The fleet's shadow stretched across the sea horizon and eventually disappeared into the murky mist of the Basilisk Islands.
Ni Luo stood on the deck of the flagship, the sea breeze unable to lift the stiff corners of his clothes. The two swords in his hands reflected the pale skylight, and there was no trace of blood on the blades.
"His Majesty will rebuild Gogothos." His voice was flat, as if he were reciting a passage that had nothing to do with him. "We must clean it up."
The crew members around him silently checked their cables and weapons, their movements uniform, their eyes blank. After drinking that pot of porridge, they were no longer simply the living.
Ni Luo knew he could never go back. With his fleet now completely transformed into zombies, he turned and headed for the next pirate-infested island. A purge of the dead was about to unleash a bloody storm upon the Basilisk Archipelago.
On the deck of the flagship, Damian Thorne was slumped in a lounge chair, feeling a little sleepy under the sun.
"Boring, boring, so boring," he muttered, fiddling with the wine glass beside the chair. The bright red liquid in the glass swayed gently with the motion of the ship.
In a dark cabin deep within the ship, the air was filled with a pungent odor—a mixture of preservatives and rotting flesh.
Alan, wearing a dirt-stained leather apron, was staring intently at the huge, bluish body on the operating table. It was Qichuan Luo.
"This big idiot is really good material, hehe…" Alan laughed dryly and sharply, like metal grinding against stone. He slowly injected a tube of dark green liquid into Qichuan Luo's thick carotid artery.
The corpse's muscles began to expand visibly, as if countless small snakes were slithering beneath its skin. Its body had grown noticeably larger than when it was alive.
Around the operating table were ritual materials looted from various strongholds—dried lizards, powdered skulls, and obsidian fragments engraved with strange runes.
Alan stepped back, formed seals with his hands, and began muttering incantations.
However, the corpse on the operating table showed no reaction except for faint twitching.
"Hm? It's been strengthened too much. My magic can't wake it," Alan muttered, a trace of irritation crossing his face. After a moment's thought, he tore off his apron and carefully wiped his hands.
He needed more power.
After thinking for a while, Alan straightened his robe and headed toward the stairs leading to the upper deck. He intended to go to the source of magic—and borrow some divine power.
On the other side of the deck, the old blind man was practicing his thrusts as the ship rocked gently on the waves. In his hands was a slender rapier. His movements were swift and precise, each thrust striking an imaginary point in the air. The wind whipped up by the tip of his blade made a sharp, piercing sound.
"Ha…" He let out a hoarse laugh. Within his aging body, the vigor of youth surged once again. Ever since drinking that bowl of porridge, he felt as if he had grown twenty years younger.
But… the blind old man subconsciously glanced downward. There had been no signs of activity there since that day.
"It's useless anyway," he muttered, taking a deep breath of the salty sea breeze. Pushing aside his faint sense of loss, he focused once more on the trajectory of his sword.
Suddenly, the lookout struck the bell, and a rapid signal spread across the deck. He pointed toward the distant sea, waving a complicated signal flag.
The blind old man sheathed his weapon, walked quickly toward Damian Thorne, and bowed slightly.
"Your Majesty, a fleet has been spotted ahead. Judging by the flags, it's the New Ghis fleet."
Hearing this, Damian finally sat up from his recliner, a hint of interest flashing in his eyes. "Come on, let me see how you pirates board a ship."
As soon as he finished speaking, Alan appeared from the stairs below the cabin. He walked up to Damian and bowed deeply, his gesture both humble and fervent.
"Your Majesty, I need a little of your magic."
Damian glanced at him. A faint trace of magic power escaped his body like a wisp of smoke, drifting toward Alan.
Alan took a greedy breath, a sickly blush coloring his pale face as the pure and vast power flowed through him.
"Your Majesty, please wait a moment," he said, bowing again, his voice trembling with excitement. "I will present you with a powerful warrior."
With that, he turned and ran, nearly stumbling in his haste to reach the cabin.
"Move the boat closer," Damian ordered the blind old man.
"As you command, Your Majesty."
The blind old man ran to the bow and waved the command flag himself. The flag traced a clear pattern against the sky, and the entire zombie fleet, like a single silent organism, adjusted its course and headed toward the unsuspecting New Ghis fleet.
---
Meanwhile, in Meereen.
At the pinnacle of the Nachen family's pyramid, Sidara Nachen sat on a luxurious couch, her fingertips gently stroking a smooth black candle. The glass candle was unlit and cool to the touch, like jade.
Opposite her sat the patriarch of the Parker family, the former great lord of Yunkai, his posture rigid, his expression serious.
"Those charlatans from the Holy Grace Temple are trying to use the celebration to stir up trouble," Sidara said with a hint of mockery. "My people discovered that they're colluding with a few foolish nobles who haven't yet grasped reality."
"That's all?" Chief Parker frowned. "What's their specific plan? What do they want to do?"
"Time is too short," Sidara said, spreading her hands in helplessness. "Can you expect my people to uncover all their secrets in just a few days? However, one thing is certain."
She leaned forward slightly, a cold glint flashing in her amber eyes.
"Prepare to break off relations with the Temple of Holy Grace."
At her words, Chief Parker's face darkened. He slammed his fist onto his knee.
"We must not let these fools ruin the celebration!" he growled. "If we anger His Majesty, we'll all be doomed!"
---