Winter Lord: Starting with Daily Intelligence

Chapter 440 Drowning in the Land of Gentle Touches
The captain's cabin door was tightly shut.

A thick silk carpet covered the floor, making it almost impossible to hear footsteps.

A chandelier made from a single piece of crystal stands in the corner, an old style from the Emerald Federation workshop, its light cut into small, gentle fragments.

On the table was a complete set of gold wine glasses, the cups so thin they seemed to be for display rather than for actual use.

The ambergris is burning, but too much of it has been used.

The cloyingly sweet smell filled the air, so strong it was almost pungent and made people dizzy.

Even so, a lingering fishy smell remained deep inside the room, like a dead fish that had been trapped under the deck for days.

The candlelight flickered slightly.

The bed curtains shook violently, making a rapid and chaotic rustling sound, then suddenly stopped, followed by deathly silence.

Balk lay on his back on the bed, his chest heaving violently, each breath accompanied by a rattling sound like a broken bellows.

Covered in sweat, yet shivering with cold, my soaked back pressed against the mattress, the chill seeping into my bones.

He suddenly raised his hand and shoved the person next to him away: "Get out of my way."

The woman was pushed and hit the edge of the bed, letting out a low cry of pain.

Balk sat up and slammed his fist on the mahogany bed.

The dull thud sounded particularly jarring in the luxurious captain's cabin.

A dull pain followed, and he stared at his hand as if it weren't his.

Damn it, I failed again.

Even with such a beauty lying next to him, his body remained completely unresponsive, like a broken boat stranded in the mud, motionless.

He looked up at the bedside, where Meryl was kneeling, her long hair cascading over her shoulders, her skin as white as snow.

Her eyes were moist and soft, as if she had been wronged, yet she was still trying carefully to please him.

The blanket slipped off a corner.

The candlelight shone on her bare shoulders and back, where the skin was bloodless, only a deathly pale white.

As she turned around, a few tiny scales on the back of her neck twitched slightly, as if she were breathing.

Balk looked away; he saw his hands trembling uncontrollably.

Outside the window was the sea, the night was deep, and the surface of the sea rose and fell slowly, like a sleeping giant. He stared at the darkness, but his thoughts were pulled back to a long time ago.

Twenty years ago, he could lift an anchor with one hand. The weight of several hundred kilograms was like a spear in his hand. He could throw the entire anchor and smash the mast of an enemy ship.

The harbor taverns always reserved a seat for him. Dancers surrounded him, their laughter cacophony enough to give anyone a headache. He
I remember those nights, the next morning, there were always a few people who couldn't walk.

They called him the Prince of Black Lagoon, the leader of the Seven Great Pirates, the King of the Sea, and possessed the strength of a top-tier knight.

And now? He looked down at his hands, which used to be able to hold everything, now trembling like a new recruit.

The sword hilt had long lost its weight in his hand; he couldn't even conquer a woman.

The word "aging" slowly unfolded in his mind, creeping up his bones like poison.

Balk grabbed the bathrobe from the head of the bed, haphazardly draped it over himself, and staggered toward the table.

He brought the glass to his lips and took a big gulp of strong liquor.

The wine spilled down the rim of the glass, splashing onto his gray beard, turning a dark red color like blood that hadn't been wiped clean.

Balk, panting, suddenly chuckled: "Louis Calvin."

He emphasized the name very much.

"It's all that damned little bastard's fault." Balk slammed his glass on the table.

"Ever since he connected the Gray Rocks to the North, the merchant ships there have completely changed!" His voice rose higher and higher. "Before, robbing was as easy as collecting taxes. Now? Those black-smoking, tin monsters run faster than sea beasts!"

He raised his hand to gesture, but his hand was shaking violently: "The hull is as hard as a tortoise shell. When a cannonball hits it, you only hear a bang!"

Three years, a full three years! My brother has only been drinking cheap rum, and the treasury has only been draining, never taking in! He's trying to starve me, trying to drive the Black Lagoon Prince to his death!

The smell of alcohol filled the room.

Balk blamed the tightness in his chest and the weakness in his body on that name.

Only one simple yet dangerous thought remained in his mind.

Everything will be back once Louis is defeated.

After his anger subsided, Balk sat on the edge of the bed, his shoulders slumped, leaving only an emptiness after the fury had died down.

He seemed to have aged ten years in an instant; his breathing was slow and shallow, and his gaze was unfocused.

Suddenly a chill ran down my spine as Meryl slid in from the side, her movements almost silent.

She was very close, her cool chest pressed against his sweaty back. The touch made Balk involuntarily shudder, but he didn't pull away.

The smell in the room is changing.

The originally heavy ambergris was invaded by another scent, sweet and cloying, with the fishy smell of seawater after it has decomposed, like the dampness left in the crevices of the rocks when the night tide recedes.

