The fast river current sweeps the small wooden riverboats downstream, carrying the three hundred and twenty earthling teenage slave-soldiers toward the widening estuary where fresh water merges with the dark, brackish swells of the coastal sea. Broad, white-feathered sea gulls swoop low through the humid salt mist, their shrill cries echoing off the steep limestone cliffs guarding the river mouth. The dense pine forests of the inland hills recede, giving way to a vast, sprawling urban expanse rising directly out of the sunlit waters.
The lead boatman, a weathered local with dark, sun-browned skin and a broad straw hat, leans his full weight against the long steering oar. He spits a dark stream of chewed tobacco leaf into the foamy wake and gestures with his chin toward the towering stone sea walls ahead.
"We are entering the old districts of Aquapolis," the boatman calls out, his voice raspy and dry over the rush of the river.
A sea of pale limestone facades, weathered white plaster walls, and steeply pitched ceramic roofs clad in shimmering reddish tiles unfolds before their eyes. Exposed dark wooden support beams frame the upper stories of merchant mansions and ancient civic buildings. Enormous stone warehouses with heavy archways line the riverbanks, their broad loading bays open to the water, while long, arcaded commercial streets stretch deep into the city's interior.
Small, narrow cargo boats cut through the maze of crisscrossing canals and bustling riverside markets, their wooden hulls bumping softly against stone steps laden with baskets of silver fish, dried spices, and coils of dark rope. In the distance, beyond the inner canal gates, the massive timber masts and webbed rigging of ocean-going ships crowd the wide waters of the outer harbor.
At the heart of the city stands the old Republican Quarter. The ancient stone structures rise high and proud: the grand Patrician meeting halls, multi-story courts of justice, stone-walled archives, fortified municipal treasury buildings, contract registries, old craft guild halls, and the sweeping facade of the Doge's Palace facing the main canal.
Life pulsates through every stone alley and water steps. A fish seller, his apron soaked in brine, waves a silver-scaled mackerel in the face of a ship captain, his hands moving rapidly in sharp, heated gestures of negotiation. Near a stone archway, a slick-haired banker in fine wool robes leans close to a guild master, whispering figures into a small ledger while tapping a wax seal against his thumb. Further down the stone terrace, a wealthy Patrician in a flowing crimson mantle speaks in low, intense tones with a local politician, while an insurer in a dark cloak writes out a contract on a small wooden desk resting on his knees, surrounded by a ship's crew awaiting clearance.
Adelberd stands near the bow of the lead boat, his bright blue eyes fixed on the massive stone pillars supporting the front of a grand civic archive. He reaches up, running his gloved fingers over the edge of his kettle hat as he points toward the stone capitals carving the tops of the columns.
"Is this...Corinthian Order ?" Adelberd says to the soldiers gathered around him, his voice calm and precise. "The most ornate and decorative style of Ancient Greek, featuring bell-shaped capitals carved with stylized acanthus leaves. This place undoubtedly harbors Ancient Greek architecture."
He turns his head, scanning the intricate carvings along the pediment before looking back at Aldo and Lourdes.
"Perhaps Ofliran once had Ancient Greeks reincarnated here," Adelberd muses quietly, his brow furrowing as he processes the architectural detail. "Just as a group of Romans and Salian Franks combined to form the Roman-Franks who came to Savatier and laid the foundation for the Savatier Kingdom in Mediplana."
Aldo gives a single, brief nod, his dark eyes taking in the carved leaves on the limestone columns without a word, his pencil quickly marking a tiny diagram on the margin of his notebook.
The wooden riverboats pass beneath a stone toll bridge where uniformed Ofliran guards lower a heavy iron chain to collect silver coins from the boatmen. Once the fee is paid, the boats glide out past the stone breakwaters and into the turquoise swells of the Tropical Ocean.
The boatmen pull hard on their sweeps, steering close to the emerald-green coastline of Ofliran as they head straight toward the sprawling coastal metropolis of Oceania.
Comtois leans over the gunwale, his nose swollen and heavily bandaged, his dark eyes squinting at the looming skyline in the distance.
"What's the city's name?" Comtois asks, wiping sweat from his forehead with his broad forearm.
"It's Oceania," Aldo replies flatly from his seat near the cargo crates.
Comtois squints harder, scratching his thick chin. "Isn't Oceania the name of a continent?"
Adelberd turns from the bow, adjusting the strap of his leather pack. "People name new cities after marine creatures and animals; this city just takes the word 'Ocean' and adds 'ia' to it."
Rounding the high granite headland reveals the vast, sprawling expanse of Oceania's harbor, a massive waterfront divided into distinct, specialized districts along the curved bay.
The Eastern Harbor hums with chaotic energy as dense rows of flat-bottomed barges and regional coasters wedge tightly against the docks, their decks stacked high with wooden crates, general cargo, and heavy grain sacks.
Across the bay, the Western Harbor presents a sleeker silhouette, crowded with passenger vessels, elegant merchant schooners, and colorful coastal ferries constantly discharging travelers, traders, and foreign delegates onto the busy piers.
