I, the prince in distress, send money

Chapter 347 Port Chat
Port of Omdour at night.

The salty sea breeze, carrying the smells of rusty iron and rotting fish from the dock, seeped in through the cracks in the creaking wooden door of the "Black Anchor Tavern".

The greasy oil lamps swayed under the low ceiling, casting the hunched figures of a group of Leterian sailors onto the mottled walls.

These sailors, or rather naval personnel, with worn-out gold thread on their uniform shoulder insignia and cuffs stained with black ash and salt, were sitting together, muttering curses around a barrel of sour ale.

The sailors were dirty, fitting the stereotype of medieval sailors, so much so that the pretty girls serving drinks in the tavern kept their distance, even though they did many jobs, they were not keen to get close to them.

Because these Leterian sailors were penniless and liked to take advantage of others in the name of conquerors, only to leave without paying them back.

Since there were no girls around, and after a few rounds of drinks, the sailors started to "talk politics."

"Those Miniese bastards... they're like siren tentacles, once they're wrapped around you, you can't shake them off!"

An old sailor with a face full of scars slammed his fist on the table, splashing the wine from his wooden cup.

"Their ships were more numerous than locusts, and their cannons seemed to have eyes. Damn it, before we even had our sails fully raised, the shells had already pierced the side of the 'Iron Ridge'..."

The old smoker huddled in the shadows, pulling his coarse linen cloak low, casually toying with a Mibagnian silver coin between his fingers... a pass to sneak into the port.

The Reteria people in the port didn't seem to have any counter-espionage awareness. It was incredibly easy for Old Smoker to sneak in. He just said he was a Bagnian mercenary looking for work, gave the port guards a little money, and he could get through without any hindrance.

Old Smoker is now an intelligence agent. As long as he can find out valuable information, he can get money and some special, beautiful things.

Many Retalia ships are returning to Omdur's port tonight, so Old Smoker was already waiting in the tavern early.

Now, upon suddenly hearing the name "Iron Spine," the old smoker would pick up a glass of diluted rum and stand up. This name belonged to a warship in the Retalia fleet.

He had a plan: to pretend to be drunk and stumble into the group, spilling alcohol on Scarface's trousers, and then pay them compensation.

Don't give too much money. If you give too much money, the other party may realize something is wrong, or become greedy and try to rob you with a knife.

Don't find this unbelievable; in fact, the armies of feudal society, whether land or navy, were synonymous with robbery.

The plan was terrible. In modern times, it would have failed, but now... Old Smoker is just taking advantage of the natives' lack of knowledge.

As the old smoker stumbled and bumped into the group, the cheap rum in his hand splashed precisely onto the already filthy trousers of the scarred sailor.

"Oh dear... I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, bro!"

The old chain smoker's tongue was slurred, his face was plastered with exaggerated drunkenness and apology, and his body swayed more violently than a boat.

"This lousy place... the floor is shaking like it's been hit by a cannon, I couldn't stand up straight, I really couldn't stand up straight!"

While haphazardly slapping the wine stains off Scarface's trousers, which only made them spread wider, he hurriedly pulled out a few more Bagnian copper coins from his pocket and slammed them onto the greasy table with a crisp sound that drowned out the surrounding noise.

"I'm sorry... I'm sorry... This sour beer is on me... uh, you can keep the money and buy it yourself."

The old smoker hiccuped, his eyes glazed over, as if he were really quite drunk.

Scarface was stunned by the impact and was about to get angry when he saw the six dull copper coins. His anger was instantly replaced by greed and a hint of "you're smart to be sensible, kid."

He grabbed the copper coin, weighed it in his hand. It wasn't much, but it was good money; he could buy a decent bottle of wine. So, he just snorted.

"Consider yourself lucky, kid. If this were in the Rusty Knife Strait, I would have thrown you into the sea to feed the fish!"

"Rust...Rust Knife Strait?"

The old smoker casually dragged over a creaking wooden stool, plopped down, leaned forward, and pretended to be both curious and frightened.

"That sounds weird, bro? What's wrong? It's shaking a lot over there too?"

He pointed to the "masterpiece" on the ground.

