Adarin stood at the bow of the Magnolia, flagship of his not-so-little expedition. As the fifteen ships left Portguard’s harbor, he went over his resources and objectives one last time.

  Five carracks, each with sixteen cannons—six heavy, ten medium culverins, and saker cannons to each side. A devastating barrage, should he need to unleash it. Ten merchantmen followed, broad-bellied inland sea vessels, each carrying over a hundred tons of cargo. They only held four medium-caliber sabre cannons per side, yet they would still give someone a very bad day if pressed into the line.

  In his mindspace, he drew up the rest of the stat sheet.

  Personal - 3200 total

  550 Soldiers, most of them musketeers

  250 Sailors

  400 Settlers

  2000 Sketons, half pikemen, the other half workers, nearly boxed up and stored for rapid assembly by the mage cadre

  Material - 1500 tons

  200 tons of armaments

  100 tons of tools and materials

  700 tons of rations

  500 tons of various colonial supplies

  He heard Liora moving among the special cargo. On the deck behind him, a dozen young willows swayed. He checked the plans he had made, for turning their natural tryptamine production to the release of aerosolized serotonin and melatonin. Might make the peasants pliable if I have to conquer a few towns. He chuckled darkly.

  Liora stepped beside him, fingers brushing the black-inked eye tattooed on her arm. “So much has happened since we last did this. Remember when we marched? When we crossed the river?”

  Adarin chuckled. “Yeah. Feels like an age. But it’s only been a few days.”

  “Let’s see how the System judges us now.” He gestured her closer and focused on the bark of his manipulator. The eye-like scar swirled into numbers and letters.

  Level 23 [F]

  Class: Tactician, World Tree Guardian

  Cog: 202 Mov: 131 Res: 195 Per: 139 Soc: 116 FREE: 30

  “Thirty points?,” Liora gasped.

  Adarin couldn't help but grin, yet it was uneasy, mixed with a cold creeping at the base of his spine. The ritual. The corrupting lights. The Ghouls. He shivered and spoke quickly. “I should raise Resistance up to two hundred. As for the other points…”

  He looked to the side at Liora. She replied with a low hum. “You got a lot of options. You could start increasing movement or perception.”

  Adarin tilted his head. “All solid options. I think movement is going to make me better at fighting the quickest. However, what if I start raising cognitive? Try to get an additional implant.”

  Liora made a weighing gesture with her hands. “The third implant is granted at 350 points. I'm not sure if it's considered better to get all the low ones first. Rüdiger would know.”

  Adarin studied the rivers flowing water for a long while. “Never mind, I am going to put them into movement.” He playfully tilted his head. “After all, what’s the point of good cognition if I get caught and torn apart?”

  He chuckled but Liora's grimace made him swallow. Well, it seems she isn’t into self-destructive humor. He quickly assigned the points and Resistance jumped to 200 while Movement reached 156.

  With practiced efficiency, Adarin read over the levels of his spells and implants. Very little had changed there. He turned to Liora, a question on his tongue. “How exactly does the Tier transition work? Is there a level we have to reach?”

  Liora shook her head and her tone took on a reciting cadence. “One can challenge the tier restrictions at any time in theory. In practice, the higher the level the better. But the issue is that the number of levels you gain from defeating foes depends on the relative strength of the enemy.”

  Adarin tipped his manipulators into the railing as he considered that. “So, there comes the point where without the tier upgrade and the qualitative changes it brings to implants and spells trying to level further become suicide?”

  She nodded as darkness played over her face. “That's how a lot of adventurers die. Trying to reach the perfect Tier transition.”

  “Very well,” Adarin smiled. “Do not chase perfection. Understood.”

  For a long few minutes they remained there at the railing, observing the water and shore in companionable silence. Then Liora scratched the eye tattoo, and Adarin leaned over to read her text.

  Level: 16 [F]

  Class: Acolyte of Ishna, Cycle of Life

  COG: 121 MOV: 89 RES: 130 PER: 143 SOC: 100 FREE: 16

  Liora shifted about, her eyes studying the deck. “It's… so much less than you have. I tried helping all the wounded, but I've always known that the system encourages fighting and bloodshed. We healers tend to stall out, like all non-combat classes…”

  She took a deep breath after her rant. Taking the opportunity, Adarin put a manipulator over her shoulder. “It's okay. As I understand it, you are still growing at a remarkable rate, no?”

