I once gazed at the distant stars. My grandmother told me the stars in the sky were gifts from the gods, proof of their love for humanity. I used to believe her, because I believed. Hmph—how foolish, how pitiful. This is the most tragic thing about the ignorant: self-deception and self-abasement. Since the world is full of fools, let me be the one to calculate, to prove that this world—no, far from it—is not enough. I will redefine the world.
The Capitano had a peculiar kind of "rhythm."
You couldn't see the sun, nor hear a bell, but the low hum of machines, the thermal expansion and contraction of the pipes, and even the rhythm of certain people's footsteps would divide the day into clear segments.
Miguel especially appreciated this.
Being a soldier had taught him to treat life like a drill: wake up, organize, check equipment, eat, train, review—so long as those things remained, he wouldn't be swallowed up by the word "adrift."
The problem was, Fais, his roommate, was the natural antithesis of that rhythm.
Fais was self-disciplined too—but only in areas he considered "meaningful": reading, taking notes, constructing models. The rest of the time, he would lie down if he could, sleep whenever possible, like a cat treating the world as a mattress.
Miguel once heard the Head Librarian describe Fais as "a young master."
Back then, he didn't believe it. Fais didn't act like a pampered noble. He wasn't picky about food, didn't put on airs, and could even continue lecturing in soaked clothes.
But now Miguel thought that maybe "young master" didn't refer to his temperament—but to the laziness bred out of long-term indulgence.
"Fais." Miguel stood by the opposite bed, tone like a roll call. "Get up."
Fais was wrapped in a blanket, only a tuft of messy hair showing. His eyes didn't even open. "Mmm."
"'Mmm' means what?"
"Got it."
"Then get up."
"Soon."
Miguel waited three seconds.
Fais's breathing was as steady as a submarine gliding through deep water.
A vein on Miguel's forehead twitched. "You were like this back in the library too."
A muffled laugh came from under the blanket. "That proves I'm consistent."
Miguel gritted his teeth. "Consistent enough to grow mold."
No response.
Miguel wasn't giving up. He bent down, lowered his voice like trying to drag someone out of a dream. "We're checking the navigation deck today. Didn't you say you wanted to verify the continental drift around Acrias? Didn't you keep saying—"
A hand finally emerged from the blanket.
Miguel's eyes lit up. Maybe Fais had finally come to his senses.
Then—that hand groped around the bedside, grabbed something, and flung it.
Thud.
Miguel barely turned his head in time. The object slammed into his shoulder, sending him stumbling back into the door.
He clutched his shoulder, eyes wide. "What did you throw at me?!"
Fais's voice floated out from under the blanket, calm as an academic annotation. "I don't know. Something by the bed."
Miguel looked down—what hit him was a thick maritime atlas, with metal-reinforced corners.
"You're insane!" Miguel shouted. "That's attempted murder!"
Fais turned over. His voice remained calm. "No. Murder requires motive. This was self-defense."
"Defending against who? Me?!"
"You were infringing on my right to sleep," Fais said. "Sleep is the bottom line of any civilization."
Miguel laughed angrily. "I swear I'm getting you out of bed today."
Fais's closing remark: "Then today will be very difficult for you."
The next second, the door flew open as Miguel was kicked out of the cabin.
Life aboard the Capitano was both similar to and different from Miguel's expectations of military life.
What was similar was the order. Everyone had a post. Every part of the ship was defined by its function. Even walking seemed to follow invisible paths. What was different was the attitude toward order—it wasn't enforced like in the military, but rather a kind of mutual understanding forged through long voyages: if you didn't do your part, the ship would remind you with disaster why you had to.
Miguel quickly found his rhythm—or rather, he forced his rhythm to match the ship's.
He made a round through the engine section.
Arran was crouched beside a maintenance hatch, half his body wedged inside the steelwork. His legs dangled as he worked. Nearby lay a pile of spare parts, wrenches, and grease-stained cloths.
Miguel knocked on the metal wall. "Morning. What're you doing?"
