Chapter 173 173: Shipbuilding
Freeport, The Grand Shipyards.
The clamor within the docks was deafening. Thousands of mortal craftsmen and skeletal laborers swarmed around a gargantuan keel like a colony of industrious ants. The rhythmic thud of hammers, the high-pitched screech of saws, and the hoarse bellows of overseers merged into a chaotic, vibrant industrial symphony.
Skele-Pride stood atop the highest watchtower of the shipyard, his empty sockets overlooking the feverish activity below.
The silhouette of the great ship had begun to manifest. Its sheer scale was enough to command a primal awe from any who gazed upon it. The design completely subverted every established principle of naval architecture on the continent; this was not merely a vessel, but a Mobile Fortress upon the Tides.
Evernight's Sovereign had issued a specific mandate, and thus, Pride had brought the entirety of the Punishment Legion to these shores.
The mission was ostensibly simple: Diplomacy with the Dragon race.
Kaito's philosophy was, in Pride's estimation, borderline naive. He wished to establish formal diplomatic ties with that ancient, prideful race rather than initiating a campaign of extermination. After all, in draconic culture, the raiding of frontier settlements was viewed as little more than a traditional rite of passage—a "Coming of Age" ritual.
If the matter could be settled through negotiation, that was Kaito's preferred outcome. Thus, he had provided Pride with two protocols:
If the Dragons agreed to cease their harassment, the Empire would welcome them into the fold.
If they proved unruly, Pride was to beat them into submission.
To prove they were coming to "reason," Kaito had strictly forbidden Pride from flying to the Dragon's Nest atop a Frost Wyrm. To any sapient race, a general arriving on a dead dragon was a declaration of war, not a call for parley. Pride's own nature was proof enough of that.
Hence, the birth of this gargantuan warship. Pride would lead the Punishment Legion across the Great Sea aboard this unprecedented dreadnought to locate the legendary Dragon's Nest.
A Skeleton King (Tier 5 officer) ascended the tower with rapid, clicking steps, dropping to one knee behind Pride.
"General. The hull plating has commenced. Based on current projections, we require another twenty days to finalize the primary structure."
"Too slow."
Pride spat the two words. The volume was low, yet the chill behind them made the Skeleton King's Soul Fire give a frantic jolt.
"General... this is the absolute limit of biological and mechanical output!" the officer pleaded. "Every artisan is working through the night! We have even requisitioned mass units of Skeleton Mages to assist with Shape-Binding magic—"
"I said," Pride repeated, not deigning to turn his head, "it is too slow."
The Skeleton King dared not offer further excuses, lowering his skull until it nearly touched the stone. "This subordinate is incompetent. Forgive me."
Pride withdrew his gaze from the docks, staring out at the flat, leaden horizon of the sea. Although the Master had not set a hard deadline, Pride knew that delay was a form of blasphemy. Every whim of that Personage should be manifested into reality in the shortest possible window of time. To do anything less was a failure of a General's duty.
"Pass my decree," Pride commanded. "All units of the Punishment Legion are to cease combat drills immediately. Every soldier is to be deployed to the shipbuilding effort."
The Skeleton King snapped his head up. "General! But... the Legionaries possess no training in craftsmanship! They are blades, not carpenters!"
"Then they shall learn," Pride stated, his voice a final, unyielding decree. "Inform the master craftsmen that every soldier is now their apprentice. They are to transmit their skills to my men with maximum velocity. If any 'master' is found to be slacking or withholding techniques..."
Pride paused. "...then let him join the timber as a permanent fixture of the hull."
"Understood!"
Soon, the industrial din of the shipyard was joined by the heavy, synchronized thud of legionnaires on the move. Squads of Skele-Berserkers clad in pitch-black heavy plate marched silently into the docks.
The aura of death radiating from them was so potent that the Dwarven woodworkers and human engineers dropped their tools in a cold panic. These were the elite of the Punishment Legion—warriors who had waded through the blood of the Crusade. And now, they were here to... fetch water and plane wood?
An elderly Dwarven shipwright, his beard tangled and stained with sap, was currently screaming at a human apprentice for miscalculating the curve of a rib-timber. Spittle flew from his mouth in a frantic spray.
A Skele-Berserker walked up to him and stood in a silent, towering vigil.
The Dwarf's tirade died in his throat. He looked up at the monster that stood three heads taller than him, his hand trembling so hard he nearly dropped his adze. "W-what do you want?!"
The Berserker said nothing. It extended a pale bone-hand, pointing first at the Dwarf's tool, then at the misaligned timber.
The Dwarf swallowed hard, offering the tool with a shaking hand. The Berserker took the adze, observed the Dwarf's previous motions for a single heartbeat, and then began to strike.
There was zero wasted movement. Every blow fell with surgical precision upon the exact points requiring correction. Wood chips sprayed into the air like shrapnel. In less than a minute, the timber that had given the Master Shipwright a headache for an hour was carved into a perfect, flawless arc.
These elite undead, who knew only the language of slaughter, had taken up hammers and saws. Under the terrified guidance of the craftsmen, they began to learn the arts of joinery and decking.
Similar scenes played out in every corner of the shipyard. The undead offered no questions and no complaints—only absolute obedience and a "logic-defying" rate of learning.
The Dwarven master stood with his jaw hanging open, looking from the perfect timber to the silent obsidian skeleton. Is this... a joke? These monsters are better laborers than my own kin!
With the influx of the Legion, the efficiency of the project ascended to a vertical climb. Pride watched from his tower, his mind drifting to the image of his Sovereign.
That seemingly lazy skeleton who acted as if the world were a trivial game...
Only the Seven Generals knew the true, terrifying weight of the will hidden beneath that relaxed exterior. From the moment they were named in the Valley Base, they knew: That Personage did not seek a simple conquest. He sought a New Order—an absolute system defined by his own hand.
And they were the edge of his blade.
"The Dragons," Pride whispered.
A race that once ruled the world, now huddled upon a lonely island in the middle of nowhere. What choice would they make when the Empire knocked? Would they submit to the New Order, or choose to be reduced to ash alongside their "Old Glory"?
Pride didn't particularly care. He only cared about one thing: executing the Master's mandate with a perfection that bordered on the divine.
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