White Dragon’s Single Cabin

"I see now! Master is concealing his true strength?!"

Greenland sat on a chair by the bed, eyes wide with sudden understanding. He gazed worshipfully at Dracula (Pipe Captain) lying in a hammock padded thickly with quilts.

"Exactly. The world remains half-known to us—a vast ocean dotted with disconnected continents. Anything could exist here... Even I cannot claim invincibility. Caution is essential. Moreover, our reputation draws watchers. Those scheming against us will calculate our strength meticulously..."

"I understand. Master keeps hidden power as a final trump card—a gambler’s masterstroke. How foolish of me to grasp this only now."

Faglas leaned against the wall, relief softening his features.

"Hmm. And sometimes... acting is crucial."

"Acting?"

Greenland frowned, puzzled, and glanced at Faglas.

"Master’s foresight commands awe. Feigning collapse after the battle will make these humans profoundly grateful—especially when they realize their savior was wounded during their narrow escape. Their tearful gratitude will yield unexpected advantages when Master’s plans unfold later..."

"Eh? (I didn’t plan that far—I just didn’t know how to wrap things up!)... Precisely, Faglas. You’ve grown much under Purames."

"Your praise humbles me. Your guidance shaped me first, though Purames Lord also imparted wisdom..."

"Faglas... Though I am your master, I claim no credit meant for you."

*How benevolent, just, wise, and magnanimous!* Greenland’s eyes sparkled with starry admiration.

———

White Dragon’s Deck... One day and night after the naval battle.

"Mary..."

"Duke Keane..."

Keane waved off her bow, stepping beside her.

"Call me Keane. Be careful here—the sea’s moods are fickle. Even with stabilizing magic, heavy waves could sway the ship. Your restless heart might send you overboard."

"Thank you for your concern... Keane Lor—Keane."

"Lor? Very well. You wish to visit Dracula, don’t you?"

"...I won’t deny it. But..."

"Hmm. I too wonder how he fares. Such a summoning spell must have drained him terribly. There might be... a life cost."

"...!! A life cost?!"

Keane faced the churning waves, hands clasped behind his back.

"Yes. Though I’ve never used such magic, Lord Rudengnan once mentioned it. As the Empire’s mightiest mage—and a 178-year-old sage—his knowledge is unmatched. He said magic embodies equivalent exchange. Greater power demands greater sacrifice... That’s why apprentices can’t cast high-tier spells: insufficient mana and understanding. But Lord Rudengnan noted one exception: sacrifice."

"Sacrifice?"

"Indeed. Sometimes rare materials suffice. But necromancy... demands life. Souls."

"...!! Life and souls? Offered to demons?"

"Perhaps. Lord Rudengnan wasn’t a necromancer, but he cited journals from Kampusy Molderin—the Empire’s most vile necromancer, eradicated long ago."

"Kampusy Molderin? The dread envoy who bathed in virgins’ blood seeking dark godhood?"

"Yes. His journals claimed high-tier necromancy consumes the caster’s lifespan. A man destined to live seventy years might die at fifty..."

Mary’s pupils dilated. *‘I used that forbidden technique once. Never again.’* Were those Dracula’s words? Had he paid such a price for them?! This debt was immeasurable!

"We owe him deeply... How to repay such grace..." Keane’s gaze drifted back to the turbulent sea, weary.

———

White Dragon’s Bow... After escorting Mary to her cabin, Keane stood alone at the prow. An officer approached, saluting crisply.

"Report!"

Keane returned the salute.

"Sir?"

The burly officer radiated rustic honesty—though his narrow eyes held a cunning glint.

"Documents recovered from enemy ships, sir. Attacker profiles... captain’s logs... spoils and damage assessments."

"Well done. Dismissed."

Keane took the papers.

*Black Sail Fleet... Captain ‘Blackbeard’ Freimnur... 43, Empire Starport native. Mutant human. Pirate. Rapist. Murderer...* A truly depraved wretch. Former naval cadet instructor, expelled for molesting recruits. Later seized warships with rabble, becoming a coastal scourge.

Keane flipped a page.

*Keane Franlen Hailtexilaim: Departure time for Purple Rose Harbor... Estimated return... Ensure permanent disappearance.*

*This seal... Hmph. Those fools again. If not for the Marshal’s honor, I... How tragic—a tiger of a grandfather, a dog of a son, and a pig of a grandson.*

———

A week later, the White Dragon Fleet reached the estuary of the Raging River. Sailing north up the river to Lake Daze’s military port, then a day’s carriage ride, would bring them to the Imperial Capital.