"Hmph, it's more than just wobbling!"

Scarface took a big gulp of ale, wiped the foam from his lips, and it was clear that the copper coins and the new wine had gotten him talking.

"That godforsaken place is full of weird waves, and those bastards in Miniscia are even weirder. They're not fighting a war at all, they're putting on a show!"

When they have the upper hand, their clippers seem to have wings, 'whoosh' they dart into the middle of our formation, specifically targeting the weakest points!
Headwind? Hey, they immediately scattered like a swarm of wasps, attacking our sails and rudder!

He waved his rough, large hands excitedly, mimicking a tearing sound.

"With a hiss, a good sail was destroyed; with a crash, the rudder was smashed to pieces, and the whole ship became a dead log floating on the sea, only able to watch helplessly as others circled around and fired at it... Frustrating, damn frustrating!"

The old smoker, at the opportune moment, revealed an expression of shock and admiration, and poured Scarface another full glass.

"My God... that's amazing? Didn't they say that... the Minieses used to be merchant ships that traded goods?"

Me? I am a Bagnian. I started out as a mercenary in my early years, working as a swordsman on the ships of the Tia family. Those ships of the Minesian nobles looked splendid, but the gunpowder was always locked up tightly, for fear of getting damp and losing money.

"A war? They're all cowering in the back, firing sniper shots."

"Ha, that's all ancient history!"

A young sailor with a missing front tooth but shrewd eyes chuckled and interjected, clearly also drawn in by the free wine and the conversation.

"The new King Charles who came to power last winter was a ruthless character. According to the prisoners, this king wiped out a major noble family in the country."

Ships? Cannons? Sailors? They're all fucking 'King's's' name... Now those ships are flying whale-shaped flags, and even the pretty woman figureheads on the prows have been replaced with the so-called sea god's... uh... majestic face."

The young sailor made a face, which elicited suppressed chuckles from several sailors around him.

Scarface glared at him, but acquiesced.

"That's the strange thing. In the past, the noble captains of Miniscia were all very afraid of their lives. They would fire a few shots from a distance as a token gesture and that would be the end of it."

Now look at them, their new fleet is fighting like mad dogs, they're all acting like they don't care about their lives. A few days ago during the battle, one of them dared to drive his ship directly into the gap between our three ships, with all the gun ports on both sides open, 'Boom boom boom!' The shells were being thrown at us like they were free!

Good heavens, those weren't pirates!
That's practically... like heavily armored knights charging at you on horseback, lances in hand, only they're floating on the sea!

The old smoker was dumbfounded, forgetting to put down his glass. "The new king's Minesians are so fierce at sea? Then... what about our ships? Aren't our Retalian ships pretty formidable too? I see those docked in the harbor..."

"Don't talk about us, you're a Bagnian... Ah, a ship from Reteria?"

Scarface took a big gulp of wine, his face full of bitterness and a kind of humiliating self-mockery.

"Impressive? Impressive my foot! Our methods of fighting at sea are exactly the same as our cavalry charging on land... Stupid!"

He slammed the wooden cup down on the table, splashing the wine everywhere.

"The generals gave only one order: line up in a horizontal formation, like a wall, raise the sails, and charge through them and sink them!"

Or you could get close, jump aboard, and finish the fight with swords and axes!

Scarface waved his fist, mimicking a bugle call to charge.

"Boom! The ram slams in, clang! The ships come together, and then it's all for the glory of Leteria and the sun god! Kill! Slash!"

He was panting heavily, but his eyes were vacant, as if he could see that tragic but futile scene.

"What about the Minnesos? They don't play this game with you at all..."

His voice suddenly rose, filled with anger and incomprehension.

"Those damned fast boats of theirs, so thin and long, with such high gunwales, unlike our big-bellied boats, they're as slippery as eels, and they open fire from a great distance... a great distance, even farther than our 'Roarer Stone Cannons' can reach!"

Bang bang bang... boom boom boom... the artillery fire was so dense, it was like a rainstorm!

The young sailor next to him, missing a front tooth, couldn't help but chime in with a sigh.

