For regions shrouded in haze all year round, the sun's presence might be a blessing or a mercy. But for ships sailing along the coast or on the open ocean, the blistering sun that scorches your skin until it peels has become a routine torment and punishment.

Sunlight so brutal it rots the skin, humidity so heavy it makes you want to scratch your crotch off, constant rocking, endless chores, scraping off rust spots, and swearing endlessly.

Air conditioning and beer are privileges reserved for the captain and upper management. The sunburnt sailors can only curse their mothers, sweat pouring off them as they rush around. A couple of drags on a half-smoked cigarette is about all they can hope for.

From the noisy, stuffy cabin to the sun-baked deck like a steamer, they gradually become accustomed to the torment.

Especially on a smuggling ship like this, they must constantly be on the lookout, evading maritime patrols, and even rival pirates, always ready to risk their lives in a dramatic escape.

The scrutiny is getting tighter, the inspections more rigorous, and the quality of fellow travelers worsening, making life increasingly difficult.

And damn it, they still have to cater to not one, but two stowaway lords who snuck aboard...

Such is fate's cruelty.

Everyone can't help but ask themselves: Is life only this hard while smuggling, or has it always been this way?

At this moment, as the distant coastline finally appears, they're almost moved to tears.

In the cabin, in front of the helm, the captain sits with his legs crossed, smoking a cigarette. He spits on the ground, turns back, and looks at the unwelcome guests behind him: "There you go, we're here. Get off."

"Isn't there still a stretch to go?"

The scrawny, blonde-haired teen grins and pleads, "It's such a wide gap. We can't swim across. Uncle, be a Good Samaritan. Can you take us a bit closer?"

The speaking teen is skinny to the bone, clearly malnourished for years, limping on one leg, swaying like a reed, yet his eyes are sharp and bright, piercing when he looks at you.

Like some beast cloaked in human skin, sending shivers down your spine.

Especially when this beast's foot is on a bundle of detonators and high-explosives, clutching a homemade detonator as he talks to you, it's even more nerve-wracking!

"The rules at Desert Market you may not know, we paid Lord Rice for this route, so this boat can only head to Tide City. To get caught near Cliff City and board by force is betrayal and will lead to a death sentence."

The captain shakes his head without hesitation: "We live by the rules, and once you start breaking them, the best outcome is losing a hand."

"Let me have a dinghy then," the teen follows up: "I can row there myself."

"You really have the nerve to ask."

The captain laughs in exasperation, "You think I can't do anything about you?"

"Hey, my worthless life is trivial, but delaying your affairs would be troublesome," the teen chuckles carelessly: "Might as well let my brother and I off like letting off a fart, wouldn't that be less trouble?"

But even so, his hand remains gripping the detonator.

Since boarding, he hasn't let go.

Not only that, but all the food and water are self-provided, and to avoid using the bathroom, he's eaten very little. For three whole days, he hasn't closed his eyes.

Always ready for a final fight!

Running into someone like this, it's like encountering a ghost.

Four days ago, three hours after setting sail from Seven Cities at midnight, they discovered someone had sneaked aboard. The intruder wasn't a rival pirate or a silent stowaway; it was a punk strapped with explosives, with his dying brother in a wheelchair.

When discovered, he didn't panic or flee. Instead, he took a sailor hostage with a homemade gun, forcing him to find the captain.

He neither wanted money nor goods, only to hitch a ride, hoping that the captain, in light of the five pounds of explosives, would turn a blind eye... or everyone could blow up together and end it all.

It's fair to say, not having accumulated good karma in the past life led to a job at Desert Market now, dealing with this kind of mess.

Truly unfortunate!

The captain glanced at the punk, then at his blanket-covered, sleeping brother, finished smoking a cigarette, and waved to the first mate.

"Give them a dinghy."

He looked at the punk, half-smiling: "Next, do you want me to give you another ride?"

"That couldn't be better!" The teen beamed, gripping his hand, looking grateful: "I knew we'd hit it off!"

Hit it off, my ass, let go already!

The captain cursed, slapped his seat, stood up, and motioned for him to follow.

Twenty minutes later, the dinghy landed on a shallow beach.

The waters were calm, and nothing happened.

A miraculous, amicable parting.

The skinny teen laboriously hoisted his sleeping brother onto his back, skillfully tying him on, and bid farewell: "Thanks a lot, uncle!"

The captain smoked a cigarette, smiling: "Want me to lend you some travel money?"

"No need." The teen waved his hand.

"Then get lost already!" The captain's face darkened, "Waiting for me to send you off?"

"Leave a number, uncle."

The teen looked up, the smile on his face disappearing, yet his expression was rarely serious: "I'll pay back the debt."

The captain laughed, not sure if he was angry or amused, but when he saw those eyes, he suddenly fell silent for a moment.

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