"These kouto are fools. Feed them, and they'll follow you anywhere."

The voice that drifted across the shattered deck was hoarse and grating, like the final wail of a dying insect.

Yet its tone was casual, as though speaking of something utterly trivial.

Ambrose paid the kouto no mind. His attention was fixed on the ruined ship before him.

An ordinary three-masted vessel with a rusted iron swordfish as a figurehead, its hull was riddled with gaping holes and thickly crusted with barnacles and moss. It looked less like a seaworthy ship than one that should have long since sunk to the ocean floor.

Perched at the bow sat a fish-man shouldering a harpoon, his body half-rotted away.

"A shagin... zombie?"

Compared to the dull-witted, slack-faced kouto, the shagin was far more ferocious in appearance. The kouto had heads like catfish, but shagin bore the heads of sharks. Their proportions endowed them with strength; their physiques were built for violence.

There was no doubt that the creature before Ambrose was an undead. Its chest had decayed to the point that ribs and stuffing-like entrails were visible. Half its face had rotted away to bare white bone, with jagged teeth permanently exposed.

This was a classic zombie—no, more specifically, a drowned zombie.

Unlike ordinary skeletons or corpses that would fall apart after months submerged in seawater, drowned undead possessed unusual resistance to corrosion. Though it looked tattered, its body could endure the decay of the sea indefinitely and even move freely within it.

A drowned undead alone would not have surprised Ambrose. What did surprise him was its power.

The zombie before him was a legend. There was no mistaking it.

Could this be the mysterious Mute?

"May I ask who you are?" Ambrose greeted the shagin cautiously.

"Oh, me?"

The fish-man rose from the bow. He stood at least two meters tall. He raised his voice and declared loudly, "Second Fleet Captain of the Silent Sea Pirate Company, Sharpspear Phil, greets the honored friend of our captain!"

"Captain?"

Just as Ambrose was feeling puzzled, his Necromantic Codex vibrated with a new message.

It was from Mute. [Mute: I have dispatched a subordinate who should be arriving soon. He's a fish-man with no brains to speak of and goes by the name of Phil.]

Ambrose looked up again at the towering undead at the bow. If this was just one of Mute's subordinates, how much stronger was Mute herself?

After all, she commanded a legendary undead as a mere subordinate.

Closing the Codex, Ambrose addressed Phil. "So you're my senior's envoy. Mr. Phil, how did you recognize me?"

He bore no resemblance to a lich at the moment. Just how had this fish-man identified him?

Phil shouted matter-of-factly, "There aren't many legendary undead. Can't be that much of a coincidence, right?"

Ambrose said flatly, "Do I look like an undead to you?"

"Do undead care what they look like?" Phil replied, genuinely surprised. "We've got all kinds down in the sea."

Ambrose: "..."

He truly had no rebuttal to that.

"Please board, honored guest. If you want those kouto, I'll have them brought along."

Phil rapped his harpoon against the prow. A dozen translucent wraiths emerged from the ship and sank into the kouto's bodies. The dim-witted creatures immediately lost what little awareness they had and shuffled obediently toward the ghostly vessel.

Ambrose felt a flicker of envy. What grandeur. Despite his budding strength as an undead, Mute seemed to be on another level entirely.

He cast Flight and descended lightly onto the ship's bow.

Sharpspear Phil proved astonishingly hospitable. He produced a bottle of what he proudly called "fine wine" and offered it to Ambrose. "Aged for two hundred years in the sea, a delicacy brewed from the marrow of Merrow mermaids and the blood of deep-sea leviathans!"

"Undead... drink wine?" Ambrose asked.

"This isn't ordinary wine. It's brewed specifically for undead. Have a cup—you'll understand then."

Phil produced two damp oak goblets and poured out a liquid black as ink.

"It's my first time meeting the captain's friend. Let me, Phil, offer you this toast!"

He clinked cups with Ambrose and drained his in one gulp.

Though his chest cavity was rotted open, the pitch-black liquid did not spill. Instead, it clung to his decayed flesh as if it were alive, slowly seeping into bone and carrion.

Ambrose hesitated. Perhaps this was a brew that even undead could enjoy, but he currently possessed a mechanical body. Would it even work for him?

Still, he could not refuse such enthusiasm. He lifted his visor and poured the ink-black wine within.

The moment it entered his body, an intense dark aura erupted from the liquid, merging seamlessly with the dark magic within him. He suddenly felt light. His very soul had grown faintly tipsy.

Moments later, the sensation faded. His mana felt denser.

"Remarkable... it truly gives the sensation of drunkenness."

Potions that could restore dark magic weren't unusual. Many could accomplish such a feat, but to do so while inducing spiritual intoxication in the soul was extraordinary.

Undead, by nature, lost most of their sensations. The experience of drunkenness was, to Ambrose, a memory from many years past.

