Chapter Fifty-Three: The Captive

On the four large spirit wood rafts, Ye Mo and the group of martial artists gazed from afar at the ocean vessel, utterly perplexed. They had no idea what the yellow-toothed old man and that grand ship intended. As the copper apparatus atop the ship’s prow slowly turned, its pitch-black mouth aiming at their wooden rafts, an uneasy feeling crept over them, as if they were being watched by a ferocious beast.

Yet, they could not quite pinpoint the threat.

“What is that contraption on the ship’s deck?” someone asked.

“I’ve often seen catapults and trebuchets atop city walls in various nations, but this is different—it seems to be a weapon made of copper! What could it be used for?”

None of the martial artists had ever encountered such a device, and their discussions grew heated. Even the well-traveled Gao Jian, who had seen much in his journeys, shook his head in bewilderment. Ye Mo turned his gaze to Mo Ling.

Mo Ling, catching Ye Mo’s questioning look, shook her head helplessly. Her grandfather had told many stories about trials in the Eastern Sea, but hardly everything. This strange copper device was something she knew nothing about.

As they stood caught between curiosity and apprehension, suddenly, the copper cannon erupted with a thunderous roar. Flames shot from its mouth, and through thick smoke, a black iron ball burst forth, hurtling toward one of the spirit wood rafts in their midst.

“Not good!”

“Quick, dodge!”

The seven or eight martial artists on the targeted raft were terrified; the iron ball was impossibly fast, and they scrambled to leap into the sea.

With a deafening crash, the iron ball smashed into the raft, shattering it instantly. A gaping hole appeared, the raft splintered and collapsed, sending up a massive wave.

The other three rafts were caught in the aftermath, their occupants raising their shields to ward off flying debris and the surging waves.

“What kind of weapon is this, to wield such tremendous power! From two hundred yards away, it can obliterate a raft built of spirit wood—its force must exceed four or five thousand pounds!”

“Even the sea serpent’s sorcery couldn’t achieve such destruction! Could it be an immortal’s magical artifact?”

When the waves subsided, the martial artists were drenched, their bodies soaked, staring in stunned silence at the shredded wood floating across the sea.

Those who had fallen into the water swam toward the remaining rafts, and their companions hauled them aboard.

“Ha! Did you see that? This is a copper cannon forged from the remnants left behind by an immortal alchemist. If you dare to resist, the remaining three rafts will be blasted to splinters one after another. Without your rafts, what will you do? Feed the fish!”

The yellow-toothed old man, himself drenched, laughed triumphantly. “Make your decision now: surrender your weapons, or feed the fish! If you surrender, our shipmaster will take you to the Immortal Village.”

“What should we do, Brother Ye?” someone asked.

“If this were a legitimate merchant ship, they’d simply lower a boat and rescue us—they wouldn’t demand we hand over our arms. Only those slave traders and pirates who prowl the endless sea would act so strangely, using force to coerce us. It seems these men are either pirates or slavers,” Gao Jian said, casting Ye Mo a worried glance.

“At this point, we have no choice. The food and fresh water on our remaining three rafts are nearly exhausted. If we don’t surrender, they’ll keep firing those iron balls, and all our brothers will end up as fish food,” Lin Zhi said gravely. “That ship is much faster than our rafts—escape isn’t possible. They want to capture us alive, not kill us.”

“But once we surrender, we’ll be unarmed, left at their mercy,” Mo Ling said softly, resignation in her voice.

“We won’t last much longer anyway,” Wang Hu muttered. “Even if we fled, some would starve to death. Whatever happens, they’re unlikely to let us die of hunger. Even if we’re captured, it’s not the worst outcome.”

The group nodded in agreement. Indeed, if things continued, hunger and thirst would soon claim them. Wandering aimlessly at sea was even more terrifying and despairing than becoming slaves to pirates.

“Then let’s surrender our weapons,” Ye Mo said, his eyes scanning the group. No one had any fight left in them.

The copper cannon had destroyed a raft with a single blast—no martial artist could resist such power. There was nothing left but to surrender and board the ship.