  He felt her shiver. She opened her mouth then closed it. After nearly a minute she finally spoke. “With everything I've seen, everything we have done. I used to think that I could remain safe and be protected but…”

  Liora trailed off and Adarin didn't have to think hard to guess where her thoughts were going. He squeezed her shoulder gently. Part of me wants to tell her that everything will be fine. But promising such things would be foolish. His own thoughts fell back into his past. Into how quickly the battlefield could claim comrades. So he just remained here with her for a while.

  Finally, she took a deep breath. “As for my points, what you and Rüdiger said on the march still holds true. I'm going to level up movement and the rest goes into either cognitive or perception to boost my magic?”

  Adarin nodded. And Liora assigned her points. Eleven into Movement, increasing it to 100 and the rest into Perception.

  Soon, the sun was sinking over the distant horizon at the end of the Grand River, vanishing somewhere into the Dragon Mountains. Night settled as they finished discussing their options, speculating on how skills and implants would change at the next tier—and whether the chaos of their last level-up would return.

  That was when a cry came from the outlook.

  “Vessels ahoy! They bear Crusade flags!”

  Adarin and Liora exchanged a sharp look and scrambled to the aft castle to find Commodore Ashfield. Crusade flags. There were only a very small number of possibilities that wouldn’t mean enemies.

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  Adarin and Liora climbed the steps to the command aftercastle, where six conspirators were already in discussion. Commodore Ashfield was the least surprising. Alongside Francesco, arguing with broad gestures and a sharp gleam in his eyes, two staff officers were swinging about nautical instruments—no doubt defining distances, velocities, and cannon ranges in the current weather during those early hours of night.

  Gavin was engaged in an animated discussion with one of them, while Devon was already fussing with Isola, tied down midships, the rune-decorated cannon standing like a predator waiting to pounce on unsuspecting prey.

  “No,” Francesco said. “Not a chance. I just checked our camouflage enchantments myself, and our magics are significantly better. I’d bet the Demiurges' name on us being undiscovered.”

  Commodore Ashfield made an agreeable growl. “Still, the Commander-in-Chief told us to build a city, not to blow up some scouts.”

  Francesco sniffed, not bothering to hide a sneer. “Given how recent everything is, I suspect those cutters might be their first expedition going downriver. We might get into the enemy command-control loop if we can cut them off from information without them understanding what happened. After all, we don’t want them getting ideas about Markkirk downriver—or, by Olivi’s Balls, the Holy City itself.”

  Adarin stepped up, fixing the commodore with a familiar one-word order. “Report.”

  The commodore straightened, weathered face set. “Two scout cutters. Flags say Dragon-Blooded and Sun Banner Crusade loyalists. The young magister thinks we can just haul up and blow ’em into smithereens. Might even take some useful prisoners.”

  Adarin took a moment to take in the group dynamic: the animated Francesco, the calm competence of the staff officers, and Commodore Ashfield—ever the stone in the storm. It’s clear that he disapproves, but he nonetheless is presenting the advantages.

  “And you disagree?” Adarin asked.

  The commodore let out a long whistle and chewed on the inside of his cheek for a while.

  “Tactically, I ain’t. Strategically, it ain’t the mission. But you’re the special envoy here. How we define the mission is your call, sir.”

  He deliberately studied Adarin and ignored Francesco, who had turned to one of the staff officers.

  Francesco turned back. “Adarin, this is our chance. They’re likely some of their best units, and we’re necromancers—we can rot their sails. Especially with Liora here.”

  He smiled, and Liora’s cheeks reddened slightly.

  “I keep us hidden, she blasts them, we clean their decks with grapeshot. Easy as taking candy from a kid.”

  Liora chuckled gently. “I’ve met some kids who I’d rather not take the candy from, to be honest.”

  Francesco smiled, inclining his head, acknowledging the point.

  “In my experience.” The commodore shrugged. “Nothing’s ever this simple.” He turned to his staff officers. “Gentlemen, what’s your assessment?”

  The younger of them—a woman wearing the insignia of an adept of the order—looked between Francesco, Liora, Adarin, and the commodore. She swallowed and spoke up.

  “Tactically, we have the advantage. They are slower. They seem to have set in for the night and are anchored. They don’t even have initial velocity. I…” She looked at Francesco. “I’m no illusionist, but even if they spot us, we outnumber them five to one.”

  Adarin took a deep breath. Sometimes honesty is the best strategy. “Commodore, I let this be your call. If it’s really just us kicking down and taking an enemy asset out while not risking anything, I see little reason not to do it. Could even be a useful exercise for later battles. But I also don’t want to risk any ships.”

  The commodore nodded and smiled. “Those are cutters, from what I’ve seen.” He turned to one of his staff officers, the older man, who spoke up.

