Chapter Fifty-Nine: The Parrot-Beaked Azure Garment, Wholesale Navigation Techniques

Until this moment, everyone felt as though they were dreaming.

This motley band of fishermen, who had only traded in their nets for muskets less than a month ago, had managed to defeat a sailing warship that was nearly unrivaled in single combat across the eastern seas.

And had captured it intact?

It was unbelievable, exhilarating, ecstatic—so much so that they repeatedly tossed their own “sun” into the air in celebration.

Wang Cheng finally tore his attention away from the “Beauty’s Disrobing Technique,” remembering what his most precious spoil of this battle truly was.

“I never dared to dream of anything more than acquiring an armed merchant ship from the Franks for my own use, but who would have thought I would get my hands on a mainline battleship in one fell swoop?

Even by international standards, this is only a fifth-rate cruiser, not a fourth-rate or higher battleship, but in the eastern seas it’s already top-tier.”

He still couldn’t pinpoint the traitor within the Five Peaks Banner, so he sent his thanks in the direction of Moon Harbor:

“Thank you, Master Pu, for your generous gift of a warship!”

Only after expressing his gratitude did he realize:

“The ‘Ziying’ was my father’s legacy, meant to be inherited by me, his son. My capturing it is simply returning what rightfully belongs to me.”

He felt ever more keenly the pain of his meager fortune:

“Toiling endlessly, seeking relief amidst hardship—when will the clouds part and reveal the sun? Rarely can a family foundation be established, and only in middle age does food and clothing become less of a worry.”

He had inherited barely a fraction of a vast estate, and obtaining the “Ziying” was but a drop in the ocean, not even enough to count as pocket change.

To reclaim the rest of his inheritance smoothly? For now, fate had not granted him that, unless he continued to buy his destiny and increase his “bone weight.”

Wang Cheng landed, checked that his men hadn’t suffered major injuries from the cursed duel-induced zombies, and finally breathed a sigh of relief.

But then the deputy shipmaster, Zhang Wu, approached with a grim face, dousing everyone’s high spirits with cold water:

“Shipmaster, brothers, don’t rush to celebrate yet. We have a crucial problem to solve.”

Everyone was bewildered.

“What problem?”

With a single sentence, Zhang Wu extinguished the fiery atmosphere:

“We don’t have anyone who knows how to sail this warship!”

“Uh…”

Everyone’s smiles froze, instinctively glancing up at the towering masts, sails, and the intricate rigging overhead, a wave of dizziness washing over them.

Even Wang Cheng, who had been groomed since childhood for scholarly pursuits and never interned on a sailing warship, felt a bit lost.

He had read The Spring and Autumn Annals far more diligently than any “Warship Operations Manual.”

The hardest part of sailing such a ship was mastering the manipulation of the sail and rigging system.

The sails were the most technically demanding and essential part of the ship, its primary source of power—any issue with the sails would spell disaster for the entire vessel.

Take the three-masted cruiser “Ziying” as an example: a standard three-masted warship was equipped with eleven square sails and eleven fore-and-aft sails.

The corresponding rigging system comprised two types: the white running rigging, which was adjustable; and the black standing rigging, which served mainly as support.

When handling the sails, the primary adjustment was to the white running rigging.

To control the yards, one needed halyards, lifts, and brace lines; to control the sails themselves: sheets, tack lines, and outhaul lines; to furl sails: sheets, foot ropes, and leech lines.

A three-masted warship, with its four forward, four midship, and three aft square sails, required this rigging system to be repeated eleven times—amounting to at least ninety-nine ropes!

And that didn’t even include spare rigging and some double rigging for extra support, or the rigging for the fore-and-aft sails.

Just thinking about it made Wang Cheng’s head ache.

“The key is that simply knowing how to operate them isn’t nearly enough.

The sail and rigging crew must, regardless of wind direction or weather, instantly identify the correct lines and adjust them to the optimal position.

To properly fulfill their duties, a sailor must master at least fifty different knots, to the point of tying them blindfolded.

On calm waters, a skilled sail and rigging hand can keep the ship sailing straight by adjusting the sails alone, without touching the rudder.

And mastering each skill takes years upon years of training.”

“At present, sailors capable of handling a warship’s sail and rigging are prized treasures in any faction.

