Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 406

Chapter 406: Fruits of one work Chapter 406: Fruits of one work Blake finally laid eyes on the fruits of his relentless labor.

With a slow turn of his head, he took in the sight before him-the fleet anchored in the bustling port of the Call.

The salty breeze carried the scent of the sea and the distant sound of waves lapping against the hulls of the warships.

Seventy-nine vessels stood ready, their masts reaching toward the sky like the spears of an army poised for battle.

And yet, he could not ignore the absent ships.

Ninety-seven captains had cast their votes when choosing the High Admiral, but nearly twenty had not arrived in time.

A shame, but not a disaster.

Their absence , at least he hoped , would not change the course of what was to come.

Blake let out a slow breath, his fingers tightening behind his back.

They were more than enough.

Blake could see it in the restless energy of the captains who had made it to the island-men eager for battle, their patience wearing thin with each passing day.

And truth be told, he had no desire to wait any longer.

Time was not on their side.

The longer they lingered, the greater the risk.

The island was a fortress.

But It could not withstand a siege, not with a population that despised its new masters.

Between the steady stream of merchant ships that once filled its docks and the pirate vessels that now called it home, the people had made their preference clear.

They merely endured the new order, waiting-perhaps even praying-for an opportunity to turn against them.

How long until they opened the gates for the oil-drinkers?

Blake exhaled sharply.

No, they couldn’t afford to wait.

What they needed was an overwhelming victory, a crushing blow that would shatter any hope of the Romelians reclaiming the isle.

The people had to understand that this was their new reality-whether they liked it or not.

The sandy shores of the Call were alive with the presence of the fleet.

Captains and crews sprawled across the beach, their voices merging into a chaotic sea of laughter, murmured prayers, and hushed excitement.

The salty breeze carried the scent of the ocean, but soon, it would be overpowered by the rich, metallic tang of blood.

This was tradition-an ancient rite performed before every battle.

Here, under the open sky, every man of the fleet gathered, bound not just by oaths of plunder and war but by their god.

The more they offered, the better their fortune at sea, and today, they were making sure the sea-god would have no reason to abandon them.

One hundred cows stood tethered in the center of the gathering, their anxious snorts barely audible over the growing anticipation of the men.

Some of the younger deckhands, their faces barely touched by a razor, whispered among themselves, their eyes flicking between the animals and the seasoned warriors sharpening their blades for the sacrifice.

The older sailors stood calmly, some gripping charms and talismans, others simply watching, their expressions hardened by years of battle and bloodshed.

Fires were already being lit, their flickering glow casting long shadows over the sand.

Soon, the priests would step forward, the first throat would be slit, and the ground beneath their feet would turn crimson.

The gods would feast tonight, and in return, the fleet would ask for swift winds, strong tides, and steel that would bite deep into Romelian flesh.

The priests stepped forward, their long hooded robes swaying with each measured step.

Their heads were shaven clean, reflecting the glow of the ritual fires, making them appear almost otherworldly in the dimming light.

In their hands, they gripped curved ritual blades, the polished steel catching the flickering glow of the flames as they moved with practiced precision.

A hush fell over the gathering.

The air was thick with tension, the low, uneasy murmurs of the animals mixing with the heavy breathing of the assembled warriors.

Then, with a single motion, the priests struck.

One hundred blades met one hundred throats, slicing deep in perfect unison.

A choked symphony of final, gurgling bellows erupted across the beach as the cows collapsed, their legs twitching as life drained from them.

The blood surged forward in dark, steaming rivers, funneled expertly into the narrow canals carved into the sand.

The channels, dug with precision, guided the crimson tide into waiting bowls, each filled to the brim before being carefully emptied into a massive iron cauldron at the center of the ceremony.

The cauldron, blackened with age and countless past sacrifices, swallowed the offering greedily, the thick liquid swirling and steaming as it mixed within.

The warriors watched in silence, their expressions unreadable.

Some gripped their weapons tighter, as if the sacrifice itself had already called them to battle.

Others murmured prayers under their breath, their gazes flicking toward the cauldron, waiting for the gods to accept their offering.

The scent of blood filled the air, thick and heady, mixing with the salt of the sea.

The priests moved swiftly, their robes darkened at the hems from the blood that had splashed upon the sand.