The scent entered his nostrils, clinging to his thoughts. His tense nerves gradually relaxed, and his mind became sluggish, yet comfortable.

Meryl's fingers slid slowly across his abdomen, where the skin had long since become loose.

"Don't blame yourself." Her voice was soft and gentle against his back. "You've carried too much—glory, hardship, bloodshed. You're just tired."

Balk's Adam's apple bobbed.

“Aging is not your fault.” Her tone was gentle, almost merciful. “But you are the king, and the king has the right to refuse it.”

Those words were like a hook, catching his heart.

“In our homeland,” Meryl continued in a whisper, “there is a secret art of the deep sea that can make withered trees sprout again. It can allow the strongest people… to surpass their original limits.”

Balk did not respond, but slowly raised his head.

Meryl reached under her pillow and pulled out a long, thin fishbone bottle.

The bottle is semi-transparent, and the liquid inside is a dark green color, viscous and slow-moving.

Balk's fingers tightened; his intuition screamed that this thing was extremely dangerous.

He held the bottle, hovering in mid-air: "This thing... doesn't seem like it can save a life."

Meryl didn't rush; she simply placed the bottle near his lips.

Just then, a crashing sound came from outside the cabin door, followed by chaotic footsteps and a strong smell of alcohol.

“Your Highness!” The adjutant’s voice was low outside the door, but it couldn’t hide his panic. “Broken Tooth Jack is drunk! He’s causing trouble on the deck, saying that you… saying that you have no teeth and should give up your position.”

Those words hit Balk like a punch to the gut; his chest tightened, and his heart skipped a beat.

Jack is young, fierce, and at the height of his power, possessing the strength of a mid-level extraordinary knight.

Twenty years ago, someone like him wouldn't even be worthy of getting close to him.

Now? Balk suddenly realized that he was afraid.

He wasn't sure, unsure if he could still hold the stray dog ​​down if he actually went up to the deck.

Meryl looked at him, a barely perceptible smile playing on her lips, and leaned close to his ear, gently biting his earlobe: "Did you hear that? That little dog is trying to step on your head."

"Drink it, for your dignity, for this ship. Don't you want to crush his throat with your own hands? Don't you want to... prove it again?"

She grasped Balk's hand, holding the bottle neck, and pressed it close to his lips.

The insults coming from outside the door grew clearer and clearer.

Balk closed his eyes, fear surging within them, but was quickly suppressed by something else.

He tilted his head back and swallowed the cold, viscous liquid in one gulp.

The world suddenly sank.

My abdomen felt like it was on fire.

He felt his parched fighting spirit being violently filled, his heart pounding, each beat pushing a new surge of heat.

Exhaustion was crushed, dullness was torn apart, and he felt he could tear the deck apart.

In reality, he suddenly arched his back, letting out a low, incoherent growl.

The blood vessels under the skin quickly turned black, bulged and twisted, like living worms.

The fingernail splits in an instant, and new ones grow back, black and sharp; the pupils contract and elongate.

That's not returning to youth; it's something within the body being replaced.

Balk walked out shirtless, wearing only a coat. The torches on the deck flickered, and waves of heat mixed with the fishy smell spread out.

Jack Broken Tooth was stepping on an old crew member when he turned around, saw him, paused for a moment, then grinned, "Old man..." Before he could finish speaking, everything went black.

Balk's figure was already close behind.

He grabbed Jack by the neck with one hand and lifted him off the deck.

The fingers snapped together, producing a crisp breaking sound.

Jack's body went limp instantly, and blood splattered on Balk's face.

The deck was deathly quiet.

Balk licked his lips and smiled: "Who else?"

The only response he received was the sound of kneeling down.

He laughed loudly, turned around, and went back to the captain's cabin.

The candlelight was still flickering.

Meryl was waiting for him, and Balk pounced on her.

……

In the first few days after drinking the medicine, Balk seemed to be wound up again.

He was shirtless on the deck, facing the midday sun, and wrestled with five burly sailors.

The wooden planks creaked underfoot, and the sailor's wrist snapped crisply beneath his palm.

Balk laughed loudly, but with a dry, hoarse quality, like metal rubbing against each other.

No one dared to provoke this pirate king.

His skin was cold, and when it touched someone, it looked like a dead fish.

Under the scorching sun, he didn't break a sweat.

When the chef brought out the delicious roasted lamb leg, Balk took a sniff and yelled that the meat was rotten, then killed the chef.

But some crew members saw him squatting in a corner of the deck, grabbing live fish from a wooden bucket and eating them, scales and entrails included.

Starting from the sixth day, the energy within the body becomes unstable, and each time it fades, it comes even faster.

But if he didn't replenish his skin for even half a day, his skin would start to feel tight and itchy.

