By What Right?

The weather over the Endless Sea was notoriously fickle. At midday, after an unheralded tempest and gale howled across the waters, a tyrannical sun abruptly leaped into the heavens, casting down blistering rays that stung the eyes and shattered against the undulating swells into hundreds of millions of glittering sparks. Such a commonplace sight had long ceased to draw anyone's notice, nor was it destined to last. Before long, dark clouds rolled forward on the howling wind. As the daylight abruptly turned gloomy, the entire world sank into darkness, and a faint mist rose once more from the surface of the sea. The world plummeted abruptly back into the netherworld. Under the chill breeze, a rust-encrusted weather vane perched atop the highest point of an abandoned drilling platform, groaning and creaking as it spun. It defied ordinary imagination that such a colossal structure could exist in this treacherous expanse of sea, fraught with turbulent magnetic fields and perpetual surging breakers. Anchored to the decommissioned platform, countless slave laborers had expanded and built upon it night and day over the years. Myriad crisscrossing pylons plunged into the sea, interlocking with one another, until they ultimately held aloft a small town-like island over the vast ocean. It answered to no city-state and appeared on no map—a hidden settlement devoid of law enforcement and legal codes, lacking treaties and all forms of official protection. This was one of the few pirate havens in the western Endless Sea. —Slut Town. Expecting that bunch of illiterate water ghosts to come up with an elegant name was asking far too much of minds that hadn't even graduated from prenatal education. The town bore this moniker solely because the shrill whistling of the wind tearing through those haphazard structures evoked crude, lewd associations in their minds. In truth, however, the town itself was no different from a greedy, conniving harlot. Contraband, armaments, smuggled luxuries, and even general merchandise—virtually everything that could be found on the market, as well as things that couldn't, could be tracked down within its stalls. Middlemen operating under assumed identities manned battered, rust-eaten tin shacks, yet the figures involved in the deals they brokered were staggeringly vast. Not to mention the provisions and replenishment of vital necessities like fresh water, fuel, and munitions: even marked up tens or hundreds of times over, those stranded without alternatives had no choice but to meekly part with their coin and submit to the slaughter. Even if the general quality of the pirates was nothing more than a pile of filth, let alone possessing any decency, anyone entertaining wicked thoughts would undoubtedly look out toward the harbor before making a move. They would gaze upon the retired imperial battleship anchored there, eyeing its dark main battery and immense firepower, as well as the countless modified gunboats bristling with weaponry that encircled it. They had to consider the General's methods, and the Blood Cleansing Fleet's fearsome notoriety! Unlike its usual desolation, the crude and makeshift port was now packed with vessels of every shape and size. Nearly every ship bore more or less noticeable scars of battle. Whenever the crewmen on the decks locked eyes, their expressions turned grim and murderous, belying the warm, familial atmosphere feigned by the captains within. Such was the nature of a so-called pirate alliance. Everyone dredged a living from the Endless Sea; how could they not have had friction and bloody skirmishes in the past? The top bosses might still muster smiles to mask their curses and malice, but how could crewmen who had crossed swords only a short time ago offer one another pleasant looks? Unfortunately, no fighting broke out. Holding their noses, they displayed a rare magnanimity, tolerating each other for the common good. After all, since the barbarians of the Northern Realm's frozen tundra had rallied their forces again last year to launch another Battle of the White River, life had grown miserable for everyone. The northern cities had spent immense fortunes this time around. The two sides were locked in a mortal struggle across the White River permafrost zone, severed heads rolling as seawater ran red with blood. Countless shipping lanes had been disrupted, leaving the water ghosts desperately starved for coin. Many had even been dragged into the fray—after all, the water ghosts on the sea these days had origins of one sort or another, tangled in murky dealings with numerous city-states. To strike at the northern cities and sever their supply lines, the Northern Realm fleets had fanned out to pillage everywhere, hunting down and mercilessly thrashing any water ghosts who dared provide covert assistance to the north. Even the southern and western reaches had been thrown into chaos as a result; once blades were drawn, who cared where you were from? Money was hard to earn, shit was bitter to swallow, and life was grueling. To hold out any hope, one had to find some profit somewhere—or find an adoptive daddy to cozy up to, begging for an opening and some scraps of leftovers. And serving as the organizer and leading big daddy of this 'adopt-a-daddy' coalition was the undisputed despot of Slut Town, the 'General' of the Blood Cleansing Fleet. Pacquiao Soto Giddens! Compared to his outside notoriety as a bloodthirsty butcher who burned, pillaged, and devoured children alive, it was difficult to imagine that the real General was an emaciated, withered old man with a