Startled, Arran jolted, nearly trapping himself in the hatch. "I—I was… I was listening to it."
"Listening?" Miguel frowned. "It's not an opera."
Arran poked his head out. A streak of oil stained his cheek. He spoke like giving a research presentation. "Its hum is a little higher-pitched than yesterday. That suggests uneven stress on the bearings. If I don't fix it now, we might get worse vibrations by afternoon."
Miguel was stunned.
He'd thought Arran was just a coward—but he didn't expect him to be this meticulous.
"You're… surprisingly reliable," Miguel said, a bit begrudgingly.
Arran instantly looked overwhelmed, ears turning red. "I—I'm just afraid of breakdowns. Breakdowns need fixing. Fixing is annoying. Annoying gets me yelled at."
Miguel couldn't help asking, "Who yells at you?"
Arran pointed upward. "Renass. And the First Mate."
Miguel paused. "Fair enough."
Arran ducked back in, voice echoing through the metal. "Right? So I gotta keep listening."
Miguel left without disturbing him, mentally noting: this ship's mechanic isn't driven by courage, but by fear.
Passing the storage bay, he found Fernando sitting on a crate, peeling what looked like a rock-hard ration with one hand, like he was negotiating with the world.
"Morning, Lockbreaker," Miguel greeted.
Fernando looked up, grinning wide. "Morning. What's with your face—like you just fought a war?"
"I did. With a sleep-addicted scholar."
Fernando laughed, shoulders shaking. "A scholar? Sleepy? That's not a contradiction. Smart people always want more sleep—to avoid being awake and worrying."
"You're smart too. Why don't you sleep in?"
"Because I'm old." Fernando said righteously. "Old people don't sleep long. Even if they want to, they can't."
He bit into the ration, frowned, then knocked it with his knuckles. "This thing's harder than the military biscuits from my youth. Your ship trying to sharpen our teeth into weapons?"
Miguel asked, "Why are you even eating that?"
Fernando shrugged. "You need durable food on a ship. And eating hard stuff hardens the heart. When trouble comes, it's less likely to break."
He said it casually, but Miguel could hear it: the self-comfort of a seasoned soldier.
He was about to respond when a voice, low and restrained, cut in.
"Hard doesn't mean effective."
The First Mate had somehow appeared in the shadows of the storage bay, holding a clipboard, like he'd just finished inspection.
Fernando looked up. "You mean my old teeth aren't effective?"
The First Mate glanced at him. "I mean hardness doesn't solve problems."
Fernando laughed. "You hear that, Miguel? That's the First Mate's idea of romance. Turning sweet talk into an incident report."
Miguel nearly laughed but held it in. "That's romance?"
The First Mate ignored them and looked at Miguel. "Your plan for today?"
"Familiarize with the ship," Miguel replied naturally. "Drag Fais into it too."
The First Mate nodded. "Is he awake?"
Miguel's expression froze. "Half-awake."
The First Mate seemed to understand and didn't press. He only said, "Don't fight in the corridors. The walls don't insulate sound well. It disturbs the watch crew."
Miguel: "…"
Fernando laughed even harder beside him.
Before noon, Fais finally showed up.
He looked exactly like a scholar forced into social interaction: clothes neat, hair somewhat tamed, but his eyes screamed—You all owe me sleep.
Miguel stepped forward at once. "You're finally awake."
Fais glanced at him. "You're finally quiet."
"I wasn't—" Miguel started but was cut off by a raised hand.
Fais pointed at his shoulder. "Does it still hurt?"
Miguel froze. "You care?"
"No." Fais was expressionless. "I'm assessing the book's quality. It had a good impact. Might use a thicker one next time."
Miguel ground his teeth. "You—!"
Fais turned and walked. "If you want to insult me, first learn how the ventilation system works. Insulting what you don't understand is very uncultured."
Miguel followed. "Who says I'm uncultured? At least I—"
Fais stopped. "At least what?"
Miguel stalled. "At least I wake up early."
Fais nodded. "That is your advantage."