“That’s right! Why resist? Come aboard, eat and drink well, and I guarantee you’ll reach the Immortal Village!” The yellow-toothed old man laughed as the martial artists agreed to surrender. He quickly rowed his small boat over and had them toss their weapons aboard.

They complied, albeit reluctantly.

“Shipmaster, it’s done! They’ve all surrendered their arms!”

With all the weapons collected, the old man allowed the three remaining rafts to follow, leading them back to the great ship, reporting to Shipmaster Feng that he had successfully subdued the group.

“Well done, Accountant Huang! I’ll reward you with five hundred taels of silver,” Feng Xiongchang nodded approvingly.

The martial artists paddled their rafts, following the old man’s boat until they reached the ship, now only a few yards away.

Ye Mo could now observe the ocean vessel more closely.

Along the ship’s sides, three or four dozen fully armored martial artists stood, armed with powerful bows, fierce and imposing, each of considerable strength.

Ye Mo was now at the peak of the ninth martial level, but even he dared not act rashly in the face of so many archers.

Without weapons or shields, these archers could easily wipe out the raft-bound martial artists in mere moments.

Moreover, after days at sea with dwindling food and water, most were half-starved and injured, their fighting strength greatly diminished.

“This Shipmaster Feng seems formidable,” Ye Mo thought, his gaze falling upon the burly, scar-faced man at the prow—the most prominent figure. To command such a ship and its martial crew, his power must be extraordinary.

The armored warriors on the ship eyed the raft-bound group with excitement, like hunters sizing up their prey, their voices rising in strange shouts.

Pirates, indeed.

The faces of the martial artists on the rafts paled, many looking to Ye Mo for guidance.

It was clear hardship awaited them.

Ye Mo’s expression was grim; he clenched his fists, murmuring to the group, “Don’t act rashly. We’re no match for them. Wait until we’re aboard—endure a few days, and we may find a chance to turn the tables.”

The ship continued its slow voyage, stirring waves that made the rafts rock violently, forcing everyone to steady themselves, looking rather bedraggled.

The ship’s warriors laughed heartily, paying Ye Mo and his companions no mind. In the face of such overwhelming strength, they no longer bothered to pretend to be ordinary martial artists.

With their power, they could easily crush these two or three dozen ragged, starving martial artists.

“All of you, listen! Before boarding, you’ll be searched again. If you carry no weapons, you may come aboard,” the yellow-toothed old man shouted. “It’s best not to hide any blades—these waters are frequented by sea knife fish, and they love the taste of human flesh!”

Several islanders jumped down to haul the surrendered weapons onto the ship.

Shipmaster Feng examined the weapons in surprise. “A golden spirit sword? Armor shield made from the scales of sea monsters? Crab demon armor? Spirit wood spears and shields? So many spirit artifacts—are you immortal cultivators or subordinates of an immortal?”

He abruptly turned, questioning the martial artists on the rafts below.

On the ship, the pirates tensed instantly.

Immortals were not to be trifled with—on these boundless Eastern Sea waters, immortals ruled; martial artists were nothing more than ants crawling at their feet.

“There are no immortals among us. We’re only martial artists, stranded on an island, where we happened to find spirit swords left behind by an immortal. With those, we slew a few young sea monsters,” Gao Jian glanced at Ye Mo and replied loudly.

“No immortals? Good! Ha! Fortune favors me—spirit swords from immortals! Looks like my luck has finally come!” Shipmaster Feng breathed a sigh of relief. Of course, no immortal would fall so low. Then his face lit up with joy.

The group of martial artists on the rafts was of little value.

The true treasure was these spirit artifacts, worth far more than dozens of slave-trading voyages.

Soon, Feng Xiongchang suppressed his excitement and ordered his men to escort Ye Mo and his companions aboard.

The ship lowered a rope ladder, signaling Ye Mo and the others to climb aboard.

Following Ye Mo’s earlier instructions, the martial artists offered no resistance, boarding the ship in orderly fashion, resigned to their fate.

In addition to their weapons, two spirit wood chests and what food and water remained were also hauled onto the ship.