Sea Reaper: The Legend of the Black-Eyed “Boy”

Victor F. Medici crossed the courtyard and headed toward the row of temporary cabins reserved for senior officers. The North African afternoon sun was blazing overhead, cicadas buzzed endlessly in the trees, and his mood grew increasingly foul. If he hadn't been pressed into it, he would never have stepped foot into this raucous den of pirates—just as he usually avoided the filthy bowels of the ship, despite being their official physician. Fortunately, most of the crew were either drinking themselves into a stupor at the tavern or sheltering from the sun in some shady corner, so the yard was quiet.

At the best-positioned cabin, he saw a freshly carved emblem on the wooden door—a long sickle.

He knocked. A voice from within answered curtly, and Victor pushed the door open to find the usual pirate-style accommodations: a wooden bed filled with dry straw, a desk with an oil lamp, a water cup, polishing cloths, a whetstone, and a single chest containing all of the occupant's belongings. Scattered paper and quills lay strewn across the table.

Gripping a beam under the ceiling, the slender girl was pulling herself up, one repetition after another.

"139… 140… 141…"

Sweat dripped from her arms and forehead, leaving damp marks on the floor. Her shirt clung tightly to her body. Victor leaned slightly against the doorframe and narrowed his eyes. Unlike his own pampered and pale frame, her body was compact and powerful. Every inch of her skin was tightly bound to muscle, like a coiled spring—lithe and agile, yet strong enough to explode into motion at any moment.

Most pirates did not last long. The average one died within two years—malnutrition, heavy drinking, venereal disease, wounds from fights… Thieves died as easily as they spent their loot. But she was different. She had strict discipline. If there were any pirates aboard who could be called self-controlled, she would be one—second only to the captain.

"Two hundred!" she called, dropping down from the beam. Her arms trembled slightly, and her soaked hair stuck to her forehead.

Victor frowned. "You've been drinking?"

"Just a little rum. Barely a glass. Rinsed it, actually," she said, rubbing her face casually with a towel before gulping down a mouthful of cold water and collapsing into the chair.

"Alcohol irritates the skin," Victor warned. "If you want to avoid acne and rosacea, you'd best take care now while you're still young."

"I only had a sip. I even told the barkeep to dilute it," she replied. The tall chair was too high for her feet to touch the ground, so she swung her legs freely. Her tone was bright and cheerful.

"You're in a good mood today," Victor said. Her dark eyes were bright, and there was a faint blush on her cheeks. Among the Algerian pirates, she was known as "the Death that drinks only jujube juice." Clearly, something delightful had happened.

Victor's eyes swept across the notes on the table. One page was filled with lines of Arabic numerals. Picking it up, he read aloud:

"Thirty-six percent annual interest. 200 becomes 272 in one year, 344 in two. Monthly wage: thirty. Monthly savings: twenty-four…"

He flipped the paper over. On the back, it read: "Snacks: Try to mooch off the captain."

He couldn't help but laugh. "Let me guess—you sold yourself to the captain?"

"Not sold!" she retorted. "I invested! I bought shares in his future loot. It earns interest."

Victor smirked. "You've been utterly bewitched by him. You count his money with more joy than your own."

"It's a good investment!" she said with conviction.

"An upright pirate doing business with a by-the-book merchant. Quite the future you've got," he said. "Congratulations, Captain Nick."

She gave him a glare. "What about you? You earn as much as the first mate, plus your share of the plunder. Where's your money gone?"

Victor opened his black ledger. "In a bank in Florence. Professional brokers manage it. It's safe, tax-adjusted, and hedged against inflation. Your captain, on the other hand, only offers gold coins. Doesn't even issue bonds."

Nick leaned over, curious. "This piece of paper is really worth that much? Can you use it in Algiers too?"

"A new trading house just opened here," Victor replied. "Since you're staying by his side, I suppose the mission is complete."

"Did Carl ask you to come?"

Victor remembered the look on Carl's face earlier that day and fell silent. Nick's face changed slightly. Then she asked, "I heard Redbeard tried to recruit you too."

"I refused—without a second thought."

"You dislike the Ottomans?"

"No," Victor said dryly. "I just dislike beards. Beards are full of bacteria. From the captain to the cook, a ship of bearded men is like one big infectious stew."

