Chapter 139: Craig’s Scheme [2]

Ser Hughway cast a sharp, deeply skeptical glance toward his young Lord.

The veteran knight’s weather-beaten brow furrowed in sudden concentration as he weighed the tactical implications of the proposal, before offering a measured, pragmatic response.

"It is... technically feasible, My Lord," Ser Hughway answered, his voice dropping into a low, tactical register.

"Many of the major pirate syndicates operating out of the southern waters employ specialized Spirit Mages within their inner ranks.

Those mages possess the spiritual resonance required to bond with, dominate, and command vast flocks of maritime scouting birds—gulls, albatrosses, and storm-petrels—to scout the shipping lanes and report merchant movements back to their fleet captains.

Tossing out a tempting bait to draw them in is entirely possible... but why? What is your true objective behind such a reckless gamble?"

Craig offered a casual, nonchalant shrug in response to the knight’s curious inquiry, keeping his voice smooth and unbothered.

"For reasons that are becoming increasingly clear, Hughway, I suspect that straw hat stranger we encountered in the hotel lobby is far more than a casual traveler."

Without turning his head to make it obvious, Craig subtly flicked his eyes toward the opposite end of the vast open deck.

A short distance away, leaning lazily against the polished wooden gunwale and gazing out over the churning white wake of the ship, stood the black-skinned man.

A thin, curling trail of white smoke drifted lazily from his lips as he casually puffed on a lit cigarette, looking every bit the part of a weary, wandering mercenary named Andres Mogulis.

Following his master’s line of sight, Ser Hughway discreetly stole a quick, assessing glance at the black-skinned man before turning his gaze back to Craig.

"I firmly believe that stranger is deliberately tracking my movements," Craig continued, his emerald-green eyes narrowing.

"Given the tangled web of enemies operating behind the scenes, there is a strong possibility he is an assassin or scout dispatched by either the Black Winter syndicate or our old friends in Hydra.

However, the analytical probability points overwhelmingly toward Hydra or a similarly high-tier intelligence broker."

Craig’s lips curled into a razor-thin, calculating smile. "Therefore, I would very much like to intentionally throw this voyage and this vessel into absolute, calculated chaos.

Why? Because I want to force that man’s hand. I know for a fact that he is a powerful Spirit Mage, but his exact combat class, tactical capabilities, and upper limits remain entirely unknown to me.

If we stir up a brutal maritime crisis, the pirates will act as the perfect diagnostic tool to test his true strength."

Hearing the sheer audacity of the plan, Ser Hughway’s eyebrows furrowed deeply.

A shadow of moral and professional hesitation crossed the veteran knight’s rugged face.

"My Lord... with all due respect, that is an intensely dangerous gambit," Hughway cautioned, his voice tightening with restraint.

"There are more than two dozen innocent civilian passengers packed onto this ship. Families, traders, and young children as well. If we deliberately lure a ravenous pirate fleet down upon us in the middle of the Creptun Ocean, those outlaws will slaughter indiscriminately.

They won’t care about passenger manifests or merchant flags; they will burn the ship to the waterline and butcher everyone on board."

Craig did not flinch.

He simply offered another light shrug of his shoulders, his expression turning cold and indifferent.

"The ship is heavily staffed with professional enforcers and elite guards; it is their literal job to earn their wages and defend the vessel against maritime threats," Craig replied flatly.

"Besides, Hughway... look around you. Am I a saint? Are you a protector of the commonfolk?"

Craig turned his piercing emerald gaze directly onto his Lord Commander. "Why on earth should I care about the lives of random, innocent strangers who mean nothing to our grand design? Sentimentality is a luxury for those who can afford to lose."

Hearing those chilling, pragmatic words, Ser Hughway inhaled a deep, steadying breath through his nose.

He closed his eyes for a single heartbeat, instantly stripping away any lingering hesitation.

He knew his master spoke an unvarnished truth.

None of them were saints.

They had waded through oceans of blood, slaughtering enemies without mercy to carve out their survival and ambition.

If Craig willed it, Ser Hughway wouldn’t hesitate to let a thousand innocents burn if it secured their tactical victory—even if children were caught in the crossfire.

"Understood, My Lord," Hughway murmured, his voice hardening back into absolute obedience.

"Your will is law."

Satisfied with the unwavering loyalty of his commander, Craig turned his body fully toward the southern horizon, fixing his gaze upon the distant, sun-baked maritime routes leading down toward the vast expanse of the Southern Gulf.

"Let us throw out a bait so irresistible that it makes the apex predators salivate," Craig commanded softly, a terrifying, luminescent light gleaming deep within his emerald eyes.

"Let one of the two supreme pirate factions ruling the Southern Gulf take the hook. Let them come charging out of the fog and throw this entire ship into glorious chaos."

Ser Hughway nodded crisply, falling instantly into operational mode. "What shall the bait be, My Lord? How do we broadcast our cargo to cutthroats hundreds of leagues away?"

Craig smiled faintly, his mind clicking through the logistical networks of the underworld. "It is simple, Hughway. Utilize our contacts or leak a false, highly lucrative manifest to the maritime black markets of the Southern Gulf.

Spread the intoxicating rumor that this specific black-hulled warship heading toward the Creptun Ocean from the Northern Ire Sea is carrying a secret, highly illegal cargo manifest consisting of ten thousand barrels of refined alchemical oil."

Craig’s smile widened into something predatory. "Oil is the absolute lifeblood of arcane machinery, war vessels, and coastal refineries across the continent.

Ten thousand barrels is a prize worth slaughtering an army for. Let the word slip that we are carrying this treasure straight toward the lawless city of Oman. That will bring the vultures swarming in no time at all."

As Craig finalized the contours of his ruthless trap, his gaze drifted away from Hughway, landing once more across the sun-drenched deck.

A short distance away, the man operating under the alias Andres Mogulis was still leaning casually against the railing.

He flicked the ash of his finished cigarette into the foaming sea below, exhaling a final thick plume of grey smoke from his lips that vanished instantly into the salty ocean wind.

Andres had already completed his initial tasks.

He had dropped off his light traveling bags inside his designated cabin on the lower residential deck, securely locking the door behind him.

Commissioned by his shadowy superiors to monitor the movements of the unpredictable seventh successor, he knew he had no choice but to remain constantly outside, watching the target from a careful, calculated distance.

Yet, Andres was far from a fool.

Even with his psychological warding and the casual facade of a wandering southern mercenary, his spiritual senses were razor-sharp.

He had felt the unmistakable, lingering weight of Craig’s surveillance.

He knew, with absolute intuitive certainty, that the seventh successor was currently observing him, turning him over in his mind like a puzzle piece.

What genuinely piqued Andres’s curiosity, however, was the logical boundary of the boy’s deductions.

There was simply no conceivable way for the seventh successor to accurately guess that he was an intelligence operative directly tied to the Red Angel and the inner machinery of the Crimson Duke’s elite surveillance apparatus.

Therefore, the young lord was undoubtedly leaping to the most logical regional conclusion: that Andres was a high-tier operative sent by Hydra or a rival ducal faction.

A creepy, knowing smile touched the corners of Andres’s lips as he realized he had already been firmly placed on the target’s watch list.

Instead of retreating or trying to blend further into the woodwork to hide his presence, Andres made a bold, calculated choice.

Pushing his back away from the wooden gunwale, he adjusted the brim of his brown straw hat, stubbed out his cigarette, and took a deliberate, unhurried step forward across the deck, walking directly toward the seventh successor.