Chapter 407 Bring the Ship Alongside!

"Oily Hand" Bourne was an adventurer and the captain of the Flying Fish Oil Barrel squad.

As a lv4 [Azure Blade Warrior], his Class Level might not have made him a big shot in Barracuda Bay. However, this special class granted him combat power at sea far exceeding that of standard Class Holders at the same level, putting him right in his element in the Southern Archipelagos.

Over nearly ten years of operation, he had saved up for a custom-built, speed-type sailing ship that boasted above-average quality and craftsmanship. Using this vessel as a foundation, he recruited several trustworthy and powerful adventurers to establish the Flying Fish Oil Barrel squad.

Along with it, the moniker "Oily Hand" gradually spread throughout the archipelagos.

While it had not reached the level of widespread fame, if he were to walk into a tavern like the Three-Legged Sea Dog—a place packed with adventurers year-round—more than a few people would recognize the ruthless character.

Yes, a ruthless character.

On this boundless sea teeming with countless opportunities and risks, particularly for adventurers, the rise of every well-known figure came accompanied by slaughter and bloodshed.

Bourne didn't see anything wrong with his actions.

Survival of the fittest was the law of these waters.

If they ran into a massive merchant fleet or a high-level adventurer squad, tucking their tails and fleeing was perfectly normal;

When they bumped into a fat sheep far weaker than themselves, stripping them clean was naturally expected.

For "Oily Hand" Bourne, the line between "adventurer" and so-called "pirate" had long since blurred through countless acts of plunder and slaughter.

Right now, the Flying Fish Oil Barrel squad was in the middle of a mission.

Their destination was a small island not far from these waters, about a two-day journey away.

According to the quest information provided by the Adventurers' Association, the villagers on that island were facing some kind of monster infestation and needed their help to resolve the danger.

The mission reward wasn't much—probably just enough for him and his brothers to live it up in Barracuda Bay for a few days—but it was passable.

Given the spending habits of people like Bourne, these few gold coins were barely enough to keep them fed. Therefore, he was more than happy to scrape up extra profit in the middle of a commission, always looking for a chance to make some side money.

It didn't matter whether the targets were the ordinary villagers living on that island or ships they bumped into along the way.

He just wanted to snatch as much gold as possible.

"Boss Bourne, the ship ahead is slowing down. Doesn't look like they're planning to run anymore."

"They couldn't run even if they tried!"

As the lookout's excited shouts echoed in his ears, a savage, vicious smile surfaced on Bourne's fleshy face.

He didn't know if it was because he had specially paid someone to find a small shrine to the Goddess of Luck before they set sail, leading the crew to pray and pay their respects.

Their voyage had been incredibly smooth. The weather was mild, the squad's atmosphere was harmonious, and even the sailors' daily duties went off without a hitch.

It had only been a few days since they left port, and they had already stumbled across a tender, enticing "fat sheep."

A greedy light gleamed in Bourne's eyes.

His incredibly rich sailing experience had already allowed him to figure out the background of the wooden ship ahead during this brief pursuit.

It sat deep in the water and moved slowly, which meant it was loaded with a massive amount of cargo. It was early morning, yet there weren't many people on deck, so the crew size had to be relatively small. Combined with its standard medium-sized build, Bourne was almost certain the target was one of the most common merchant cargo ships on the sea.

If they could swallow it whole, they stood to make a minimum of triple-digit gold coins.

If they could capture the ship completely intact, he could earn even more.

Though highly confident in his own strength, it didn't mean Bourne would let the money rush to his head and blindly order the helmsman to bring the ship alongside.

Possessing an absolute speed advantage meant holding the initiative in any naval battle.

If they retreated, the other side couldn't possibly keep up and could only watch them flee;

If they pursued, the other side had no chance of shaking them off; getting caught was only a matter of time.

Under these circumstances, no matter how tempting the visible profits were, Bourne still retained a trace of caution, intending to conduct one last round of probing before officially launching an attack.

He subconsciously turned around, his gaze falling on the center of the deck. There stood a young man, faintly protected by the crew, dressed in a teal silk robe and a woven pointed hat.

Unlike the simple attire of the other sailors and adventurers on deck, this young man's clothing was meticulous. Out on this sweltering sea, even his collar was buttoned all the way up.

The dark brown spiral staff tightly gripped in his hands revealed his identity.

A Spellcaster!