With solemn reverence, they filled small wooden bowls with the still-warm liquid from the great cauldron, the surface thick and glistening under the firelight.

One by one, they stepped before the warriors, offering them the sacred drink.

Each man took a bowl with steady hands, the weight of the moment heavy upon their shoulders.

This was no mere superstition-this was tradition, a bond between them and the gods.

Blake accepted his bowl without hesitation.

The heat of the liquid seeped through the wood, warming his palms as he lifted it to his lips.

The thick, metallic taste coated his tongue as he swallowed it down in one motion, feeling the warmth trail down his throat and settle in his stomach.

He exhaled through his nose, letting the ritual complete its hold over him.

All around, warriors did the same.

Some drank eagerly, their thirst for battle ignited by the act.

Others took slow, deliberate sips, their eyes closed in silent prayer.

The sound of dozens of bowls being emptied echoed against the night, mixing with the crackle of flames and the rhythmic crashing of waves against the shore.

The offering had been made With it having been made there was now nothing to stop them to go ahead.

The men were restless-oarsmen, deckhands, and warriors alike-eager to board, eager to set sail, eager to carve their names into history with fire and steel.

But before they left, there was something Blake had to do.

He stepped forward, his boots sinking slightly into the sand, the weight of command heavy upon his shoulders.

Thousands of eyes turned to him-men hardened by salt and storm, men who had made their living by the blade, men who had once been slaves and now stood as free warriors, ready to kill for that freedom.

They watched him in silence, waiting.

This was the moment.

Once they were on the water, there would be no time for words.

No time for anything but battle.

Blake let the tension build for a moment, let the crashing of the waves and the crackling of the fire speak for him.

Then, with a deep breath, he began.

“Before we set sail toward glory, before we carve our names into the pages of history, I want each of you to remember-this battle is not just for your own honor, nor for your own gain.

It is for all of us.

For the life we have built, for the freedom we have bled for.” Blake’s voice carried across the beach, cutting through the crackling of torches and the distant crash of waves.

His gaze swept over the hardened faces before him, men who had spent their lives upon the tide, men who had fought and killed for every coin and crumb.

“Think back to how we lived before this-scouring the coasts for scraps, raiding miserable villages that had already been picked clean by raiders before us, taking whatever was left behind like dogs fighting over bones.

Tell me, where was the honor in that?

Where was the wealth, the power, the future?” Silence.

The crowd stood still, listening.

Blake’s voice rang across the shore, his words carried by the night wind and the murmuring sea.

“For two hundred years, we have ruled these waters, not by the mercy of kings, not by the grace of empires, but by the strength of our own hands!

We took nothing that was not ours to take, and we bowed to no master but the waves themselves.

And now-now these oil-drinking bastards think they can march in and take it from us?” A growl rippled through the crowd, low and angry.

Men shifted, gripping weapons, fists tightening, jaws clenching.

Blake raised his arm, pointing toward the horizon.

“Look at that sea.

Look at it!

That is not Romelian water-it is ours!

It is the lifeblood of our people, the path to our riches, the home of our sons!

And these fools would see it tamed under the boot of a merchant-king, turned into another road for their fat-bellied ships to pass, guarded by their fleets as if it were theirs to keep.

But we know the truth, don’t we?” A chorus of voices answered.

Some shouted in agreement, others snarled curses, some simply let loose wordless roars.

“They have grown too bold, my brothers.

Too comfortable.

They’ve forgotten who we are.

They’ve forgotten what it means to sail into the unknown with nothing but a blade, a ship, and the will to take what is ours.

They will remember soon enough.” Blake let the words hang in the air, let the firelight dance in their eyes.

He took a step forward, lowering his voice, forcing them to listen.

“This is not just a raid.

This is not just another skirmish.

This is a reckoning.

We will not run.

We will not scatter like thieves in the night.

We will meet them on the open sea, and we will break them like we were broken at Rock Bottom.We will be the one to avenge our fathers and brothers who nobly died in that battle” He took his sword from its sheath, lifting it high, the steel gleaming in the fire’s glow.

“For the Free!

For the Call!

And for the only law we have ever known-the law of the strong!” A thunderous roar erupted from the warriors, shaking the very sand beneath their feet.

Fists and blades were raised to the sky, oaths were shouted, and the sound of men readying for war drowned out the crashing of the waves.

The time for words was over.

The time for battle had come.