Chapter 105 Military Port

The sea breeze howled, and the waves relentlessly pounded against the rocks.

Gavin found an empty stretch of beach, placed the wildfire jar on the ground, and unscrewed the lid. He signaled for the two of them to quickly move away.

Cobain watched anxiously, beads of sweat forming on his forehead.

Gavin took a deep breath, gathering his focus, and prepared to ignite the wildfire.

With a swift motion, Gavin raised his hand, and a ball of blazing flame shot forward like an arrow released from a bow. It sped toward the wildfire jar in the distance. In an instant, the jar was ignited, and with a deafening "boom," it exploded. Green flames surged outward, bursting from the jar like a demon unleashed from its prison. The fire spread with terrifying speed, covering an area of more than ten square meters.

The flames crackled and roared, as if they meant to devour everything in their path. Gavin furrowed his brows and focused his mind, controlling the wildfire. His eyes narrowed, sharp with concentration. The flames responded to his command, growing even more violent, their reach expanding relentlessly. What had once been a chaotic blaze was now a force of nature, alive and eager to spread.

Seeing the fire's terrifying power, Gavin couldn't help but laugh, a mix of pride and exhilaration in his voice. He turned to Syndor, whose stunned expression spoke volumes. "How many cans of wildfire do we have left?" he asked, his voice steady.

Syndor snapped back to reality, his voice shaky. "Sir, there are... probably hundreds left."

Gavin's smile widened. "Order more. The more, the better."

Syndor's eyes flickered with caution, but he responded quickly. "Yes, sir. But transporting wildfire is extremely dangerous. The alchemists must be extremely careful, and we should limit the quantity per shipment."

Gavin's expression hardened with resolve. "Send more ships. Prioritize safety in transport."

His gaze shifted back to the wildfire, his eyes gleaming with anticipation. He could already envision the enemy, helpless before the relentless flames, their defenses crumbling in the inferno.

Lys, one of the nine free trade city-states, sat on the southern coast of the Essos continent, southeast of Tyrosh and west of Volantis.

The city spanned three islands and a stretch of coastline. Blessed with a cool climate, abundant sunshine, and fertile lands, Lys was a land of natural beauty. The turquoise sea teemed with fish, making it a prosperous region.

Lys itself was built on rocky outcrops on the island of Lys, ruled by a council of the wealthiest men elected from among the city's elite.

Governor Byron Heywood had risen from humble beginnings. Ruthless and determined, he had once allied himself with pirates to build his wealth, using them to increase his population and resources. His methods in the slave trade were brutal, crushing any opposition without mercy.

His fortune grew exponentially, and his involvement in the slave trade expanded. Not only did he manage slaves, but he also became a key figure in training and controlling them. Eventually, his immense wealth earned him the title of Governor of Lys. However, his methods and cruelty remained unchanged.

Lys held the strongest naval power among the Three Daughters, boasting three ports and ninety-two warships, including twenty-six formidable sailing warships. In addition to the two thousand standing soldiers on land, Lys employed over a thousand mercenaries.

Though Nightsong Island was the smallest of the three islands, its position was of great strategic importance. The island's port was the only military harbor in Lys, and it hosted two large shipyards. Since the Thorn family had taken refuge in Lys, their warships had regularly docked there. A military camp close to the port ensured that soldiers could board quickly whenever the need arose.

The island was covered in thick, green trees and rolling hills. In the moonlight, the outline of the land looked both mysterious and majestic. Dense vegetation blanketed the hillside, and the branches swayed gently in the sea breeze, creating a soothing rustling sound.

While the island was serene, the port was a hive of activity. Seventy warships lay anchored in the harbor, creating a display of power that was impossible to ignore.

The forty Thorn family warships varied in condition. Some were new and sturdy, while others were weathered and patched together from merchant ships. The hulls of these vessels were scarred by battle, each mark telling the story of a brutal past.

The bows of the ships were diverse—some sharp and aggressive, others more rounded. The ballistae on the decks were of various sizes, each designed to suit the specific needs of the ship.

In stark contrast were the thirty warships of the Lys fleet, including ten enormous sailing ships. Their towering masts and vast sails seemed to rise like giants in the moonlight. The ships were imposing, with strong hulls and exquisite decorations, showcasing the naval strength and craftsmanship of Lys.

The remaining twenty ships were sleek longboats, designed for speed. Their low, smooth hulls glided effortlessly across the water, built for swift movement and agility in battle.

The sea breeze gently stirred the ropes of the ships, making them sway with the rhythm of the waves. The ropes creaked as they rubbed together, their sound echoing faintly in the otherwise quiet night. The moonlight shimmered on the water, casting silvery patches of light that danced with the undulating waves. The entire military port seemed alive, as if the ships were waiting for some unseen order, ready to spring into action at any moment.

The sea below the night sky looked like an endless stretch of black satin, its surface rippling with the rhythm of the waves. The moon hung high above, casting its cold, pale light across the world below. It illuminated the waters, giving the entire scene an ethereal, otherworldly quality.

A warship bearing the flag of Lys slowly approached the harbor of Nightsong Island.

The ship was battered and broken. Its hull had numerous holes, many of which had been hastily repaired. A massive hole in the stern suggested it had been rammed by a powerful enemy vessel. Several other smaller holes along the side had been caused by enemy crossbows, the jagged edges a testament to the intensity of the battle.

The statue on the bow was missing pieces, its former grandeur lost to time. The sails were torn and shredded, the damage so severe that the ship could barely move under the wind's power.

On the deck, deep cuts and scars from knives and swords marred the wood. Though the blood had been washed away by the sea, the violence of the battle remained evident. The ship had not sunk, but its former glory was gone.

Still, the mast stood tall, and the flag of Lys fluttered weakly in the night wind.

On the deck, a sailor gripped the helm tightly. His eyes were empty, distant, his movements stiff as he mechanically adjusted the ship's course with the rhythm of the waves. Another sailor stood at the stern, pulling the ropes and adjusting the sails without a word. The air was thick with silence, broken only by the sound of the waves crashing against the ship and the mournful howling of the wind.