Balk was restless, scratching his chest and arms with his fingers. When the dead skin was peeled off, what was revealed was not red new flesh, but a translucent hard layer that felt like an unformed shell.

He stared at that layer for a long time before looking away.

Meryl's scent reached us first as she approached.

The fishy smell grew stronger and stronger; it would make an ordinary person feel nauseous.

But to Balk's nose, it was a maddeningly sweet scent.

He buried his face in her hair, breathing greedily, like a drowning person grasping at the last breath of air.

He began to dislike his own figure; the image in the mirror seemed bloated and inefficient to him.

On the contrary, Meryl's occasional tentacles and slime seemed more natural and reasonable to him.

"This is evolution," he told himself.

On the twelfth day, the door was kicked open, and the old adjutant rushed in with his men, his face pale.

He had followed Balk for thirty years, yet now it felt as if he were meeting the man before him for the first time.

“Captain,” his voice trembled, “look in the mirror.”

Balk stood in the shadows, his shoulders and back hunched, with fine, hard lines on the sides of his neck.

"You've grown scales." The old adjutant choked up.

Meryl hid behind Balk, very close, her voice so low it was almost inaudible: "He's jealous of you, he wants to stop you."

Balk looked at his old adjutant, his memory filled with countless nights when this man had shielded him from harm and guarded the ship for him.
The last vestiges of affection throbbed in my chest, then a surge of longing pressed down upon me.

He let out a dissonant roar and lunged forward.

The mutated claws tore open the throat, and blood sprayed onto the bulkhead.

The old adjutant was still alive when he was dragged to the side of the ship.

“Don’t blame me,” Balk said. “The road to the throne always has to be paved by someone.”

The sound of the water hitting the water was very soft, like a thread being cut.

On the fifteenth day, under Balk's pressure, they sailed into the depths of the Broken Islands.

The sea cave is known as the "Eye of Tranquility" because there is no wind, the water surface is like a black mirror, and pink mist flows at lower levels.

In Balk's eyes, it was a waterway leading to the temple.

On both sides of the rock, silver armor stood tall, and praise echoed in the air.

Meryl held his hand. Her lower body had already transformed into tentacles, climbing up the rock face.

But in Balk's eyes, she wore a floor-length dress and walked with graceful steps.

The scent deep within the cave became excessively sweet, like rotting honey, and the air was filled with a warm pink light, so soft it seemed unreal.

Balk stopped in the middle, unfastened his sword, put his armor aside, and took off his heavy coat.

He knelt down, his bare knees sinking into the softness.

At that moment, he put down more than just his equipment.

Vigilance, tension, and self-protection—things that accompanied him throughout his life—were gradually stripped away.

A sense of relief washed over me as we reunited after a long separation.

His breathing became steady, and his fervor faded, like a child who had finally returned home, wanting only to sleep and never wake up again.

The shadow above slowly descended.

It is a parasitic brain jellyfish with translucent, light and soft tentacles that emit a subtle light.

Meryl stood to the side, her voice so low it was like soothing someone to sleep: "There's no need to fight anymore, no need to be angry anymore. Close your eyes and accept this gift."

Balk closed his eyes; he felt nothing foreign.

I felt a pair of warm hands supporting the back of my head and gently lifting it up.

The sky seemed to open a crack, and golden rain fell, warm and pure, pouring in from above.

Fatigue is washed away, fear is soothed, and aging dissipates.

He saw himself sitting on a throne in the clouds, with the sea stretching out beneath his feet.

Those enemies shrank to dust, insignificant. He didn't need to wave his arm; with just a thought, the sea bowed its head.

An overwhelming sense of satisfaction washes over you, complete and saturated.

"Ah..." he sighed inwardly, "This is perfection."

In reality, the tentacles gently enveloped the back of his head, and his scalp and bones quietly softened.

Balk's body went completely limp.

Head tilted back, a blissful smile graced his lips, innocent and serene.

A tear slid down the corner of her eye, but before it reached her chin, the light in her eyes went out.

There was a brief silence.

When those eyes opened, there was no longer any flame of ambition, only a bottomless calm.

It is empty, yet it appears compassionate.

The creature behind his head had become one with him, its tentacles transforming into pale blue veins beneath his skin, shimmering slightly with his heartbeat.

Balk raised his hand and moved his fingers, as if getting used to the new instrument.

The wide brim of the hat cast a shadow that perfectly concealed the strange change behind his head.

He turned and walked briskly toward the exit.

　I've been revising the outline these past two days. If I continue writing step by step, focusing on technology and farming, the pace will be too slow, and it will easily turn into a rambling account.

　　So I decided to delete most of the farming content.

　　The following chapters will significantly reduce the tedious construction and research content and speed up the timeline. It is estimated that it will not reach 200 million words, but rest assured, except for force majeure, it will not be abandoned or the outline will be abandoned.

　　
　
(End of this chapter)