Miguel: "…"
Fernando passed by and patted his back. "Don't worry. You two are complementary—one wakes early, the other dies late."
Miguel: "Was that a compliment?"
Fernando laughed. "Of course."
[Translation continues in next message due to length]
[Continued translation from previous message]
In the afternoon, the mood on the ship noticeably lightened.
Renass was organizing some basic cleaning and resupply on deck. Arran grumbled as he re-secured a loose pipe. The First Mate was conducting his usual patrols and data checks. Fernando, ever the tireless "mood machine," chatted with anyone and everyone, always managing to leave them smiling.
Miguel was running around helping with boxes, checking ropes, organizing tools—trying to carve out a space where he could be "useful."
Fais, dragged along, complained constantly, but didn't miss a single dial, gauge, or critical detail.
"Look at this," Fais said, pointing at an old control panel. "The markings follow the old maritime coordinate system—not the one we're used to. That means the Capitano's navigation system wasn't originally from this era."
Miguel raised an eyebrow. "You're starting again."
Fais replied coolly, "You wanted me to get familiar with the ship. This is what that looks like."
Miguel snorted, but inside he was a bit relieved: once Fais switched into "research mode," he was unlikely to spiral emotionally. That was good.
By evening, the submarine's vibration pattern changed.
Not the jittery kind of malfunction, but the rhythm of "slowing, ascending, preparing to dock."
A call to assemble came from the command room.
Everyone gathered. Giovanni stood at the helm, visibly pleased—not the theatrical exaggeration he was known for, but the genuine lightness of someone about to go ashore.
"Everyone," he began, "we're about to dock."
Arran immediately sighed in relief. "Finally, no more metal between metal inside metal."
Fernando stretched his shoulders. "Land! Let these old bones get some sun."
The First Mate stood ramrod straight, as though awaiting the next order.
Giovanni scanned the group, speaking like he was announcing a rare privilege. "Once we dock, you'll all get a one-day shore leave."
A ripple of excitement passed across the deck.
Renass raised an eyebrow. "Captain, worried we'll tear the ship apart?"
Giovanni grinned. "I'm worried you'll tear each other apart."
Miguel instinctively turned to Fais. "Hear that? One-day leave."
Fais remained expressionless. "All I heard was 'I can sleep in.'"
Miguel: "You—"
Giovanni lifted a hand to quiet the chatter, adding something more practical: "Also, if anyone wants to relocate to Port Alexandra, come speak with me. I can help process the residency papers."
Fais looked up. "You can do that too?"
Giovanni spread his hands. "Even captains have to do paperwork, friends. No matter how chaotic the world is, documents still need stamps."
Renass snorted. "You almost make that sound believable."
Fernando laughed. "I like the name of that port. Sounds like it gives people second chances."
Miguel didn't speak. He just stared at Giovanni, suddenly realizing that adventure on this ship wasn't just about blades and fire—it also relied on something very practical: docking, leave, residency permits.
Fais was already calculating. "What's the library like in Port Alexandra?"
Miguel glared. "You're thinking about the library on a day off?"
Fais didn't even glance at him. "You're thinking about training on a day off?"
Miguel retorted confidently, "Habit."
Fais replied flatly, "Illness."
Just as Miguel was about to respond, Fernando slid between them, laughing naturally. "Alright, alright. One of you goes out for food, the other for books. Come back at night and report to each other—fair deal."
Giovanni clapped his hands. "Wonderful! That's what we call the beginning of teamwork."
The First Mate added quietly, as if grounding the cheerful moment: "Once ashore, don't cause trouble. The port doesn't welcome complications."
Miguel nodded. "Understood."
Fais also nodded. "I don't cause trouble. Trouble usually finds me."
Miguel sneered. "Then hold onto your book next time—don't use it as a weapon."
Fais deadpanned, "That depends on how you behave tomorrow morning."
The crew chuckled.
The submarine continued to slow. The sound of the sea outside grew clearer.
The Capitano was preparing to dock.