway. Nothing to worry about."
They all laughed heartily.
Max chuckled along, but his eyes lingered on the warning sign a little longer before drifting to the red-coated British soldiers on the fortress walls.
He smirked mockingly, watching the scarlet-uniformed men managing their cannons and rifles.
"I want to see how these guys—who've never even dreamed of a real pirate raid, will handle the insufferable bunch following Captain Barbossa."
His voice was too low for others to hear, yet it carried a heavy weight within it.
Gradually, their ship reached the docks.
"Drop the anchor!" he yelled as he carefully moored the ship.
His crew rhythmically followed his orders, and Marco joined him within the timeframe.
Slowly, the ship stationed itself at the dock. Max's eyes lingered over the crew before turning to Marco.
"Settle everything with the docks," he gestured toward the men. "Have them settled in a tavern, and drinks on me as promised."
Marco nodded. "Gladly, Master."
He then turned to the crew and ordered loudly, "Unload the barrels and crates!"
Since they were travelling under the guise of merchants, the Knights' Oath naturally had materials and items to trade from London.
Leaving all business matters in Marco's capable hands, Max stepped down onto the dock.
He took in a deep breath at the sight before him.
The place was a maze of weather-beaten piers and moored ships. The air was thick with the scent of brine, fish, and tar.
Merchant ships, naval vessels, and the occasional privateer vessel usually crowded the harbour, though today, no privateer ships were around.
Dockworkers scurried over creaking wood and flapping sails as barrels, crates, and ropes were endlessly loaded and unloaded.
Max stood there, taking it all in. He grinned.
"Let's visit the city before it gets looted," he mused with a chuckle, stepping forward into the beating heart of Port Royal.
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