Black Sail

Early winter.

Surrounding the tavern in the outskirts of the city, all the pillars and roof beams made of elm had aged into shades of dark yellow and black.

In the damp environment influenced by the East Sea monsoons, the slightly moist central hearth fire crackled and burst with splintering sparks.

The pervasive scent of the sea emanated from the leather greaves, and the shiny metal tools gleamed with a sharp luster. The craggy bodies were covered in bullet holes from firearms and fierce scars, and firelight flickered wildly in the defiant eyes of the desperadoes.

Waiters' fingers trembled, women covered their faces to weep, and the tavern owner's complexion was ashen.

All the patrons had already fled in panic, seeking refuge from the vicious and ruthless bandits.

The notoriously infamous organization on the East Coast of the Beima Duchy, the Black Sail Pirate Group, was "working" here.

Captain Liszt followed three principles in his dealings, which allowed him to survive for a decade in this treacherous different world without any external modifiers and without speaking the language.

The first one was that if one isn't vicious, one cannot stand firm.

It's about presentation when doing business; it doesn't matter if you're truly vicious or not, but you have to make others believe you are.

His weapon was a blood-stained Chain Mace. Its wooden handle was capped with an iron shell, chaining together two spiked iron balls as large as half a head. He used two because Liszt considered it a noble form of area damage. This was his secondary weapon for dealing with underlings.

His primary weapon was a Warhammer over a meter long, resting beside him. The chisel spikes on the back of the large hammer were sharp enough to mine like a pickaxe, but most of the time, it was used for harvesting other things. Liszt called it the "Frost Rhododendron Blood-crying," a sadness more profound than mere grief—it hurt too much.

He thought his attire was also very fashionably intimidating: a beard grown long enough to braid stylishly, hair standing up like steel needles, and a scar as thick as a finger cutting across the bridge of his nose almost reaching both ears from a near-fatal axe blow. He was dressed in a light leather cuirass, cotton and linen trousers, and a pair of dark big-toed leather boots.

"Your borrowed sum plus interest, along with my personal fee for services, comes to a total of seventeen Golden Dragons."

Liszt's towering height of roughly two meters and his hoarse voice—his skin roughened by the constant exposure to sun and wind on the sea—made him seem every bit the ruthless desperado that he impersonated, to the point where he believed it himself.

According to the Coinage Act passed in the year 1277 of the Saint Aran Calendar, any person could have bars of gold or silver minted into coins at the mints without any fee and could also immediately exchange them for coins of equal value.

After the Beima Kingdom lost the Great Wall Battle against the ruling power of the Western Continent, the Aran Empire, and was turned into a duchy—with only limited self-governing rights—its economy was integrated into the monetary system of the empire, foregoing the substantial benefits of the coinage tax and being constrained in the long run.

One Aran Golden Dragon was approximately equivalent to two hundred Silver Miens, and one silver coin was worth about fifty Copper Noahs.

Only the largest denomination, the Golden Dragon, was seldom seen and so always referred to formally, while the others were commonly called Aran silver coins and Aran copper coins.

"Seventeen Golden Dragons..."

The tavern owner had a lump in his throat; this was no small amount, as it could purchase a decent residence with living quarters in a border town.

"Hurry up and settle the account. I'm not too fussed myself, but these two lords here don't want to come all this way for nothing."

Liszt placed the Mace on the table with a loud clunk, leaned back in his chair with his legs crossed, not caring if it would tip over.

The second principle: Leading a team is a must; going solo meant working to death. It's easier with more people—think you're tough? Power doesn't lie in sheer strength, but in show of force. It doesn't matter if your companions are truly formidable, but they must appear to be.

To settle today's business, Liszt brought two men with particularly unkind faces from his team of eleven to hold sway.

Helmsman, Shark Ox.

Standing 2.8 meters tall, wearing brown leather trousers and boots, his upper body bare, his muscles were twisted and strong. A member of the Merfolk tribe, his solid light-blue skin was scarred all over, and though the fin on his back was torn off for unknown reasons, leaving a huge and fierce wound, the sharp fins at his elbow joints were still functional, simply scratched. His immense height stood like an iron tower, his hands resting on a floor-standing Special Large Sword that was as large as a door.

Liszt's assessment of him was, "Brother Ox, a man of few words but intense presence in society."

Sailor, Werewolf Rein.

Standing at 2.4 meters with broad shoulders stretching the dark red leather coat outward like double doors on a refrigerator, he was wolf-headed and human-bodied. His silver-gray hair had not been combed for a long time and was greasy and knotted; his fangs bared, exuding extreme brutality. His weapon was a pair of Arm Armor protecting his hands; he was skilled in Fighting Techniques, specializing in close combat—essentially tearing people to shreds with his claws.

