Chapter 1082 — The Outpost

"Typhon can permanently renounce its territorial claim to Dragoncall Fjord—that is a disputed region, but we can acknowledge it belongs to Cecil. But those islands... they lie on Typhon's side," Luo Yan said flatly. "It has nothing to do with whether they are in offshore waters. Even the islands deep in the raging ocean—they are on Typhon's map."

"The Endless Ocean is vast beyond measure. Typhon cannot extend its control endlessly out to sea—those islands belong to no one. That is a fact, and it will not change simply because you draw them on a map," Gao Yang said, giving not an inch. "We can put those islands to proper use. That is surely better than leaving them to be scoured by wind and rain upon the sea."

Just then, Matilda, seated to one side, suddenly spoke. "What if those islands do have an owner?"

Gao Yang's brows drew together. "What do you mean?"

"I imagine you have some way of contacting that warship at any time?" Matilda looked into Gao Yang's eyes. "Why not confirm it with your own eyes?"

Gao Yang had already begun to sense something. He looked deeply at Luo Yan and Matilda, then said in a low voice, "It seems... there are matters we shall have to continue discussing tomorrow."

...

Upon the boundless ocean, a towering steel warship floated quietly on the night-dark sea. The waves surged ceaselessly around it, and the sea wind from the southeast beat against the steel plating along its flanks—yet this mightiest warship ever built only swayed faintly now and then, steady as a small mountain.

Byron stood upon a raised platform on the forward deck, gazing somewhat idly at the distant sea—but apart from the restless swells nearby, faintly glinting under the starlight, he could actually see nothing at all.

The Winterchill had long since left the land far behind. At this distance, little could be seen even by day, let alone by night.

The ship had been floating upon the ocean a long time, and the officers and men had lived upon the ocean a long time as well—perhaps the longest stretch of human activity at sea since the Second Opening (the drifting at sea of one legendary explorer notwithstanding). After the initial period of adjustment, life at sea had grown dull and monotonous, and even Byron had begun to miss his days ashore. Yet strict military discipline still held sway aboard the ship: the well-trained sailors ordered their lives as neatly as they would on land, and all the while accumulated precious experience.

Experience in carrying out long-range ocean missions, experience in maintaining and servicing ship machinery at sea, experience of the maritime environment and how to respond to it... these were invaluable stores of technical knowledge, and indispensable firsthand material for the future building of a navy and the training of sailors. Though before this mission Byron had led his men through many simulated drills in offshore waters, no simulation, however realistic, could ever be as reliable as actual experience.

And while gathering and accumulating this precious material, Byron was also carrying out the important task assigned to him: to monitor Typhon's coastline and await orders from the rear at any moment.

Every officer and man aboard knew the meaning of it: as a steel fortress afloat upon the sea, so long as the Winterchill drifted here, it was enough to overawe the Typhonites.

Just then, the sound of footsteps came suddenly from behind and to one side. Byron turned and saw a junior officer mounting the platform.

"General, a sealed order," the officer said, hastening to Byron's side. After saluting, his expression grave, he continued, "The higher command orders us to move southeast at once and scout the conditions of three reefs—H-6, H-9, and H-12."

...

With a faint humming, a lightweight dragoon craft, modified specifically for reconnaissance, rose from the circular platform at the stern of the Winterchill and flew off into the distant night sky.

The heaving sea and the low-lying mist receded swiftly through the field of view. Aided by observation lenses enchanted with night vision and eagle eye, distant sights were rendered clearly before the aerial scout. The young reconnaissance soldier kept his eyes fixed on the surface of the sea, and after flying for some time, something at last appeared in his vision that was not merely water—along with a tiny point of light that seemed as though it might be snuffed out at any moment.

There lay the first reef he was charged with scouting—a stretch of bare rock soaking in the bitterly cold seawater. On this deserted little "island," even a few clumps of weeds were rare, yet a stubborn tongue of fire rose upon it, illuminating the whole reef and the nearby sea.

A crude tent stood in the cold sea wind, and before it were two sentries holding short staves, watching the distant water with wary eyes; behind them, above the tent, the banner of the Typhon Empire fluttered in the darkness.

On the far horizon, the first glimmer of dawn was slowly bleeding across the rolling swells.

On the bridge of the Wintercold, Byron sat stone-faced in the captain's chair while the signals officer reported the scouts' intelligence from a nearby arcanet terminal:

"Sentries and banners of the Typhon have been spotted on reefs H-6, H-9, and H-12—all of them look like they were put up only recently... No Typhon warships in the vicinity..."

"General," an officer beside Byron said, lowering his head with some hesitation, "those 'outposts' are flimsy, but I'm afraid we can't—"

"Not 'afraid'—'absolutely not,'" Byron sighed. "We absolutely cannot attack, even if those tents and banners would topple at a single push..."

He shook his head and lifted his gaze past the bridge windows to the broad deck outside—the immense prismatic light generator crouched upon it like a beast, secondary batteries great and small ringing the terrifying main gun, and the ship's arcane wing panels extending from one side, their rune arrays tracing faint glimmers beneath the slowly fading starlight.

This ship could shatter mighty fortresses, could sink the warships of a bygone age, could sweep the coastal works and bunkers clean, could even execute a feeble true god—

But it could not bring down those "outposts" of two or three sentries and a single tent.

"Report it up the chain," Byron sighed again. "Let His Majesty decide this one."

And with that, he could not help muttering: "Damn it, when did those Typhon bastards get so quick to react..."