  “Three saker cannons to each side. Unless they get very lucky, they’d need at least three volleys to even scratch one of our carracks. And all of the merchantmen are likely to survive, even if both of those ships get to fire a broadside at them.”

  Francesco made a cutting gesture. “There isn’t a reason to involve the merchantmen. We have five carracks.”

  “True enough,” the commodore said. “But I’d much rather have the captains be involved in the maneuver. In my experience, if civilians don’t have something simple to do in combat, they run about like headless chickens. Can’t say they’ll be beheaded—they’ve already done that, eh?”

  Polite chuckles loosened the atmosphere.

  “Very well. Let us catch some cutters.” The Commodore said with a slightly forced cheerfulness after he had studied the assembly. Adarin nodded and gave his final orders. “Commodore, you have operational command. Francesco, I want survivors. But if getting survivors means one of our ships gets badly damaged enough to delay our expedition, I want nothing but wood scraps. Is that understood?”

  Francesco smiled. “Loud and clear, Sir Envoy of Special Affairs.”

  Adarin’s grin mirrored the young man’s in the privacy of his mindspace. Looks like we found ourselves a fun evening pastime.

  Adarin retreated to the end of the command castle, watching as the sailors began doing what they were good at. I know very little about Wet Navy operations. And I doubt light spacecraft combat translates well. So this will be a learning experience.

  Liora and Francesco had already walked down to the mid-deck, where they supervised a group of novices empowering the ship’s combat formation laid out around the mast. Devon and Gavin were fussing with Gisela. Adarin had overheard the commodore ordering them to load something—explosives that would cut through men.

  He doesn’t want to use Gisela except as a backup option. Smart. He’s holding all the cards, but he’s still thinking about getting more aces. Ashfield, Ashfield, Ashfield… I do so love a capable subordinate.

  Then the staff officers brought out communication artifacts, and Adarin’s eyes narrowed. Rune-inscribed metallic drums, with a meter-long metal rod emerging from one end.

  Those are magical technology, but nonetheless very recognizable—primitive radios. Well, do they have electromagnetic warfare here? Are those things detectable? Questions for later.

  He noted it down on his ever-growing to-do list.

  This communication magic just uses radio. I have a lot of designs… hmm. Interesting, interesting. Maybe something to keep in mind for the future.

  After nearly fifteen minutes the vessels formed up in a long staggered line: one carrack leading, two merchantmen keeping to the middle of the river. Under the steady splash of skeletal oarmen, the sailors prepared sails—keeping them loose, not catching the wind, but ready whenever the commodore gave the orders. Cannoneers prepared their sights, loosened the cannons and the lines, adjusted angles. The artillery algebraist mages walked around, giving instructions on the commodore’s intentions. Adarin observed the same bustling activity on the other vessels. Seems like at least the endless waiting and maneuvering paired with sudden explosions of violence is shared between wet and spacial navies.

  The commodore went over the plan a final time, relayed to all the other ships via the communication artifacts:

  “Get close in formation. Compress the formation—fifty meters between each ship, then thirty meters between each ship. Just keep sailing by them, and every vessel, merchantman and carrack alike, fires while they pass.”

  He waited until each of the other captains had acknowledged. Then the grizzled old man continued:

  “Turn into the river, let the current and the wind take you back, and if for some reason they survive our assault, we hit them again—hard and fast. Merchantmen, go to the other side of the river. You’re only in the initial round. If they survive what we do to them now, this is likely going to be a tough fight.”

  Slowly, they approached upriver. The commodore turned to Adarin.

  “So, Envoy for Special Affairs—Adarin. This is a go or no-go call. What are your orders?”

  Adarin raised his manipulator and brought it down with a clap on the deck.

  “Go.”

  The enemy vessels were still a kilometer upriver.

  As night settled over the habitat, over the continent, over the river, the fifteen hunters slid up the current and closed in on their unsuspecting prey.

  Nine hundred. Eight hundred. Seven hundred meters.

  The Magnolia was the second ship in the line, escorting its cluster of merchantmen. Devon and Gavin were bouncing over Gisela and had loaded something glowing with nasty amounts of magical energy into her three barrels. The spectral mule had manifested, standing by, observing and chewing on whatever ghostly entities chewed on in their free time.

  Adarin felt the excitement growing in his stomach, the giddiness making him bounce on the balls of his feet. It’s been a while since I saw something new about warfare. Well, this should be easy as pie.

  Adarin frowned when he saw one of the staff officers getting more animated on the magical radio. And that was when everything went to shit with a boom.