Further out in the blue depths lies the Deepwater Harbor, where massive multi-decked galleons ride the gentle ocean swell, their broad wooden hulls resting heavy in the water beneath a forest of towering masts.
Guarding the most lucrative trade routes, the Guild Quays line the shore behind iron-reinforced gates, operating as heavily fortified private docks strictly controlled by the city's most powerful merchant associations.
Surrounding these quays, the city rises in tiers of stone and timber: warehouses several stories high with iron cranes jutting from their gables, busy counting houses, grand merchant palaces with marble balconies, bank vaults, heavy stone customs offices, sprawling guild headquarters, noisy inns, crowded taverns, and bustling shipyards where the sound of hammers against oak timbers echoes across the water.
A vast, diverse tapestry of people crowds the wooden docks and stone walkways. Ofliran merchants with dark curls and olive skin—bearing a striking resemblance to Mediterranean Earth peoples—bargain loudly beside fair-skinned Mediplanan traders clad in heavy Western European wools. East Asian-looking Wanghai sailors with woven straw hats haul coils of thick hemp rope alongside diverse Federation officials in crisp, brass-buttoned uniforms.
Foreign diplomats move through the crowds under heavy guard: stout, iron-clad dwarves marching alongside tall, majestic humanoids possessing smooth horns, sweeping dragon wings, and scaled tails—dragons using ancient spells to take human form. Beastfolks with subtle feline and lupine features rub shoulders with local fishermen carrying damp nets, bankers clutching leather ledgers, caravan merchants leading pack mules, and sweat-stained craftsmen hauling timber planks.
Upon their arrival at the main quays, the group is met by a sharp-looking man in a tailored linen coat—the chief secretary to the Mayor of Oceania. Without delay, he guides all three hundred and twenty soldiers through the bustling docks toward the Deep Water Harbor.
There, anchored in the deep blue bay, sit massive wooden galleons, their black-and-white painted hulls rising like floating wooden fortresses above the water.
The young soldiers scramble up the wooden boarding nets, helping the ship's crew stow their heavy gear, weapons, and iron-bound chests into the lower decks. Once the cargo is secured, the boys gather along the high wooden rails, watching as sailors strain against the heavy capstan bars. With a deep, groaning metallic clatter, the massive iron anchors are raised from the sea floor, and the great galleons set sail, their broad canvas sheets catching the strong offshore trade winds.
As the wind picks up and the galleon tilts into the rolling ocean swells, Onaga—a delicate, slender boy with soft features from Platoon 3 of Aldo's 204th Company—clutches his stomach, his face turning an unhealthy shade of pale green as he slumps against the wooden gunwale, groaning softly.
Nearby, Aldo and Comtois stand side-by-side at the bow, their eyes wide and completely innocent as they lean their heads back, letting the cold, salty ocean breeze rush straight into their wide-open mouths with pure, unbothered delight.
Lourdes stands near the mainmast, her dark eyes wide as she looks up at the towering wooden spars and the massive web of ropes stretching high into the sky. She looks out over the endless, glittering blue horizon, feeling impossibly small against the vastness of the sea. Beside her, Adelberd sits calmly on a wooden water cask, oblivious to the sea spray as he reads a small leather-bound book. Further down the deck, Hano sits cross-legged on a coil of thick rope, laughing loudly as he plays a heated game of cards with three weathered sailors.
A tall, broad-shouldered woman wearing a navy-blue longcoat and an iron-trimmed tricorn hat steps down from the quarterdeck. The ship's captain stops beside the group, her hand resting on her brass telescope as she looks out over the bow.
"We will reach the Almathea Islands tonight for necessary repairs and provisioning," the captain announces, her voice rough and sea-hardened. "Then the Ambustus Islands in five days, followed by Lactuca Island four days after that, before embarking on a fortnight-long voyage across the open sea to Sapocitradansia."
Though the three hundred and twenty teenage soldiers are not sailors, they are quickly integrated into the daily life and routines of the ship, experiencing the endless, rhythmic activities of an ocean voyage. From the first gleam of dawn, the vessel hums with relentless motion, starting with brief prayer gatherings or formal Mass on the main deck, where solemn voices mingle with the creaking of timber and the roar of the sea. Morning light reveals the intense physical labor required to keep the wooden fortress moving. High above the deck, agile sailors scramble into the web of rope rigging, balancing precariously on footropes as they loosen, tighten, reef, raise, or lower the massive sheets of heavy canvas to catch the shifting breezes. Down on the quarterdeck, helmsmen strain with white-knuckled effort against the heavy wooden steering wheel to hold the bow on course, their muscles locked while ship officers bellow commands above the wind, constantly reading the swells and checking the compass.
Every inch of the vessel demands continuous vigilance and preservation. Looking out across the vast, rolling ocean, eagle-eyed lookouts remain stationed aloft in the crow's nest or crouched along the bowsprit, their eyes scanning the endless horizon for distant landfalls, treacherous reefs, strange sails, gathering storms, or potential enemies. Beneath them, crew members endlessly inspect the intricate web of cordage, untangling lines, tying down loose canvas, checking knots, and replacing worn wooden blocks or frayed ropes before the strain of the ocean can snap them. On the main deck, young soldiers roll up their trousers alongside seasoned hands to sweep, scrub, and scour the wooden planks using heavy stones and buckets of drawn saltwater, washing away dried salt, grime, waste, and slippery debris that could cause a man to fall overboard in heavy seas.
