Sea Reaper: The Legend of the Black-Eyed “Boy”

The world swayed in a heavy, dark blur, as if waves were rising and falling all around her, dragging her downward into a silent, sunless sea. Nick awoke from a syrupy dream, momentarily unsure of where she was. Everything rocked softly, and for a second she thought she was still aboard the ship. It had been a long time since she'd slept so deeply.

"We're almost there. Wake up."

A deep male voice stirred her from the haze. Only then did Nick remember—she was in the returning carriage, with the Captain. She pushed herself up on one elbow, and a faint chill crept through the seams of her clothes. Instinctively, she pulled the heavy coat tighter around her shoulders.

It was oversized, woolen, warm, and faintly scented with wine and tobacco.

So familiar, so solid—she could almost picture a broad-shouldered, middle-aged blond man sitting beside her, smiling from a leather seat.

Asa...

"Still half-asleep?" Hayreddin asked, noticing the dazed look on her face. The jostling had lessened—the wheels now rolled over the smooth path of a private estate. Soon after, the carriage slowed and came to a halt. When the door opened, the cold night air rushed in, damp with dew. Reality returned. The coat was too cozy—Nick hesitated to give it back.

"Go on. You can sleep later."

Hayreddin didn't ask for it back. Wearing only a thin shirt, he stepped down from the carriage and held the door open for her.

The mission was over. No more need to act like a lady. Nick grabbed her skirt and leapt down.

Only—she had truly been asleep. Her mind hadn't caught up, and she'd forgotten what such an action might cause.

Clink. A metallic sound rang out as something shiny fell from her skirts—a pure silver dinner knife.

Nick's face turned white.

Hayreddin watched her for a beat, then reached under her arms with strong arms, hoisting her into the air like a sack of flour and giving her a brisk shake.

Clink clatter. A cascade of silverware tumbled out—forks, spoons, a gold-trimmed spice jar, dainty silver dishes... one after another they spilled from her beautiful white dress. At last, a bulging, greasy handkerchief plopped onto the ground.

"My my. Quite the nimble fingers." Hayreddin gave a sweeping glance at the loot. "A full set, no less."

Nick's vision spun with dizziness, her braid undone, looking like a squirrel caught mid-theft—disheveled and pitiful, eyes wide as she gazed up at the Captain.

"What's in the handkerchief?" Hayreddin asked.

"…Snails. And chocolate," Nick murmured.

The cloth was soaked in sauce, the chocolate had melted into a mess.

The sky was still dark, the captain's expression unreadable in the shadows. Nick swallowed hard. She mourned for her paycheck, which might shrink again this month.

Finally, Hayreddin let go. Nick landed on her feet. A warm hand landed on her head.

"Melted chocolate's no good," he said gently, ruffling her hair. "Next time, I'll get you proper sweets. You did well today. Go rest."

"No salary deductions?" she asked timidly.

"None. In fact, go to the accountants and ask for what you were shorted before."

"And going forward? The usual 'blood money' cuts every month…"

"Subtracted no more. Consider it hazard pay now."

In the dark, two neat rows of teeth gleamed like seashells on a beach.

Nick's usually blank expression finally softened. Unlike the elegance drilled into her by Victor, this smile was clear and childlike—a mountain spring bubbling to life.

"Hehe… Well, guess the trip was worth it after all." She rubbed her nose and grinned like a kid.

"I told you—stick with me, and you won't come out losing. But be warned," the Captain said, "steal on my ship, and you'll be stripped and whipped."

Nick nodded earnestly, committing this sacred law to memory.

Hayreddin tousled her hair again. "Your knight's here."

Nick turned to see Karl's golden head peeking through the castle gates. She quickly gathered up the scattered cutlery and snatched the handkerchief bundle before running to him.

Karl fumbled to catch the spoils of war she thrust into his arms. "Everything go well?"

"Perfectly! Captain even praised me! Just a shame the corset was so tight—I couldn't eat a thing."

"So, how was the palace? Fun?"

