Chapter 402 - 389: Fishing in Troubled Waters

Chapter 402: Chapter 389: Fishing in Troubled Waters

The roar of meshing gears echoed within the enclosed elevator shaft.

The bronze cabin vibrated slightly, plummeting toward the depths of the earth at an astonishing speed. The rapid change in air pressure made their eardrums throb.

"Depth: three hundred meters."

Tristan stood in a corner of the cabin, still cradling the thick record book. The dim, yellow light from a magic stone lamp illuminated his impassive face.

"My lord, while ’Operation Fish in Troubled Waters’ is theoretically feasible, it’s tantamount to letting thieves return to their old trade."

"Tristan, do you know the difference between a thief and a constable?" Velin asked, his tone flat as he watched the rock strata streak past the cabin. "The only difference is that a constable collects a salary issued by the Lord’s Mansion."

"But that doesn’t mean they’re trustworthy."

"As long as they’re paid enough, they’ll be the most rule-abiding ’constables’."

The cabin jolted, then slowly settled to a stop.

The heavy iron-grate door slid apart. A blast of hot, humid air, reeking of machine oil, metal, and the briny sea, washed over them.

This was the deepest secret of the White Tower Territory—the Division of Deep-Sea Resource Development.

A massive subterranean cavern was held up by countless rune-etched metal pillars. The vaulted ceiling, studded with glowing moss and fluorescent minerals, bathed the entire space in light as bright as day.

In the distance, countless Worker Ants gnawed at the ore veins and rock walls, sending sparks flying in all directions.

But they were not the main attraction.

The main attraction was the figures weaving between the scaffolding, minecarts, and Worker Ants.

They had dark-blue skin, four powerful arms, and lower bodies that were either thick tentacles or a pair of webbed legs. The Multi-Armed Race. Once the hegemons of the seabed, they were now the "outstanding employees" of the White Tower Territory.

"Move it! That’s the associated copper ore from Mine Pit Two! Get out of the way!"

A burly foreman of the Multi-Armed Race cracked a whip—one used for herding Worker Ants, not for striking people. He bellowed in stiff yet fluent Common Tongue, his four hands simultaneously manipulating two control levers to direct a massive crane with precise, efficient movements.

Velin stepped out of the elevator, his leather boots ringing sharply on the metal catwalk.

The foreman heard the sound, but his movements remained unhurried. He steadily returned the crane’s boom to its resting position. When he turned, his face, a canvas of suckers and scars, was devoid of expression, showing only the unique reverence and solemnity of a subordinate facing an absolute sovereign.

"Lord."

Korsh, former commander of the Multi-Armed Race and current captain of the First Brigade of the Division of Deep-Sea Resource Development, climbed down a ladder. His movements were deft and steady, entirely free of clumsiness.

After landing, he habitually smoothed out his work uniform. His four arms hung neatly at his sides as he snapped into a standard military posture—a form of discipline he had learned in the prisoner-of-war camp.

"This month’s production of Original Blood Crystals exceeded the quota by twenty percent, with the wastage rate kept under five percent," Korsh said, his voice deep and hoarse, as if delivering a battle report. "As per our agreement, the extra meat rations you promised..."

"You won’t be forgotten. The mess hall is serving extra tonight—plenty of fresh meat."

"Thank you for your generosity." Korsh bowed his head slightly, a hint of relief finally softening his tone.

Velin walked to the edge of the catwalk, gazing down at the bustling work area below.

"Korsh, your people have been digging rock here for half a year. How does it feel?"

"It is for survival, Lord," Korsh answered with startling honesty, without his usual complaints or pretense. "As long as we can fill our bellies, and we don’t have to worry about being swept away by the ocean currents or turning into fish dung, digging rock isn’t a bad job. It’s just..."

"Just what?"

"It’s just that a Warrior’s hands are ultimately not meant to hold a chisel." Korsh glanced at his own calloused palms, a sharp glint flashing in his eyes. "My brothers have no outlet for their energy. Last night, they broke three load-bearing pillars in the barracks over something trivial. They’re used to the smell of blood; the briny reek of the mines is too tame."

Velin turned and looked this former commander of the Alien Race straight in the eye.

"Then I’ll give you a chance to smell blood."

Korsh’s horizontal pupils contracted sharply.

"Tristan." Velin held out his hand.

Tristan pulled a huge nautical chart from his briefcase, spreading it out on the grease-stained railing. On the chart, several red shipping lanes were highlighted, looking like bloody gashes on the azure surface of the sea.

"These are the merchant routes of Marquis Hector and his allies." Velin’s finger traced the red lines. "I want you to pick three hundred of your most elite former subordinates. I don’t want brutes who only know how to use force; I want veterans who understand tactical coordination and obey commands."

Korsh’s breathing grew heavy. His four fists clenched subconsciously, knuckles popping. The predatory instinct etched into his genes was reawakening.

"Are those all the requirements?"

"No."

Velin’s voice turned cold, and the air seemed to drop by several degrees.

"Take Leviathan One. Your mission is not simple robbery. I want you to become Ghosts, a living nightmare. From this day forward, you are no longer the Multi-Armed Race, nor are you miners for the White Tower Territory."

He took a flag from Tristan’s hands.

It was a black flag, emblazoned with a ghastly white skull entangled in tentacles.

"You are the ’Fangs of the Deep.’ A new band of pirates—greedy, brutal, and of unknown origin."

"Pirates..." Korsh savored the word. The corners of his mouth slowly split into a grin, revealing two rows of sharp, serrated fangs. It was the savage look of a raider returning to his home turf. "The old trade. If we’d had even half this equipment back then, we wouldn’t have..."