Awkward Voyage
"…Hah. This setup… it's awfully violent."
Sepir de Hwan muttered as he scratched his chin. On the deck, the evening breeze rustled the sails with a low whisper. The river remained crimson, the sun fully dipped below the horizon, and the sky sank into a deep indigo. The crew held their posts, but their eyes flicked furtively toward them. The reason was simple.
The captain's ship. The captain's table. Right in the heart of the captain's domain.
A woman who had declared she would kill him in three days sat there as if it were nothing, dragging over a pillow… and yawning in one corner of the deck.
"Mm."
Philia let out a long breath, closing her eyes once and opening them again. She had just finished eating, and her gloves stained with monster blood were already washed and dried. Unlike the crew still buzzing between excitement and fear, she looked like someone whose day was done.
She tossed the pillow down and settled naturally into the shadowed spot by the railing. As if it were her own room.
"You…"
Sepir approached slowly.
"Are you using my ship as a hostel?"
Philia tilted her head slightly.
"Three days."
"And?"
"I have to stay."
The reply was short. Sepir chuckled.
"Do you understand whose presence you're sleeping in front of?"
"Yes."
"I could kill you."
"Try if you want."
Calm. No mockery, no wariness. One crewman swallowed a cough. Another gripped his sword hilt instinctively, then released it as Sepir's gaze brushed past.
Sepir stared down at Philia for a long moment. Having finished her yawn, she had draped her coat half over the pillow. No tension in her eyes.
"Violent."
He said it again.
"The one who declared she'd kill me, sleeping on the same ship."
"Unless the captain runs."
Philia replied with her eyes closed.
"I'll wait until the appointed day."
"Is that waiting your mercy?"
"Something like it."
He chuckled briefly.
"Not mercy, then."
"Yes."
Short reply. The wind hummed through the sails. From below, the faint wriggle of something—probably one creature devouring another.
The river's red surface grew darker. Sepir leaned against the railing.
"Three days."
He said lowly.
"For three days, you watch me, and I watch you."
"That's right."
"And on the last day."
Philia didn't open her eyes.
"I sever your neck."
Silence. Her tone was oddly mundane. The crew's breaths grew heavy.
But Sepir laughed. Loudly. Exaggeratedly.
"Haha! What a setup I've never seen in my life!"
He spread his arms wide.
"An executioner boards my ship, disrupts the captain's sleep, and shares his meal!"
Like Don Quixote, an attempt to deflect. A few crewmen laughed awkwardly. It didn't spread.
Philia cracked her eyes open.
"Noisy."
"Do I need permission to laugh on my own ship?"
"No."
She rolled onto her side.
"Just… don't let it affect tomorrow's course."
"…You're really going to sleep?"
"Yes."
"I could stab you in the night."
"Try if you want."
Whoosh—Philia casually lifted the Execution Sword with ease. The sword the crew had struggled in vain to even budge yesterday. An absurd gap.
"Everyone, maintain shifts. No noise—let the Lady sleep comfortably."
The crew exchanged incredulous looks but nodded. Sepir gave Philia one last glance.
"…"
The woman was already breathing evenly. Actually asleep.
On the ship of the one she would kill.
With the kill date set.
He chuckled lowly.
"Three days."
Even knowing death awaited, he would have boarded. Sepir de Hwan was that kind of man.
The one who raises sails knowing the river is stained with blood. Who charts courses aware it has swallowed centuries of grudges and corpses.
So he wouldn't step off at a death notice. He would have laughed.
Saying tears didn't suit his final adventure.
But three days. Too short to prepare for death.
Even without subtracting travel time, woefully insufficient. To leave last words. To settle accounts. To memorize each crewman's face. Even to pick a target for resentment.
Who could name the perfect time? A month enough to prepare? A year to accept? A decade to let go?
No.
He leaned on the railing. Night air clung damply. In one corner, two crewmen murmured about shifts; elsewhere, someone checked ropes. Routine.
Even with death scheduled, the ship moves. The river flows. The course continues. The world doesn't stop.
He closed and opened his eyes.