Nick burst out laughing. Victor, ever the clean freak, wouldn't go to crowded places without bringing his bodyguard—even after recovering from the stab wound. When shopping, he made a deckhand carry his bag. Even Carl wasn't spared from fetching and carrying.

At a luxury underwear shop, Nick turned her pockets inside out and found only a handkerchief, some biscuit crumbs, and a few cracked nutshells. Victor had to pay for three silk vests and several soft cotton undershirts.

Outside the store, Victor complained, "So what, you were planning to have me pay for your underpants?"

Nick gave him a sheepish smile. "Gentlemen pay, don't they? Besides, you're the one who dragged me here. Tight underwear is the worst."

Victor frowned. "Tell me honestly, what have you ever bought with your own money?"

Nick began listing: salt for brushing teeth, soapnut shampoo, spare clothes, cotton cloth for first aid…

"Carl bought those," Victor interrupted. "I mean what you paid for."

"I give him a silver coin every month for food," she answered.

Victor shook his head. "He's too good to you. Last year, a silver coin covered food. This year, it's not even enough for flour. Don't you remember? You didn't even have a handkerchief in your pocket."

She paused and reached into her pocket, feeling the fabric inside. Before boarding the ship, she hadn't even had a decent pair of underwear—let alone the luxury of embroidered silk. After joining, Carl took care of her food and clothing. Once they entered the palace, there was suddenly a handkerchief in her pocket.

Victor sighed. "He's loyal. He works without complaint just for room and board. I'd take him over a thousand flatterers. You don't have to love him, but don't hurt him."

It turned out I hadn't hired him at all—he had been the one investing in me from the start.

"I understand the two of you have completely different values," Victor said calmly. "But in this world, it's rare to meet someone who truly cares for you. So even if you can't stand him, even if you could never accept him—at least, don't be cruel."

Isaac spent the hottest month of the year in Algiers, yet still failed to drag back his stubborn younger brother or that "loyal" assault captain of his to the Ottoman Empire. Hayreddin politely declined Sultan Suleiman's olive branch, sending back generous gifts to show there was no hostility—just that the time wasn't right. He needed more time to consider.

Standing at the port of Algiers before departure, Isaac looked somewhat disappointed. Glancing at Nick's expressionless face, he thought, This child may not be willing to come back, but at least she's loyal.

He cleared his throat and, suppressing the pinprick of pain in his chest, said to her:

"Reis has no sons, and Lily always gets seasick… I really can't bear to take the horse on another journey…"

Nick picked up on the meaning instantly. Her eyes lit up like torches, and before Isaac could finish, she bowed deeply and shouted with joy:

"Thank you, big brother! I'll take good care of her!!"

Hundreds of brothers standing nearby all stared, eyes wide. The words had been spoken, and just like that, Redbeard's priceless Arabian steed had been "gifted" to this opportunist. Isaac's face twitched, nearly choking on his breath.

"Who's your big brother, you little brat?! Huh?!"

Hayreddin burst into loud laughter, a touch of pride in his voice. "See that, brother? If you really tried to take her away, you'd be dead from sheer frustration before reaching the shore."

Isaac grunted twice, caught his breath, and decided to maintain his dignity to the end.

"Enough—if we don't leave now, the winds will shift," he said, thumping his brother on the shoulder, voice tinged with regret. "You've never listened to me. I thought maybe, from now on, we'd finally fight side by side."

"We always have," Hayreddin said, meeting the gaze of a face so much like his own. Bronze-skinned and solemn, he said firmly:

"You're my one and only brother."

Barbarossa Hayreddin did not leap at the offer of legitimization from the mighty Ottoman Empire, nor was he flattered into hasty agreement. As the twin Turkish lateen ships pulled away from Algiers, anyone with political sense could see it clearly: this man would never be content to remain a mere pirate lord of a provincial port.

Meanwhile, Nick had taken a keen interest in those "magical slips of paper that become worth a fortune just by scribbling a few numbers." Hayreddin patiently explained the financial world and the concept of credit, but he gave her no room to withdraw her investment.

Hayreddin: "Do you understand now?"

Nick: "…Reporting to the captain, I heard every word… but understood none of it."

Hayreddin: "Forget it. We've got nothing urgent right now—I'll take you to see for yourself."

Nick: "See for myself? Wait—you mean go to Italy?"

Hayreddin: "Exactly. We're going to Italy."