brand-iron scar across his face. His bald head was covered in liver spots, and he spoke in a listless, drowsy manner. Yet inside the assembly hall, not a single one of those unruly captains and water ghosts dared step out of line. Whenever those cloudy old eyes glanced downward, a chilling, piercing glint would emerge from within. "What did Ling Liu have to say?" "My apologies, General, but Master Liu has not been in good health lately." Seated lower down, the representative of the Gray Port Wild Gathering—a bearded young man named Ling Shuo—smiled with feigned regret and replied in fluent southern dialect: "With so many pressing affairs of late, Master Liu truly cannot spare the attention. To demonstrate his support, he specially dispatched us juniors along with a fleet to bolster your prestige, General." "Bullshit." Pacquiao cast a scornful, undisguised glare. "What? That wasn't how he acted in past years, was it? Every time, his maw was stretched wide, yet this time he suddenly has no interest?" "Master Liu naturally has his considerations, but Chen Xingzhou is no soft target... Moreover, there is a mad dog in Quancheng." Ling Shuo sighed with regret. "Last time, that good-for-nothing Ling Zhou acted on his own initiative and caused Master Liu to lose immense face, nearly drawing a reprimand from the Chief. Naturally, he is unwilling to repeat the mistake. "However, before I came, Master Liu instructed that should you be interested, General, he is willing to assist you in coordinating across various regions and providing aid. "As for the compensation..." He paused, raised two fingers, and smiled with honest affability: "The share remains unchanged: just twenty percent." The moment those words fell, absolute silence descended upon the assembly hall. Before Pacquiao Giddens could speak, countless captains and water ghosts leaped up, cursing furiously—Are you fucking mad? For just fencing some loot, laundering dirty money, liaising with suppliers, and playing backup, you fucking expect a twenty percent cut of the profits? Why don't you go die? Ling Shuo was naturally not one to back down, firing retorts back at them. For a time, there were those stirring up the fire, those throwing provocations, and those sarcastically enjoying the spectacle. The assembly hall descended into utter chaos once more—until a crisp tapping sound echoed from the seat of honor. Pacquiao tapped his walking cane. Instantly, all cacophony vanished without a trace. In the dead silence, a violent surge of spiritus ripples swept outward. A scarlet gleam suddenly surged within those dazed, aged eyes—ferocious and brutal, like a demon baring its true form, chilling everyone into terrified silence. Just like that, amid the hush, Pacquiao turned back to look at Ling Shuo, his smile unchanged and as kindly as ever. "How could a kid like you call the shots on a matter like this? "If Ling Liu wants twenty percent, of course he can have it. But... he has to tell me to my face. Understand?" For a moment, Ling Shuo was silenced, breaking into a cold sweat under the gaze of those eyes. He spoke no further. The meeting resumed. Under Pacquiao's indifferent watch, the ideas of the various factions were unified—and a makeshift new outfit called the 'Slut Town Pirate Coalition Rainy Season Special Pillaging Operation Command Center' was finally cobbled together. Toward the end of the meeting, someone hurried in, leaned down, and whispered into Pacquiao's ear. Pacquiao nodded with a smile and tapped his cane once more. Only this time, the oppressive chill and brutality from before were gone, replaced by genial warmth. "It just so happens that Jonathan is returning. Allow me to introduce him to all of you." Motioning for everyone to stay, he said slowly: "I don't have many children, but Jonathan is the most capable of the lot. Just a few months ago, he advanced to Regeneration. Some of you might not know him yet, but this time I intend to have him step forward in my stead to oversee this operation. "You uncles and elder brothers, when you meet him out on the sea in the future, please give me face and look after him a bit." "Ha, listen to what you're saying!" "The new waves push the old!" "I watched Jonathan grow up—I could tell at a glance he was destined for greatness!" "Who knows, we might all have to rely on his care in the future!" Flattery erupted instantly like clattering drums and gongs. Seeing the old fellow pushing his heir to the fore, everyone naturally chimed in with praise, racking their brains to string together fine words. After all, mutual flattery cost nothing, and pretty words wouldn't shave off a pound of flesh. Yet all of a sudden, the smile vanished from Pacquiao's face. The dark ferocity surfacing in the eyes of that withered, ancient face surpassed anything seen before, rattling the entire hall so violently that it shuddered and shook. He had already turned his gaze toward the window. His fury was uncontrollable! Amid the thick sea fog, a familiar vessel gradually emerged. Before drawing close, the radio channel followed protocol to verify the countersign with the port and report its status. Yet for some reason, the static was unusually loud this time, continuous interference making it difficult to hear clearly. The dark-skinned supervisor on duty in the monitoring tower confirmed repeatedly, finally hearing a familiar voice. "Everything is normal... preparing to dock." Only, for some reason, the voice sounded trembling, distorted, and hard to make out. Moreover, it kept repeating, looping again and again... until countless tangled words