To some extent, this was also why Bourne felt blessed by the Goddess of Luck.

Whether inland or on the vast seas, Spellcasters were exceedingly rare due to the steep requirements for talent and resources.

Whenever one did appear, they were usually monopolized by the large organizations in Barracuda Bay and the giant merchant fleets on the ocean.

Only a small fraction were willing to set sail as part of an independent squad.

To be honest, Bourne might have had a bit of a reputation in the Southern Archipelagos, but it was far from enough to attract a Spellcaster teammate based on his name alone, nor could he afford the exorbitant salaries they demanded.

Getting this Spellcaster to join his squad had been entirely due to luck.

The process had been complicated, so there was no need to dwell on the details.

To summarize simply: six years ago, Bourne encountered a storm during a mission, deviated from his course, and drifted into a remote stretch of sea that few ever reached. There, among a primitive tribe living on a deserted island, he discovered the young man being persecuted by his fellow tribesmen as an evil demon.

A natural-born Spellcaster with an innate affinity for nature!

The primitive tribe was simple-minded and had little contact with the outside world. They also happened to be suffering from a plague at the time. Relying on just a few bags of rations, half a Healing Potion, and some worthless basic medicine, Bourne successfully tricked him onto his ship.

Afterward, Bourne took careful care of him, employing a mix of lies and sincerity while providing a decent amount of resources to nurture him.

Over the next six years, this young Spellcaster—named Grass Snail by his former tribal elder—had become the most loyal member under Bourne's command.

Bourne, in turn, continuously reaped profits on the sea by relying on the young man's extraordinary abilities as a Spellcaster.

"How is it? What's the situation on that ship?"

Having ordered the crew to man the helm and sails to maintain their distance from the Black Gull, Bourne asked in an urgent tone.

"Hmm... it's a bit strange," Grass Snail said.

The young Spellcaster came from a completely unorthodox background. Even though he had systematically learned some spellcasting knowledge through Bourne's channels after boarding the ship, he usually relied on primitive, instinctual methods to control his mental energy.

Rather than a "mage," it would be much more fitting to describe him as a "sorcerer" or one of those "priests" found in orc tribes.

"There aren't many people. Just over twenty in total."

Dazzling magical light flickered in Grass Snail's eyes, yet his words carried a rare hint of hesitation.

"There are only five Class Holders among them."

"Three of them are relatively ordinary. Their Class Levels are only around lv2, well within the range of what we can safely handle."

"Of the remaining two, the one with the slightly weaker aura should be a believer of some deity. He's somewhat shielded, but based on his life intensity, I estimate he's also around lv2. He might not even be as strong as the first three adventurers."

"It's only the last one. To be honest, I can't read him..."

Grass Snail hailed from a primitive tribe on a deserted island. His outstanding talent allowed him to display mental energy far beyond ordinary people at a very young age. By the time he was nine, his unconsciously expanding formless intent could already let him sense the presence of wild beasts passing outside the tribe, even while hiding beneath the covers deep inside his hut.

The painful experience of being treated as an evil demon by his tribesmen after revealing his talent also caused his mental intent to further develop and strengthen through the torment.

Grass Snail gradually discovered that when he was sad, he seemed able to stir up fierce winds and ocean waves. When he was extremely furious, even the thunder from deep within the dark clouds in the sky would respond to him.

Under his mental Perception, the abstract auras that originally represented the existence of life transformed into specific, easily understandable patterns, allowing him to view the world around him in a way perfectly integrated with nature.

Take the scene he was currently observing in his mental world, for instance.

Standing before him and looking at him with concern, Big Brother Bourne appeared in his mental Perception as a slender, elongated shark with blood on its teeth.

On the cargo ship not far ahead, the ordinary sailors were blurry silhouettes. The three weaker adventurers were a "drifting autumn leaf swept up by a whirlwind," a "furious roar," and "two crossed, rusty swords."

The existence suspected of being a deity's believer was a falling, spinning gold coin engraved with a four-leaf clover.

This innate ability had helped Grass Snail and the Flying Fish Oil Barrel squad avoid a lot of trouble, and it had brought them unimaginable profits.

Many times, before the enemy had even caught a glimpse of them, Grass Snail had already used his Perception to figure out the opposing squad's composition and overall strength.