"Of course!" Phil boasted. "Merrow mermaids are abyssal mutants with shockingly concentrated abyssal power in their marrow. Mix it with deep-sea leviathan blood in precise proportions and add a touch of Silent Sea kelp—that's my secret recipe. I slaughtered three Merrow tribes to brew this one bottle. Been saving it for two centuries!"

"Abyssal power... that stuff's poisonous," Ambrose observed.

"That's exactly why it can make undead drunk!" Phil laughed. "What else could affect our souls? Come, come! Let's finish this bottle, or it'd go to waste!"

Phil's indifference stirred a trace of pride in Ambrose.

Abyssal power was toxic, but that meant little to a legendary undead. To feel drunk once more was a rare delight.

They drank cup after cup, swiftly going from strangers to drinking companions.

Phil explained that, under normal sailing conditions, they would not arrive for another day and a half. But upon learning that Ambrose had arrived early, the captain had ordered him to advance at full speed.

"I abandoned the fleet and brought my Swordfish in at top speed. Fastest ship in the Silent Sea! Even the captain's flagship can't match her."

Phil was outrageously cheerful. The more he drank, the more he bragged: he raided royal merchant fleets one day and slaughtered fish-man tribes the next, a true tyrant of the seas.

Ambrose was well aware that he had been a half-baked legend, but in the past, he had largely compared himself to legends of other races. The difference between him and a "true" legendary undead had never felt so stark.

Seeing Mute's subordinate, he understood how vast the gulf between legends could be.

While he was in Alkhemia, he would never have dared annihilate cities and races so casually. Yet Phil spoke of it as if he were merely describing a meal. 𝒇𝙧𝙚𝓮𝙬𝙚𝓫𝒏𝓸𝓿𝓮𝒍.𝓬𝙤𝓶

The ghost ship beneath his feet was no simple vessel either. It held immense power, amplifying its master's strength by perhaps an order of magnitude, just like Ambrose's tower. Yet this vessel could even roam freely across the seas.

To possess such influence, Mute had to be extremely wealthy. Perhaps he could strike a deal or two with her.

Ambrose seized the chance to inquire further. "Tell me more about your captain."

"Hic..." Phil belched. Two small finger bones tumbling from his mouth, likely from some humanoid victim. He used his harpoon to pick his teeth before replying. "Captain's the captain of the Silent Sea Pirate Company. Aren't you her friend? Shouldn't you know?"

"We've only corresponded by letter. I don't know her identity," Ambrose explained.

"Ah, got it. Listen well, then: our Captain Aige is the sovereign of these waters. Wherever the black sails of the Nightsea Pirates fly, all must offer her their treasures, their flesh, and their souls."

Phil's voice brimmed with pride.

"And then?" Ambrose prompted.

"Then? What do you mean then? That's it! We're invincible across the Silent Sea. What else is there?"

Ambrose: "..."

Now he understood why Mute had described this fish-man as brainless.

He was about to probe further—to at least determine what manner of undead Mute was—when the sails of the vessel suddenly snapped violently, as though the wind had shifted.

Yet Ambrose was certain that the sea breeze had not changed.

Phil's drunken sway vanished instantly. His eyes widened. High upon the mast, a wraith shrieked, "Captain, we're surrounded by the Stormborn! They've set an ambush for us with twelve medium warships and their flagship, the Tempest Gale!"

Stormborn?

Ambrose felt a flicker of tension. Among the Nine Kingdoms, only one was composed entirely of islands: the Ragetide Kingdom. Though small in land and population, its every citizen was a devotee of the Lord of Storms. They worshiped thunder and tempest, and called themselves the Stormborn.

They were either hostile to or mortal enemies with every other kingdom. In short, they were crazy lunatics.

Worst of all, the sea was the Lord of Storms' domain. Even those who despised the Ragetide Kingdom had little recourse against them.

"Why are the Stormborn targeting you?" Ambrose asked.

"Because we frequently rob their cargo, of course!"

Ah. It seemed Mute was not particularly adept at diplomacy either.

Phil waved dismissively. "They're a bunch of idiots who think I'm easy prey just because I'm alone. Wait here, honored guest. I'll handle these suicidal humans."

He seized his harpoon and slammed it against the mast. Thick black fog billowed from the sails, swallowing the already dark sea whole.

Lightning split the sky, blasting the mist and sending it churning violently.

The fleets had yet to meet face-to-face, yet magic had already begun to fly.

Phil stood at the bow, harpoon raised high.

"Full speed ahead! Charge! Let our honored guest witness the might of the Silent Sea Pirates!"

Hundreds of wraiths poured from the hull, swirling like storm clouds around the vessel. The ghost ship shot forward like an arrow loosed from the bow, straight toward the heart of the thunder.