"People were boring, but the food? Fascinating! Loads of weird things I've never seen before." She untied the handkerchief like offering treasure. "You ever eaten snails? And this dark stuff's chocolate—it melted, but it's really sweet…"

Her tiny figure bounced along, a broken corset string trailing like a little tail.

The wayward child had returned from the garden.

It was May on the continent—a warm season between spring and summer, when all things enter heat. And into Paris came a pirate—uninvited and dangerous.

Red hair, once the mark of ragged outcasts from barren lands, now crowned the most infamous pirate alive. Barbarossa Hayreddin, by sheer charisma alone, had charmed the power brokers of the City of Light.

Thwack.

An arrow struck the center of a target dead-on. Applause followed.

The archer wore a black leather mask. His ice-blue eyes gleamed with confidence, his jaw set with iron poise. With a slight bow to the ladies' gallery, he triggered delighted gasps.

"Another bullseye! 'Black Mask' is the uncrowned king!"

"Raise your glasses! To the King Without a Crown!"

Sunlight spilled over Versailles, birds chirped among blossoms. Though masquerade balls were meant for evenings, the nobility made no fuss over time—afternoon costumed games were as natural as watching Rome burn for fun.

"To the fools," said a pale-haired noble youth seated in a quiet corner of the garden. He raised a glass, sneering faintly. "They call him 'Black Mask' like we don't all know who he is."

He was slim, refined in his silk shirt, though the feathered mask clashed oddly with his crystal spectacles.

"Vinnie, darling, I thought you wouldn't bother coming," said an old man emerging from the shade. Paint still clung to his long beard, but he grinned all the same.

"132nd protest—don't call me that, Leo." The young man frowned, though he adjusted his posture politely.

"Oh, don't be so sensitive. I only have so many chances left to call you that. Word is you leave Paris the day after tomorrow."

"Yes," Victor murmured, swirling his wine. "A ship belongs to the sea."

He glanced up. "That rascal Nick's met you three out of the last five outings. Are you really that bored?"

"Old men enjoy amusement too," Da Vinci chuckled. "Besides, there's something interesting."

"What is it?"

"Look over there." Da Vinci slowly turned, pointing toward a shaded path. "See that tiny thing near the curb?"

Victor squinted. Nestled beside a stone was a trembling puff of yellow fluff, peeping almost imperceptibly.

"A fallen fledgling," Da Vinci said. "Likely the runt—pushed out by stronger siblings unwilling to share food. What do you think happens to it? Perhaps its parents return in time to save it… or maybe a kind boy in silk passes by and returns it to the nest."

"More likely it's crushed under a carriage wheel or eaten by a noble's hound," Victor said coldly. "And I've outgrown the age of tree-climbing silk-clad fools."

"Oh, little Vinnie was so sweet once. All children are angels… until they lose their wings," the old man sighed, then nodded toward the tall red-haired man across the lawn. "Do you think he'd return a chick to its nest?"

"Have a lion escort a lamb home?" Victor scoffed. "Which part of that man looks like a gentle boy?"

"What if the nest held a lump of gold? Heaven's reward for kindness," Leo baited.

"Then he'd shoot the nest down instead of climbing. Bribing the wicked to do good is a dangerous game." Victor frowned. "Leo, what are you getting at?"

The old man's eyes darkened.

"Life is cruel," he said, coughing lightly. "Victor… there's something I must tell you. About Miss Silence."

好的,继续为你翻译润色后半部分:

Miss Silence wore a delicate sheer green gown over satin, with a flawless emerald at her throat, casting a soft verdant glow over her dark eyes.

Yet beneath the feathered mask, her complexion was tinged with a sickly green.

The ice cream on her porcelain plate was nearly melted, its creamy aroma close enough to taste, but Nick could only feign disinterest as she delicately stirred it with a small spoon. The Captain droned on about matters she didn't understand, flashing rehearsed smiles at the women beside him.

Nick stuck out her tongue in her mind. Distracted, she let her napkin slip to the floor. Not wanting to give the sticky sweethearts an opening to approach, she bent down to retrieve it—and accidentally glimpsed a hidden scene under the tablecloth.

