OBS Chapter 800 - 439: Drowning in the Arms of Tenderness
Chapter 800 - 439: Drowning in the Arms of Tenderness
The door to the captain’s cabin was tightly shut.
But the air couldn’t be contained.
Thick silk rugs covered the floor, footsteps were almost inaudible upon them.
In the corner stood a chandelier crafted from a single piece of crystal, an old model from the workshops of the Jade Federation, the light cut into tiny, gentle fragments.
A full set of golden drinking vessels was displayed on the table, the cup walls absurdly thin, as if meant only for show, not for use.
Ambergris was burning, but too much had been used.
The cloying sweet scent suppressed the air, overwhelming to the point of dizziness.
Yet even so, a trace of an indelible fishy smell lingered in the depths of the room, like a dead fish hauled from the deep sea, confined under the deck for days.
The candle flame flickered lightly.
The bed curtains shook violently, emitting a rapid, chaotic sound of friction, then suddenly stopped, followed by dead silence.
Balk lay flat on the bed, his chest heaving fiercely, each breath accompanied by a noise like that of a broken bellows.
Sweat covered his body, yet he shivered with cold, his soaked back pressed against the mattress, and waves of chill seeped into his bones.
He suddenly raised his hand and pushed away the person beside him: "Get out."
The woman was pushed to the edge of the bed, letting out a muffled cry of pain.
Balk sat up, punched the mahogany bedboard.
The dull sound was particularly jarring in the luxurious captain’s cabin.
Then came a slow throb of pain, he stared at his hand as if it wasn’t his own.
Damn it, another failure.
Even with such a beauty lying beside him, his body showed no reaction, like a broken ship stranded in the mud, motionless.
He looked up at the bedside, Meryl was half-kneeling there, her loose hair draped over her shoulders, her skin as white as snow.
Her eyes were moist and soft, like wronged, yet still carefully trying to please.
But a corner of the blanket had slipped.
The candlelight illuminated her exposed shoulders and back, the skin had no color of blood, merely a nearly dead ash-like pallor.
As she turned, a few small scales on the back of her neck gently moved, as if breathing.
Balk turned his gaze away, he saw his own hands trembling, out of control.
Outside the window was the sea, the night pressed low, the sea surface undulated slowly, like a sleeping giant beast. He stared into that darkness, his thoughts being dragged back to long ago.
Twenty years ago, he could lift an iron anchor with one hand, hundreds of pounds of weight, like a spear in his hand, hurl the entire iron anchor out, snapping an enemy ship’s mast.
The taverns in the harbor always had a spot saved for him. The dancing girls surrounded him, their laughter loud enough to cause a headache. He
remembered those nights, by the next morning, some people couldn’t even walk.
They called him the Prince of Black Reef, the head of the seven great pirates, the king of the ocean, with the strength of a Peak Knight.
And now? He looked down, staring at his once powerful hands, now shaking like those of a new recruit.
The sword’s hilt had long lost its weight in his grasp, and he couldn’t even conquer a single woman.
Aging, the word slowly unfolded in his mind, crawling up from his marrow like poison.
Balk grabbed the robe at the bedside, throwing it over himself haphazardly, staggering toward the table.
He brought the cup to his lips, downing a mouthful of strong alcohol.
The liquid trickled over the rim, splattering onto his graying beard, dark red like unwiped blood.
Balk panted, suddenly letting out a laugh: "Louis Calvin."
He bit down on the name with intensity.
"It’s all that damned little bastard’s fault." Balk slammed the cup onto the table forcefully.
"Ever since he linked up Gray Rock and the Northern Territory, all the northern merchant ships have changed!" His voice grew louder, "Robbery used to be as easy as collecting taxes. And now? Those smoking ironclad monstrosities, faster than sea beasts!"
He gestured with his hand, but it trembled badly: "The hulls are as hard as a turtle’s shell, cannonballs hit them, and all you hear is a bang!
Three years, a full three years, my brothers have only had cheap rum to drink, the treasury only outputs and no input! He’s trying to starve me, trying to force the Prince of Black Reef to death!"
The smell of alcohol spread through the room.
Balk attributed the stuffiness in his chest, the weakness in his body, all to that name.
In his mind remained a simple yet dangerous thought.
If he could just defeat Louis, everything would return.
After the anger subsided, Balk sat at the edge of the bed, his shoulders slumped, the fury had retreated, leaving only emptiness.
He seemed suddenly ten years older, his breathing slow and shallow, his gaze unfocused.
Suddenly a chill embraced him, Meryl slid up from one side, her movements nearly soundless.
She was very close, her icy chest pressed against his sweat-soaked back. The touch made Balk shiver involuntarily, yet he did not pull away.
The room’s scent was changing.
The thick ambergris was invaded by another smell, sweet and with the briny staleness of seawater rot, like the dampness left in the cracks of rocks when the night tide receded.
This scent delved into his nostrils, clinging to his thoughts, slowly relaxing his tense nerves, his mind grew sluggish, yet comfortable.
Meryl’s fingers traced slowly over his abdomen, where the skin had long since sagged.
"Don’t blame yourself." Her voice pressed against his back, low and gentle, "You have borne so much, glory, hardship, blood. You are merely tired."
Balk’s Adam’s apple moved.
"Aging is not your fault." Her tone was gentle to the point of compassion. "But you are a king, and a king has the right to refuse it."
The words hooked into his heart.
"In our homeland," Meryl continued to whisper, "there is a secret art of the deep sea that can make withered wood sprout anew. It can allow the strongest... to surpass their original limits."