piled atop one another, turning into a chilling screech of weeping and shrieking: "Everything... everything is normal... nor-nor-nor-normal... help... docking... docking docking docking... help... Tower, report, everything is normal, normal, help, save me... normal... AAAAAAHHHH!" In the end, an ear-splitting shriek erupted abruptly. That wailing voice roared on, sobbing and choking, cursing or praying in indescribable chaos. Only a sinister chill echoed through the channel, steeped in venom and despair. And when the thin mist cleared beneath the harsh sun that rose as the storm clouds parted, everyone finally laid eyes on it... A battered vessel riddled with thousands of holes and fissures. As if its innards and eyes had been crudely scooped out, leaving only a hollow, cracked iron shell, the rust-streaked ship spun lazily, drifting slowly toward Slut Town on its final dregs of fuel and residual propulsion. Dried bloodstains coated every surface of the hull. Scattered across the deck were remnants already bloated and rotting under the heat, empty black eye sockets facing the blazing sun. On their mangled faces, curved fractures stretched toward both sides, resembling exaggerated, mocking grins. And most striking of all... was the dying figure on the ship's bow. Suspended midair by chains, barely clinging to life. As if terrified he might die prematurely, a medicinal solution was suspended beside him, slowly dripping into his veins. His tears had long run dry. All that remained was a struggle and despair etched to the bone. Now, seeing Slut Town in sight, he began struggling again, whimpering softly. Yet rather than excitement, it was pure terror. He only wanted to flee as fast as possible... Unfortunately, it was too late. A giant hand of blood materialized out of thin air, reaching out to seize Colonel Jonathan suspended in the air. Whistling through the gale, it hurled him onto the floor of the assembly hall. He passed out instantly. But more unfortunately still, even his father possessed no tenderness at this moment; blood-flames crudely incinerated and pierced him, forcing him awake. Sensing the myriad wounds within him, his hanging thread of life, his fractured soul, and his hollow, gutted spirit, Pacquiao's expression grew ever colder. Without waiting for him to question, Jonathan was already screaming in agony, weeping as he wriggled forward to clutch his father's trouser leg: "Father, Father, it wasn't me, it was that craftsman... it was Ji..." At that moment, something rolled out from his bosom. It was a severed human head. Gulps of cold air swept through the crowd. Who could fail to recognize that face? It was Tu Sihai, the man in the Blood Cleansing Fleet in charge of laundering money and strategic planning! Instantly, the sounds of people taking their leave rang out. Everyone scrambled to find excuses—a dead father, a mother giving birth, a flare-up of an old wound. Anyone who stayed at a time like this had to have a death wish. Regrettably, it was still too late. Spiritus lingered within that meticulously preserved human head. Through alchemy's deliberate processing, the moment it was triggered, the information stored inside was released. A blurred image manifested from the floating light of spiritus. Then came a soft sigh. "What a pity, but I refuse." "I hate bratty kids, especially overgrown adult babies like you... If you're going to die, please do me the favor of dying outside Haizhou. Don't come crawling before me to be an eyesore..." Those gentle words echoed through the assembly hall, ringing in everyone's ears. Even those who had already stepped out the door could not escape them—the senses of Celestial Chosen were tragically acute; not hearing it was simply not an option. "It wasn't me, Father, it wasn't me, I... I-I..." Tormented by the blood-flames, Jonathan convulsed continuously, finding strength from who knew where to plead through snot and tears. Yet the more he spoke, the more twisted and eerie his expression became. Before it collapsed, the final suggestion planted by Blessing: Bewitched Mind activated, puppeteering him to speak against his own will, just like a marionette. "He... he-he told me to tell you... He said... he said..." Jonathan wailed and wept, unable to cover his mouth. From between his mutilated fingers, he delivered the indifferent warning sent from distant Xinquan: "—Keep your hands off my things!" Boom! In that instant, amid a tremendous roar, Jonathan violently jerked. Under the strike of the iron cane, he dissolved into flying ash, completely annihilated in body and spirit. Not a trace remained. Immediately after, however, some chain reaction seemed to have been set off... As the sea shook and the gale howled, everyone heard a terrifying roar coming from near the port! The battered ghost ship abruptly detonated. Flames soared to the heavens as countless drops of phlogiston poured down like rain, showering over Slut Town and instantly causing thick smoke to billow from every corner of the settlement. Wailing echoed endlessly. Even several ships berthed at the harbor were caught in the blast, eliciting mournful shrieks of despair from their owners and water ghosts. The whole of Slut Town was plunged into utter chaos. Yet through it all, General Pacquiao remained silent, saying nothing. Only the shameful scar seared by a branding iron across his face grew flushed and crimson, as if fresh blood were seeping from it once more... Looking down at the dying embers at his feet, not a single ray of light remained in his eyes. Only pitch-black void. After a long while, he