Chapter 47: The Wave of Madness Begins (Part 1)
Dusk descended, night was approaching.
In the Ipos Sea, just outside the territorial waters of the Silgaria Republic, about eighty nautical miles northwest of the Mete Islands, dozens of ships sailed smoothly against the crimson sunset, cutting through the calm sea like a hot kn*fe through butter.
Amidst the fragmented light of the sunset, Annasiris sat cross-legged at the bow of a three-masted ship, sword in hand, gazing ahead at the shimmering golden waves that rose and fell like silk, the white froth parting along the sides of the ship, creating ripples like layers of mist.
“d*mn heretics…”
Someone whispered a curse from behind her.
Without turning around, Annasiris knew it was the First Mate throwing another tantrum.
The First Mate was affiliated with the Holy Church’s Sixth Knights Order, but he wasn’t a knight himself. He was just a guy tasked with helping the captain ensure the ship’s safe passage—there were plenty of folks like him in the Sixth Knights, which was the Church’s “navy,” after all. And no, sailors are definitely not knights; knights don’t do sailor stuff. Their job is to fight for glory, not worry about ropes and sails!
Annasiris had a pretty good idea why the First Mate was in such a mood.
About five or six days ago, before the fleet even set sail, he was all set to head home for a family visit — this was his favorite topic of daily lamentation. Home was only a stone’s throw away from the northern edge of Silgaria, near Mosley’s coast, but he hadn’t been back in ages.
Apparently, someone at home had fallen ill, and the First Mate, having scored a victory, was all about hurrying back. He promptly requested leave from the captain, who initially approved it, but just as he was packing his bags, an urgent mission came down the pipeline, and bam! He had to put everything on hold and re-board the ship.
Understandably, he was livid.
So, for the past few days, he had been barking orders at the crew over the slightest mistakes.
Annasiris didn’t really care, though. She only found out about his woes because she liked to hang out on deck, scanning for enemy ships, and that nearly forty-year-old man with an unmistakable whiff of the sea would oftentimes meander around her, talking about how he’d been running around all these years and still wasn’t married.
Annasiris ignored him.
But the First Mate was quite persistent; he slowly got used to her aloofness. During his downtime, he would ramble on, sometimes offering her beef jerky and beer. Annasiris never refused food, happily accepting whatever he handed over, even stuffing the leftovers into her little satchel—of course, beer was a no-go; she didn’t drink.
He had a lot to say.
He shared tales about how his father had been bedridden with a serious illness since he was a kid, how his mother had been hit by a wealthy man’s war chariot and ended up with a limp, and how their food rations were always scarce. He even had a sister who, much like Annasiris, preferred not to talk. Eight years ago, she had eaten mushrooms she found in the woods and met her untimely demise… His salary wasn’t much but enough to buy booze, with every leftover penny sent back to his mother… Villagers thought he’d made something of himself after joining the Knights… and so on, and so on—just your typical drivel.
But after hearing so much of his mundane life, Annasiris figured he wasn’t as terrifying as he looked. Deep down, he was just a family guy, always going on about home.
So, she figured, why rush him away?
In fact, aboard this ship, the only person willing to chat with her—or daring enough—was the First Mate. Others had heard of the Sword Demon’s “fearsome reputation,” knowing she was a killer of traitorous Pope Knights—even if those knights had actually been up to no good. But like they say, a title like that tends to terrify the masses.
But for Annasiris, as long as she got paid and had enough to eat, nothing else mattered.
In an environment where the perpetual sound of the waves was her only company, having at least one decent person willing to talk like this wasn’t half bad.
Before long, as the sun dipped lower, the First Mate, having finished his scolding, made his way back over.
“Annasiris, are you hungry?”
The man leaned against the railing, beer in hand, casually asking.
Annasiris frowned, remaining silent—she was absolutely terrible at this whole socializing thing, finding communication a troublesome chore. It just didn’t sit well with her, and she couldn’t quite get used to it.
In Annasiris’s mind, the way people interacted was simple: the one who was meaner and less afraid of d*ath survived—this is what her father taught her growing up, and it was ingrained in her very bones.
But the First Mate had grown accustomed to her indifference. As long as she didn’t push him away, he would keep chattering away: “The sky’s turning dark… dinner’s fish again, but hey, there’s bread too! I remember my sister loved bread, the kind so hard you could use it as a weapon. She’d grind her teeth on it when she was little…”
The man rambled on a bit before asking, “Annasiris, do you think we’ll catch those heretics this time… is our intel even reliable?”
“… Don’t call me ‘Miss.’”
“Oh.”
He nodded, gulping down some beer.
“You know, Annasiris, don’t let this fool you, my swordsmanship isn’t half bad. A few years back, I took down some pirates, I’m not that far behind the knights… I even have a sharp sword on board, named it ‘Brown Bear’… If we do run into those heretics, I’ll rip them apart like a bear… hey, a bunch of wild dogs from the Eastern Continent…”
Annasiris shut her eyes and said nothing.
She knew the man thought this would turn out just like last time, that they’d track down some heretics and slice them up just like that.
But in reality, things were way more complicated.
Just how complicated? Annasiris wasn’t entirely sure.
She only knew the reason they set sail and the enemies they were about to face.
It all started that day when most thought the war against the heretics was finally over. The Sixth Knights suddenly rescued someone from the sea—a guy who had supposedly been lurking over there for nearly two years.
He was a man, in his thirties, utterly battered and tortured beyond recognition, his wounds oozing with pus, a stench hitting you like a wall if you got too close.
When he was carried into the command tent, Annasiris happened to be there, catching snippets of his fragmented report.
The northern force set up to intercept fleeing heretics from Ethanbel had been smashed to bits.
A highly esteemed Archbishop was missing, presumed dead.
And the batch of prisoners they had initially captured was merely a ruse set by the enemy. The intel they received was bogus; the heretics had long been capturing them. Their clear aim was to rescue one “Pier,” the old heretic, because he held the Divine Reliquary that had been stolen from the Royal City.
The man cried out in anguish, admitting he had disgraced the knights’ honor and had to k*ll his own comrades to escape. They had forced him to spread false intelligence, claiming “the heretics planned to leave,” while they were gearing up for an attack.
His only remaining ally sacrificed himself during their fight to fool the enemy into letting him go, allowing him to return and warn the two knight orders stationed at Mosley’s coast about the identity of the imminent threats.
“It’s… it’s the Jester…”
“That… Jester—!”
Annasiris vividly remembered the look on the man’s face when he shouted that name.
She also recalled the grave expressions of everyone in the tent, including Captain Williams, as they heard that name, their faces turning as serious as a tax collector at a festival.