Deep within the dark belly of the ship, the work is equally grueling. Teams of young men operate the heavy iron bilge pumps in punishing, rhythmic shifts, pumping their arms in unison to clear the dark water that constantly seeps through the hull planking. Below deck, the ship's carpenter and his specialized crew labor in cramped quarters, hammering at loose timbers, repairing damaged woodwork, tightening loose storage barrels, and fixing worn iron fittings to keep the ship watertight and seaworthy. Nearby, the ship's cook labors over an iron-bound hearth in the drafty forecastle, tending to heavy iron pots filled with salted beef, hardtack biscuits, and preserved pulses, struggling to prepare hot nourishment without fresh ingredients while the floor sways violently beneath his feet.
Sustaining hundreds of souls across open water requires strict discipline and careful resource management. Designated officers strictly monitor the daily distribution of rations, carefully measuring out precise portions of sweet water, hard bread, and dried goods from the darkness of the lower hold. At the same time, the ship's master and navigator gather on the high deck to take precise solar observations with polished brass quadrants, consulting detailed sea charts, magnetic compasses, log lines, and complex dead reckoning calculations to map their true position on the trackless sea. Whenever the vessel slows or rolls through calm waters, sailors drop heavy handlines over the gunwales, hauling in fresh fish to supplement their dull, salt-cured diet and bring a welcome change to the ship's galley.
Personal upkeep and training seamlessly blend into the daily cycle. Whenever sudden tropical downpours allow the crew to collect fresh rainwater, men eagerly scrub the thick crust of dried sea salt from their itching skin and wash their worn linen shirts, hanging them to dry in the rigging. In the afternoons, the young soldiers join the crew for rigorous training, learning to tie complex nautical knots, handle heavy canvas lines, train and fire swivel guns, and execute rapid emergency abandon-ship drills.
As night falls, the vessel never truly sleeps. The entire crew rotates through rigid four-hour watches, ensuring that while half the ship stays alert at their posts, the rest retreat below decks to collapse into swaying cloth hammocks, lulled to sleep by the rolling hull. During the rare quiet hours between duties, the men gather on the forward deck in the fading light, trading stories, gambling with worn bone dice, playing cards, singing traditional sea shanties, or mending their boots and clothes as the ship glides steadily through the dark water.
And during those long, quiet stretches when absolutely nothing is happening on the vast blue ocean...
A veteran sailor sits curled against a coil of heavy hemp rope, carefully mending a tear in his linen shirt with a tiny bone needle. Another crewman lies sprawled on a hatch cover, stitching a rip in a spare canvas sail. Two sailors lean against the iron barrel of a deck cannon, speaking in low, lazy murmurs. Near the main hatch, a toolmaker scrapes a sharp grindstone against an iron hatchet. From the forward galley, the ship's cook lets out a furious, red-faced shout as a young boy scurries away with a stolen piece of salt pork. Up in the crow's nest, a sun-baked lookout rests his chin in his hand, bored to death as he stares out at an empty, featureless blue horizon.
Lourdes walks up behind Aldo as he leans against the ship's wooden railing, watching the ocean foam churn beneath the hull. She crosses her arms tightly over her chest, her dark eyes looking at him with a sudden, puzzled curiosity.
"Where did our three tons of wheat go?" Lourdes asks, her raspy voice cutting through the sound of the rushing water.
Aldo turns his head slightly, his dark eyes entirely calm.
"Oh, I sold forty bushels—at twenty coppers each," Aldo answers smoothly. "That's three times what we paid; the going rate here is usually twenty-five to thirty coppers, but I let them go cheap."
He turns back toward the sea, leaning his forearms against the broad wooden beam.
"You have to remember," Aldo continues, his voice adopting a matter-of-fact, logical cadence, "most of our land back home is rocky grassland—not fertile—so we have to import grain from Mediplana, especially Heilop. Oh, and I also milled the grain into flour and sold the different grades separately, so the price varied; all in all, I made fifty silver."
Lourdes's dark eyes widen in complete, stunned disbelief. Her jaw drops open, her mouth hanging ungracefully for two full seconds before she stammers out a response.
"Wow..." Lourdes breathes, shaking her head as she stares at him. "You originally bought a hundred bushels for ten silver—paying thirty total—and you still turned a profit? And that's without even selling the whole lot?!"
Aldo tilts his head, a faint, logical shrug lifting his shoulders under his tunic.
"Well," Aldo explains simply, "I milled it into flour, separated the high-grade white flour from the coarse bran, and sold directly to the commercial bakeries near the docks."
Lourdes lets out a long, quiet sigh, her shoulders slumping in deep, helpless admiration as she shakes her head.
A few paces away, Adelberd, several young soldiers from the 203rd Company, and three off-duty sailors work together in rhythmic coordination, carefully lowering the remaining heavy canvas bushels of whole-grain wheat down into the dark, dry depths of the ship's lower cargo hold.