A bare foot kicked off a shoe, slipping out from beneath a skirt and hooking onto a shining black leather riding boot beside it.

Expressionless, Nick picked up her napkin and sat back down. The boot's owner, Hayreddin, seemed unaware, while Madame Bombardif remained gracefully poised nearby.

A skylark's clear song pierced the sky, and in the far corner of the courtyard, a glass shattered on the cobblestones.

"How can this be? It's impossible… Leo, are you sure it's true?" Victor stood rigid, his surprise barely masked by the feathered mask.

"I can't be certain," Da Vinci said, pressing his empty hands together. "Sit quietly, young man—I don't want this to become common knowledge."

"All of this is conjecture. But I've seen them, sketched their portraits myself. Twenty-five years ago, the woman of dual royal blood was still unwed. Pale face, eyes black as a deep well… Years later, the girl has grown to look just like her, almost identical."

"Leo, your memory is unmatched—I never doubted that. But strangers can look alike by coincidence. Sometimes, chance is stranger than miracles," Victor replied skeptically.

"Miracles, Victor, are but probabilities that have reasons to occur," Da Vinci said. "This bloodline has long been subject to close interbreeding. Have you noticed the girl's elbows? With your surgeon's eye?"

"Yes. The joints show slight congenital deformities, barely visible. I suspect it affects how she exerts force. Nick's elbows bend in impossible ways…" Victor trailed off, mouth slowly opening.

"Could that be true of the other one, too?"

Leonardo nodded, confirming the suspicion.

"Such anomalies are rare. I designed her sickle accordingly. That year… that day…" Da Vinci lowered his eyelids, his extraordinary memory painting the past as vividly as an oil painting.

"She wore a dark green velvet dress with intricate lace, carefully chosen. The portrait was likely destined for her future fiancé. She was shy… Later, I suggested showing her arms would look better, so she removed her long gloves. I noticed her elbows were unusual…"

The old man stared into the void, his fingers tracing invisible outlines on his knee, as if recreating the painting. Long after, he shook himself free of the memory and said heavily,

"I never knew if those odd joints were flexible, but twenty-five years ago, I thought that lucky girl would never lift anything heavier than a makeup box. Who could have guessed her fate would be so tragic?"

Victor was silent. The girl swinging that heavy sickle through the bloodshed had not, perhaps, fared better than her mother.

"Leo, if your theory is true, then this secret must die with us. Better she remain unaware than have hope crushed before her eyes. The strongest fledgling has grown and will never share its food, even hypothetically."

"Oh…" The old man sighed with disappointment. "You always cut to the truth like a knife."

"Thank you for the compliment." Victor bowed his head and touched his chest.

Da Vinci shook his head and sighed. "As you say, hope is slim. I've told only you. As for the Captain… you're right—ambitious men aren't fit to return birds to their nests."

—

Dusk fell. The carriage sped toward the setting sun.

As usual, Nick kicked off her wooden-heeled shoes. Ignoring Victor's disapproving glance, she leaned back in her seat and stretched her sore toes one by one.

"This is something the old man asked me to give you. He says we probably won't meet again," Victor sighed, handing Nick a small rolled paper.

Unfurling it, Nick saw just a few simple lines:

"Nicole — the name of the Greek goddess of victory. Noble, strong, unbeatable.

Wishing you smooth sailing.

L. D. V."

"What does this mean?" Nick asked. The words were familiar individually but strange together.

"Interpret it yourself."

Perplexed, Nick studied the note repeatedly, still baffled.

After a moment, she remembered something from earlier that afternoon. She lifted her foot and decisively stepped on Hayreddin's boot.

"Captain, what does this mean?" she asked curiously. "I saw someone barefoot under the table, stepping on you."

Silence filled the carriage for three seconds before Victor laughed, clutching his chest and coughing.

"That's a lady's invitation. For some… interesting activities in bed."

Hayreddin glanced at the pale little foot on his boot, then at Nick's clear eyes, and answered with mock seriousness,

"Interpret that yourself."