finally squeezed a voice through gritted teeth, raspy and sullen: "Ji Jue..." *** In less than half a day, the news of the attack on Slut Town and the humiliation suffered by the General spread to virtually every water ghost. Could anyone these days fail to afford a phone or radio? With so many witnesses to such a major incident, how could word not leak? What was more, there were plenty who feared there wasn't enough drama and pushed the fire from the shadows, kicking up a massive storm in no time. They described Pacquiao's furious reaction with vivid, trenchant detail. Soon after, the Blood Cleansing Fleet began its muster and expansion once again, making no effort to conceal it—drilling troops, readying weapons... These days, it wasn't just righteous folk who cared about reputation; even pirates minded it. Notoriety was still a reputation. In fact, it was even more vital! If this grudge went unavenged, the so-called Blood Cleansing General would become nothing more than a laughingstock. He might as well change his name to Pacquiao the Clown, so anyone passing by could piss in his face. That afternoon, Chen Xingzhou's call reached Xinquan. "You played things a bit big this time, didn't you?" He remarked with sighing amusement: "A bounty on your head has already been posted in the Wild Gathering. The price isn't low at all—even I felt tempted looking at it. This time, you've really backed that old bastard into a corner; the scale is going to be even bigger than before." Outside the workshop, Ji Jue looked up at the cloud-choked sky and smiled silently. "Has the Dragon Head called to urge me to turn back before it's too late?" After a slight pause, he asked with curiosity: "Or do you intend to match the bet?" "Heh, trust you, kid..." Chen Xingzhou grinned, seemingly slapping his knee in delight. "Trying to drag me into the water already. Had it planned all along? Aren't you getting a little ahead of yourself? Weren't you worried I wouldn't take the bait?" To this, Ji Jue replied calmly: "It doesn't matter to me if you stay out of it, but are you sure you don't want to match?" Such a golden opportunity was placed right in front of Chen Xingzhou. As a newly minted Dragon Head and the representative of Yacheng's Wild Gathering, how could he better establish his authority—and even expand his reach... Was there any better way than a fight to the death where severed heads rolled, crowned with ultimate victory? Now that Chen Xingzhou had bought shares in Haichao Industry and tied himself to all of Haizhou, he certainly could no longer do the heartless, unconscionable things Lei Wuye used to do. Not only could he not do them, but he also had to step out with banners held high to oppose these water ghosts coming ashore, issuing a warning to let them know that stepping over the line meant death. With Ji Jue handing him such a prime opportunity, how could his heart not be moved? To that, Chen Xingzhou could only sigh softly: "It's truly a pity you didn't become a White Stag." "Tianyuan said the same thing." Ji Jue shrugged, sighing with faux regret. Since both sides had the intention and the interest, they hit it off naturally without needing further prodding or posturing. Chen Xingzhou said decisively: "Uncle Lin will take people over tomorrow. I've instructed him that everything is at your disposal." Ji Jue smiled. "Thanks for the support." "We're on the same side; why be polite?" Chen Xingzhou's tone grew increasingly genial. "Still, ugly words first: what belongs to the Wild Gathering goes to the Wild Gathering." "Just a moment ago you said we're on the same side and shouldn't be polite, and now you want clear accounts?" Ji Jue shook his head in amusement, but did not refuse. He simply told him: "What belongs to the Wild Gathering goes to the Wild Gathering, and what belongs to the Security Bureau goes to the Security Bureau." With that, Chen Xingzhou understood: "The rest goes to you?" "What would I want that trash for?" Ji Jue shook his head nonchalantly. "If there's anything useful among the scrap, have Chen Yubo help me sort through it. I don't have much interest in it." "...Then what on earth do you want?" "Yeah, what do I want?" He mused, looking up at the rain and gloom in the sky as if in contemplation, before smiling. "I want them dead." Dead, dead, dead, dead, dead! What he wanted was just that simple. By what right could a bunch of water ghosts from god-knows-where run rampant, treating Xinquan like their backyard to plunder and pillage at will? By what right should he, after laboring painstakingly to lay down the foundation and framework from the ruins of Quancheng, have some bullshit general from god-knows-where show up and demand that he beg on his knees for scraps? By what right should the sliver of hope and fertile ground that Lord Tao sacrificed everything to preserve, burning out his very soul, be trampled with such contempt by a bunch of garbage like them? And by what right did you pathetic, useless excuses for men have to strut before my eyes and grate on my nerves?! Just as Tianlu had once said of the original sin of Embers. Craftsmen were simply like this. Whether base or noble, arrogance, pride, and even presumption were bred into their very bones! True, the affairs of the world were too vast, chaotic, and tangled; the words of a petty craftsman like Ji Jue carried little weight, and the distances were too great to measure. Yet if confined merely to this tiny wilderness of Haizhou... If that useless filth could rule the roost in this wilderness, why shouldn't I! With that, Ji Jue reached out his hand.