"Their cannons aren't like our clumsy old relics. Their cannons have long barrels, and they're made of bronze. They don't fire stone projectiles to smash ships; they fire iron lumps. They fire fast and accurately, targeting our hulls, our masts! Our... people!"

He subconsciously touched his arm, which was wrapped in dirty strips of cloth.

Scarface closed his eyes in pain, as if recalling the nightmarish metal storm.

"Yes... Our Roarer Stone Cannon is equivalent to two of their heavy ones. One stone cannon can create a big hole if you're lucky. And one reload is enough for their little cannons to fire three rounds."

Three-wheeled vehicles… While our gunners were still struggling to clean the breech, loading gunpowder and those damned, heavy stone projectiles, their shells came crashing down like hail. In just a few hits, our deck was covered in blood and splinters of wood… and… and…”

He couldn't continue, so he took another gulp of wine, trying to suppress the bloody memory.

The old smoker timely expressed shock and "empathetic" anger.

"This...this is too much! Can't they fight a fair and square boarding battle? Like real warriors!"

"Board combat?"

Scarface opened his bloodshot eyes and let out a bitter laugh.

"Kid, you used to be a knife-wielder, you know what I mean, but we can't even rely on him now."

Our Leterian ships, cumbersome, heavy, and pot-bellied, were meant to carry those damned roarers and rams, along with even more armed sailors. We trudged along, lined up, and hoisted our sails high as we charged forward…

They had already scattered, circled around to the flanks or upwind, and were tearing our sails to shreds, smashing our rudders to pieces, and turning our decks into a slaughterhouse with that damned, fast, and dense barrage of fire!

He pointed to the black stains on his cuffs and trouser legs.

"See that? That's not coal ash, it's gunpowder residue, it's from when our own cannons fired. But most of the time, our cannons can't even reach them... and even when they do, we can't hit them many times. And when we finally... we actually get close..."

Scarface's voice lowered, carrying a deep sorrow and helplessness.

"How many people survived and jumped across?"
Even if you jump over, what awaits you on their ship are muskets and sailors already prepared. Our men have long been stunned, maimed, and terrified by that damned bombardment!

He glanced around at the sailors who were also ashen-faced and drinking in silence, and finally his gaze settled on the old smoker, with an almost desperate honesty.

"So, you think it's impressive? Our Leterian ships are an invincible force on land, but at sea... against their new tactics, they're just cumbersome, waiting-to-be-beaten-up iron coffins! It's so frustrating... it's fucking frustrating!"

The atmosphere at the dinner table plummeted to freezing point.

The shadow of defeat and the despair brought about by the technological gap in equipment and tactics weighed heavier on everyone's hearts than the night fog of Omdur.

The old smoker listened in silence, gaining a very clear understanding of the true predicament of the Retalia Navy.

A fleet stuck in the era of boarding maneuvering suffered a crushing defeat when it encountered a new navy centered on artillery projection.

This intelligence was worse than he had anticipated, but it was also more valuable.

Just then, the dilapidated wooden door was violently kicked open again, and a messenger, soaked to the bone and with a distorted voice, rushed in, carried by the biting sea wind.

"Alarm! Minesia fast ships... outside the harbor! Three ships! Admiral's order: all personnel board immediately and prepare for battle!!!"

The word "battle" struck everyone like a whip.

Scarface, Missing Teeth, and the others jumped up suddenly, their faces instantly losing all traces of drunkenness and dejection, leaving only a deep-seated fear and an almost numb obedience.

They didn't even bother to glance at the obviously problematic old smoker again. Like herded livestock, they stumbled and shoved each other toward the door, merging into the shrill alarm bells and panicked shouts echoing from the harbor outside.

The old smoker also quickly got up, but in the opposite direction.

He slid silently down the passageway to the kitchen, like a wisp of smoke disappearing into the shadows.

Before leaving the "Black Anchor Tavern," a place filled with despair and the smell of cheap liquor, he took one last look at the hunched backs of the Reteria sailors disappearing in the direction of the dark docks.

They are heading not for battle, but for another funeral of steel and fire.

In this naval battle, the Retalia fleet is likely to be in grave danger, and the port of Omdur is about to fall.

This situation needs to be reported back immediately.

(End of this chapter)