Liszt's assessment of him was... a psychopath. Last time they shook down a port town, Rein used pliers to crush a Lord's three teeth and forcibly stuffed his mouth with lemon and chili pepper, an exquisite torture for the rich nerve endings of the teeth.

At that moment, Rein was going berserk again.

"My knife here is coated with poison concocted by an Alchemist."

Rein bared his gaping maw, pulling out a gleaming dagger, his long tongue studded with barbs like a grating steel knife, secreting a viscous saliva, splattering onto the floor, seemingly just moments away from licking it.

"This..."

The tavern owner didn't know what to say.

"Eh, you haven't licked it yet, haven't licked it, hehe."

Rein feigned a shot and let out a chilling cold laugh, his claws scratching the tabletop, the shrill sound torturing the ears.

Liszt pinched his chin, truly frustrated. The atmosphere he had worked so hard to build was gone.

He could only place his hope in Ox, who wasn't much of a talker.

Because of Ox's personal history, his fins were broken and he could no longer survive in the sea. Most Merfolk couldn't establish themselves on land for long, which was essentially a death sentence, but he was an exception. With his incredibly strong physique, it was just like having a bit of altitude sickness for him; he just needed to drink more water.

He twisted open the tap on a malt beer barrel and poured himself cup after cup as if no one else was there. In less than a few minutes, he downed more than twenty cups like a bandit.

Liszt's eyes narrowed. Because it was on the house, does that mean you can guzzle it down? Shows you're a petty cheapskate, a weakling, damn it.

The ambience was completely ruined, failing to highlight the dire situation of the other party, why can't you guys show the ruthlessness you have when you rob and kill? You have to toughen up! Always dropping the ball at the critical moment.

Liszt took a deep breath.

"Alright, today, either settle the account, or…"

Liszt believed he could only rely on himself. His eyes flashing with a cold light, he stood up, walked over to Ox, and calmly shut off the tap.

Ox: "…"

Liszt then got vicious, using a chain hammer to smash open a barrel of high-proof alcohol. The wood splintered open, and with his great strength, he picked up the tied barrel and splashed it around, dousing the ground.

Both Ox and Rein got the hint. The two of them, terrifyingly strong, one punched open a sealed hardwood alcohol barrel, and the other pierced one with his claws. The two towering creatures spread the flammable liquid everywhere.

All eleven members of the Black Sail Pirate Group were exiles with bounties on their heads. Liszt called them the Dream Team. If comparing pirating to mobile game card draws, although his lineup wasn't some 'instantly-win' Golden Team, they were all villains. Ordinary people were too scared to even look them in the eye for fear of freezing up.

Rein even doused the tavern owner with alcohol.

"Or, I'll burn this place to the ground."

Liszt smashed a kerosene lantern and continued, ready to set the place ablaze at any incorrectly spoken word.

The tavern owner was already on his knees, pleading for mercy incoherently, his speech slurred and nonsensical. His wife cried even more bitterly.

Rein saw the leftovers from the customers on the table, the portion so generous it won't make much money, and they probably couldn't come up with such a large sum today.

"Assuming he has no money on him, just burn it. 'Great God, Activate!'"

Under Liszt's influence over the years, Rein had developed an extremely bizarre habit of speaking, even though he himself didn't understand what it meant, only finding it amusing and desiring to turn everything to ashes for everyone's entertainment.

Ox remained indifferent, cold to life and death, and casually took a bottle of wine from the cabinet, biting off the cork and guzzling it down.

Liszt had come this far with a ship and a team by adhering to three principles.

The third principle was...

The money earned belongs to those who earn it. Bullying everyday people just makes you look stupid. His men were all capable, hardened desperadoes who lived by the edge of the sword.

The shipwright, a Dark Elf named Shadi, always had connections. He infiltrated the Underground Bank in Beima Duchy's East Coast Londen City, lain in wait for over half a month, and found some ledgers to identify some debtors.

Go big or go home.

Liszt fixed his gaze on the pleading tavern owner and said, "Indeed, seventeen Golden Dragons isn't a small amount. I have a compromise. You borrowed eight, with thirty percent interest per month, which has doubled up till today. But I'm a generous man, surely you can come up with five."

Everything was going smoothly.

The three of them, based on the ledger from the Dark Elf Shadi, had been going around collecting debts from the debtors, taking only half of the borrowed money as a service fee for settling disputes with the usurers.

By now, they had already collected over seventy Golden Dragons, and nearly settled all debts around Londen City.

As for the shipwright Shadi, with four other tough guys, unless something unexpected happened, they should be slaughtering their way through the Underground Bank's den by now, looting their treasure.

Liszt was willing to call Shadi the East Coast Idea King.