Faglas supported Dracula onto the deck.

*Finally fresh air after days cooped up. Bored stiff lying in bed—this skeleton body needs no food or sleep... Shouldn’t have faked that faint. But how else to end it? Reminds me of work presentations... I used to faint from nerves. Now I just pretend.*

"Lord Dracula! You’re... better?"

Mary stood behind him, hesitant, her face drawn with worry.

"Hmm. Nearly recovered."

Dracula shrugged off Faglas’s arm and walked over. Unsure how to comfort her, Pipe defaulted to his usual tactic—patting her head, as he did with Purames, Greenland, and the Gold-Silver Twins.

"...It’s wonderful! Truly wonderful!"

Overwhelmed, Mary threw her arms around him, tears streaming. Pipe froze awkwardly.

"It’s our fault... Lord Earl risked himself for us..."

He patted her shoulder, gently disengaging. Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, he wiped her tears.

"No harm done. Being worried over is... a kind of happiness. I’m fine. Truly."

"...’"

Mary’s guilt deepened at his unchanged, aloof expression. *‘No harm done’? He’s lying!*

"Really. I’m unharmed. So please—don’t cry."

*Sigh. Terrible at comforting. But she’s not my comrade... This’ll do.*

Nearby, Greenland clenched her fists, fighting the urge to shoot Mary dead. *Unforgivable! Unforgivable! How dare she touch Captain’s noble, perfect body—untouched even by me?! Kill her... I must kill her... No... But... Damn it!*

"Miss, are you—?"

"Begone!"

*Thud!* The sailor she punched flew into a fish barrel. Greenland slipped away, abashed. *Strange... Why do I feel lighter now?*

———

After five days’ travel, the group boarded carriages for the Empire. Dracula, Faglas, Greenland, Keane, and Mary shared a luxurious carriage; other officers took personal leave in their own.

To protect Dracula’s reputation, Keane enforced strict silence. His loyal crew—raised under his command—obeyed without question. Other ships were told the "ghostly phenomena" resulted from Keane’s rare magic artifacts. Dracula raised no objection. The truth stayed buried.

Dracula gazed at the white stone castle complex. *Magnificent... I always dreamed of touring Europe—haunted castles, vampire legends, medieval strongholds. Now my wish comes true...*

As the carriage entered the capital gates, it halted abruptly.

"Welcome back, my lord."

A bronze-skinned man with a stern face boarded the carriage and knelt before Keane. He wore light leather armor, armed with crossbows, daggers, and a short-handled axe. Pouches and vials crowded his belt; four flintlock pistols hung from his chest strap. His messy black hair framed fierce brows and eyes, a broad nose, and a wide mouth shadowed by thick, short-cropped sideburns merging into a dense beard.

"Rise, Langzur!"

Keane hurriedly helped the man up.

"Dracula, Mary, allow me to introduce... Langzuer, captain of my guard. His nickname is the Woodsman—a master of mountain warfare. None can match him in the forests."

The Woodsman, Langzuer, gave a nod. His gaze shifted to Greenland huddled in the corner, seemingly indifferent. Surprise flickered in his eyes. Greenland merely glanced at him before tightening his grip on his rifle and shrinking further into the shadows.

*A true warrior... I must test him someday.* Langzuer silently marked Greenland in his mind.

"Langzuer... since you’re here, what’s the situation?"

Langzuer handed Keane a map.

"So... this shows the enemy deployment? Hmm..." Keane studied the map intently. "How to slip past the front lines..."

Dracula and Mary exchanged puzzled glances as Keane frowned over the map. This was the imperial capital—yet the Duke looked like a general trapped deep behind enemy lines.

"Keane... what’s happening? This is the capital. Are we under attack?"

Keane looked up, offering Dracula an apologetic smile.

"No, it’s just... ah, well. My apologies..."

They’d planned to stay at Keane’s estate. But as the Empire’s most beautiful noble, his mansion was perpetually besieged. Every dawn, servants from two-thirds of the capital’s noble houses swarmed his gates—shoving love letters, bizarre gifts, even marriage proposals through the bars. Some brazenly vowed to ambush him during outings. Escaping his home was near impossible.

"I’m plotting an escape route," Keane sighed. "Give me a moment. I’ll find a safe path through them."