"Hoo."
He inhaled slowly. Iron scent. Monster blood. What he imagined for his end.
He hadn't expected a tearful wife and little daughter in peaceful closure.
'At least the one delivering my death is beautiful.'
Close enough. Sepir knew his choices.
Crossing blood-mixed rivers. Evading empire and church eyes to forge routes. Seizing wealth to redistribute. Disrupting someone's order.
If death was set, comfort in his last sight not being a grumpy elder, a rage-mad lunatic, or an annoying newbie.
He looked up at the sky one last time. A faint star through clouds.
No tearful wife. No little daughter. No warm home.
Yet.
This end didn't feel unjust.
Just.
"I hope it ends beautifully."
He muttered. Tragedy, justice, procedure. Whatever.
At least.
By unflinching hands.
He turned back toward the cabin.
Three days. Short.
But.
He wouldn't run. A beautiful deliverer of death.
Was better comfort than expected.
"Ugh… haa. Slept too late."
Sepir pressed his temples with a low mutter. The cabin ceiling was low. Dawn light filtered thinly through wood planks.
Whooo… The ship was already moving. Steady vibrations hummed through the floor. The Triangular Whale never rested. It wouldn't stop for a sleepless captain.
He exhaled long, rising. Normally, he'd check the deck before sunrise.
But today, late. Who knew he'd oversleep like this.
"Ha."
A hollow laugh escaped. A captain's sleep wrecked before death. Pathetic.
He donned his coat and pushed the door.
Creeak. Cabin door opened, morning air rushed in. Mornings over the Blood Sea felt oddly murky. Thin fog draped, red surface shimmered faintly below. Sun risen, but colors dull. Sunlight over blood always seemed veiled.
And.
The scene in his view.
"Hah."
On deck. Morning's hazy light thinly wet ropes and rails; fog clung low over red waters, not fully lifted.
But more surreal than fog: crew wide-eyed, mouths agape, heads craned like kids hearing legends. Gathered.
One reason.
Philia was telling a story.
"So, that pirate king, right?"
Someone interrupted in excitement.
"The real 'King of the Black Flag', yeah? That guy had sixteen cannons on his ship—"
"Not sixteen cannons."
Philia corrected flatly. No emotion, no flair. Like an accountant fixing numbers.
"Twelve. Four already broken. Effectively eight."
"Ooh…!"
Admiration burst from the crew. Why marvel at fewer cannons? Hard to explain.
But not about numbers. Knowing the legendary pirate king's cannon state.
That was weird. Intriguingly so.
At the absurd sight, Sepir muttered alone.
"…Damn. To their captain's killer…"
Words trailed. Laugh? Rage? Applaud? His face unsure.
The scene itself twisted theater. Captain slated for beheading in three days. His executioner. Crew with sparkling child-eyes.
Philia ignored—or didn't hear—his mutter.
"Next story tomorrow. Back to work."
She set down her cup.
Clack. Wood table sound snapped the rowdy deck atmosphere clean.
This was a pirate ship. Free, rough, discipline drowned in booze.
Yet her words made obedience feel right. Raw power? Or clarity of emotionless command?
Even Philia might not know.
Sepir looked up. Far off, faint land through fog over red river. Borderlands. Where Grand Duchy and Church Territory pointed fingers, shirking blame. Messy line.
"Gotta check the course today."
"Yes, Captain!"
Replies louder than usual. Confirming captain still alive.
Sepir's lip quirked briefly.
"Helmsman! Hold course! Fog's nasty—eyes open!"
"Yes!"
"You! Recheck ropes! This river doesn't welcome us!"
"Yes, Captain!"
His voice boomed again. Captain once more. Ship's center.
No devil contractor. Body honed by sea years.
'Then his ideology didn't please the Emperor.'
What ideology?
Jingle!
As Philia pondered. Sepir hurled a chest of coin to shore, yelling.
"Loot from the other side! Time to redistribute!"
…Ah.
'No wonder they want him dead.'
Pirate. Before romantic…
'The type the Emperor hates most…'
His ideology was communism.