Just now, through the sensations in his mental world, he could roughly guess that the "leaf" corresponded to a Class Holder leaning toward Agility, the "roar" was likely a Barbarian or a half-orc, and the "crossed swords" represented a close-combat Warrior.

Normally, he wouldn't have hesitated in the slightest. He would have long since relayed the information he sensed to Captain Bourne, letting him proceed with the operation.

Even if a deity's believer was present, as long as they weren't some important divine favored, finishing them off swiftly while avoiding desecration or torture meant the deity generally wouldn't care.

But right now, Grass Snail appeared incredibly hesitant.

The reason was the final adventurer among the five on the enemy ship.

He truly couldn't read him.

Grass Snail could sense that this person should be the one with the highest Class Level on the opposing ship.

However, when he concentrated his intent, trying to materialize the person's image in his mental world to further pry into his class type and strength...

What met his eyes was only an indescribable, abyssal shadow.

It wasn't a shadow cast by branches on the ground when the wind blew through the leaves, nor was it the shadow cast by a person's body under the setting sun.

That feeling was hard to describe with words.

The closest experience in Grass Snail's short life was perhaps when he was twelve. Because life in the tribe had become too painful, he had stolen a raft left by the shore late one night, attempting to flee across the sea alone.

As the island behind him shrank into the distance, his body was surrounded by nothing but boundless, freezing darkness.

Perhaps the blood from the wounds inflicted by his tribesmen during the day had dripped into the ocean.

The eerie moonlight spilled down, casting a layer of faint light over the surface of the sea.

A sharp fin quietly poked through the splashing water, and a massive, unfathomably dark shadow silently glided past beneath his raft.

To this day, Grass Snail still remembered the deathly, suffocating sensation of his heart stopping the moment he laid eyes on that terrifying shadow—a sight that had made his hair stand on end and sent a chill down his spine.

The next day, when he was washed back to the island in terror and his tribesmen tortured him for trying to escape, just the feeling of being away from the ocean and having his feet on solid ground made the physical pain feel somehow lessened.

The shadow manifested by that last adventurer in his mental world right now gave him that exact same feeling.

This was an experience Grass Snail had never had since he boarded Bourne's ship.

"Perhaps we should retreat."

"Retreat!?" Bourne's eyes widened fiercely, his tone laced with disbelief.

"Why? Aren't they all adventurers around lv1 or lv2?"

"Is it because of that so-called believer?"

"Damn it, it's not like he's a divine chosen. What are you afraid of?"

"If you really want to get into it, our whole ship is full of believers of the Goddess of Luck. Relax, the Goddess will protect us!"

"No, that's not the reason..." Grass Snail shook his head vigorously.

He viewed Bourne as the benefactor who had saved him from hell, and he had long since treated him as a father figure in his heart. The man's agitated tone caused him to subconsciously shrink back.

"There might be danger on the enemy ship. The last one... I can't read him."

Bourne stared intently at Grass Snail, his jaw subconsciously clenching tight with a grinding noise.

He abruptly turned his head back to look at the deeply laden cargo ship ahead, the reluctance on his face practically overflowing.

His rationality as an adventurer told him that in the face of Grass Snail's warning—even if the Class Holders on his own ship completely outmatched the enemy in both numbers and levels on the surface—retreating might be the safest choice right now.

But at the same time, the greed stemming from his pirate identity tempted him from the depths of his heart. If they swallowed this cargo ship, they might not need to risk sailing out to sea for an entire year.

The two thoughts violently clashed, warring for dominance in his mind.

"Boss Bourne, the other side has reacted!"

"Are we going in or not?"

"Shut the hell up!" Cursing at the crew member beside him, he turned his gaze forward.

On the distant cargo ship's deck, sailors faintly wielding weapons were rushing about, making preparations for defense.

For every second he delayed, the danger they would face upon attacking increased by a fraction.

And just as Bourne was hesitating—

Perhaps the pirate flag they had raised put too much pressure on the enemy sailors.

Swish!

The sound of a sharp object tearing through the air erupted from above.

A crossbow bolt crossed the gap between the ships, shooting over from afar.

It abruptly embedded itself into the deck not far from Bourne's feet.

Like the last straw that broke the camel's back, the fury of seeing the "fat sheep" he treated as prey daring to attack him first allowed his inner pirate side to seize the upper hand at this moment.

Shing—

The cutlass at his waist was abruptly unsheathed and raised high.

"Damn it, set sail!"

"Bring the ship alongside!"