"......"

"......"

Silence hung heavy as Dracula’s group stared blankly.

"Just kill them," Greenland muttered flatly.

Keane jolted. "Miss Greenland! That’s... unthinkable! Killing nobles is tantamount to treason. They’re merely... overly enthusiastic."

"Tch. Making our master wait for such weaklings... intolerable."

*How dare they upset my dear subordinate?* Dracula’s face darkened. A cold snort escaped him.

"...Hmph. Allow me to assist you, Keane." He rose, striding toward the door.

"Dracula! Where are you going?"

Dracula paused, glancing back.

"No need for tactics. I’ll get you home swiftly, Duke Keane. Why waste time weaving through shadows? A frontal assault solves everything. Let vermin like these dare block your path? Forgive my impulsiveness. Leave it to me."

—

The map slipped from Keane’s trembling fingers. Dracula’s silhouette merged with a towering figure from memory.

*Eleven years old. His father’s study. A massive naval chart sprawled before him.*

*"What’s a pup like you doing playing admiral?!"*

*General Vagri Heirtzheim’s rugged face split into a grin as young Keane pointed at the map.*

*"By the Dragon’s scales—you’re a genius! A true son of Vagri! HAHAHA!"*

*The general spun him around, ruffling his hair, scratching his cheek with stubble until Keane giggled.*

*"Father! Naval battles shouldn’t rely solely on brute force. Strategy matters too."*

*"Strategy? Speak."*

*Keane braced for fury. Instead, his father fell silent... then stood.*

*"You’re right, son. But consider this: Why dance around flanks when a central breakthrough saves time? Navies burn coin like firewood. Speed wins wars. And men like us?"*

*Vagri’s eyes blazed with certainty.*

*"We don’t skulk. True strength shatters schemes like glass."*

—

Dracula leapt from the carriage, shooing the driver aside.

"Dracula!"

"Doubting me, Keane?"

Keane followed him out. "No! I just... don’t want you hurting them. They’re not evil."

"...Understood. Though... scrapes are inevitable. These fools need whips, not mercy."

"...Alright. That’s... acceptable." Keane retreated into the carriage.

—

"Hey! They’re here! HERE!"

A breathless youth skidded to a group of drowsy servants slumped against a wall.

"The Duke’s carriage! It’s coming!"

"What?!"

Sleep vanished. Two years of ambushes had taught them one truth: *Keane never used the front gate.*

"Black carriage! His crest is visible!"

Excitement crackled. "A decoy! He’s tricked us with fakes before!"

"No time! Everyone—watch for imposters! Guard the mansion gates!"

Hundreds surged into the street. Noble servants of all ages brandished banners: *"Lady Elara adores you, dearest Duke!"* or *"Young Master Cael awaits you at 3 PM!"* Others hoisted meticulously painted portraits of stunning suitors. One man even waved a pole hung with lacy undergarments.

They formed practiced ranks, eyes fixed on the approaching carriage.

"CHARGE!"

A roar erupted. Bodies flooded the road.

"Duke Keane! Gloves woven by my lady’s own hands!"

"Out of my way! (shoving) Lord Keane! A love poem from my mistress—*‘Your eyes are twin moons in my—’*"

"Flowers grown just for you, my lord!"

"A garden party awaits! And if you dislike my lady... our *fourteen-year-old* young master is available!"

"Undergarments worn by my lady—and master! A whole year’s collection in this sack!"

The mob crashed toward the carriage. But the driver wasn’t Keane’s usual wine-nosed coachman. A stranger gripped the reins—a noble youth in crimson tweed, white fox fur lining his collar. Golden hair framed a sharp, stern face. Not Keane’s delicate beauty, but raw, masculine magnetism.

The carriage didn’t slow. *He’ll stop. We’re nobles’ servants—he must!* They pressed closer.

Then—dread. Cold, primal terror flooded their veins. Every eye locked onto the driver. Teeth chattered. Knees buckled. Flight screamed in their bones.

*CRACK!*

The whip lashed out in wide arcs. One stroke felled a row. Pain ignited panic. They scrambled away, tails between their legs, howling.

"Hmph. Vermin."

The street cleared. From the carriage window, Keane watched servants and hidden nobles vanish into alleys. A genuine smile spread across his face.

*All this time... I’ve been too soft, Father.* His thumb rubbed the family ring on his finger. For the first time in years, his shoulders felt light.