Even a ‘sea dog’ with ten years’ experience might not be able to master this system—it requires the guidance of the most seasoned sailmaster.

In the East, this position is called ‘Da Liao,’ and often it is personally held by a senior ‘Whitewater Man.’”

“Gunners are much the same—important technical specialists, but even more dangerous. Being inaccurate is one thing, but blowing up your own men is the real joke.

When the Five Peaks Banner first formed its fleet of sailing warships, they spent a fortune hiring officers from the Netherlands’ Eastern Borrodo Company for years of training.”

It was clear that for the people of Great Zhao to seamlessly take over a captured warship was, under normal circumstances, nothing short of a pipe dream.

But Wang Cheng was anything but ordinary; his mind whirled with ideas.

As if oblivious to everyone’s dejection, he waved his hand grandly:

“I hereby rename the ‘Ziying’ as the ‘Parrot Blue Robe,’ commemorating our brotherhood’s Blue Robe Oath.

Worried you don’t know how to operate a warship? Don’t forget, your shipmaster here is an official merchant-in-waiting, a ‘Chao Feng Lang.’

Come, I’ll take you shopping!”

He led everyone down to the lower decks, to the battery deck where the twelve-pound cannons were mounted.

There were no dedicated cabins for the crew on a warship; except for a few officers and leaders, everyone slept in hammocks here.

On New Year’s Eve, the hammocks were all rolled up, most of the Japanese crew were gathered here feasting and drinking, now sleeping like dead pigs.

The incense before the “Prince Jing” shrine had burned out; outside, blood flowed in rivers, but inside, snores soared to the heavens.

Near the stern, in the upper position, lay “Shibata,” the quartermaster responsible for munitions, supplies, and accounts—the third most important figure after shipmaster “Cui Sheng” and deputy “Tanaka.”

Beside him lay the fifth-ranking officer, “Da Liao” Daijiro, in charge of all rigging.

And then the young interpreter, “Gao Ren,” who had been beside deputy Tanaka from the start—a clear Zhao native, his name listed among the rare commodities.

“Bind everyone, then wake these three for me.”

At Wang Cheng’s command, Zhang Wu bound all the Japanese crew, while Zhang Wen fetched cold seawater to thoroughly drench the quartermaster, sailmaster, and interpreter.

Splash!

Even the strongest incense couldn’t withstand such a shock—they nearly jumped up on the spot.

Nearly, because they immediately saw the steel blades pressed to their throats.

Quartermaster Shibata struggled and shouted:

“You bastards, why are you on our ship? I’ll kill you all!”

Zhang Wu pressed the gleaming blade harder against the interpreter’s throat:

“You, interpret for us. What’s that Japanese bird saying?”

Interpreter Gao Ren glanced at the bound Japanese crew and the overwhelming scent of blood from the deck above, instantly recognizing the situation.

Hearing Zhang Wu’s query, his face twisted, then he forced a smile, bowing repeatedly:

“He just said we’ve lost and begs you heroic gentlemen to spare our lives—let us go like a fart!”

Pfft!

When Wang Cheng slew deputy Tanaka days ago, he had just acquired a command of Japanese; no one else knew this.

So in his ears, what Shibata had really said was:

“You filthy boat people, how are you on our ship? I’ll kill every last one of you!”

He took a deep look at the interpreter lying at his feet, secretly impressed—truly a master of translation.

The skills he possessed must be the legendary “god-tier” interpreter.

The two awakened Japanese, now deeply agitated, began shouting at Wang Cheng’s group.

Sailmaster Daijiro: “You don’t actually know how to sail this warship, do you? We are samurai of Satsuma and will never surrender to the enemy!”

Even before Wang Cheng could ask, interpreter Gao Ren knew exactly what they wanted, and dutifully translated:

“He says he’s Daijiro, the sailmaster of the ‘Ziying,’ and all the sail-and-rigging crew answer to him. He’s willing to serve you heroic gentlemen—east if you command east, west if you command west.”

Daijiro: “Even if I take the ‘Ziying’ down with me, sinking with the ship, I will never let you profit from it!”

Interpreter Gao Ren: “He says if the crew won’t cooperate, you can make examples of them, but you absolutely must not kill the interpreter. We can help you train your own sail-and-rigging crew.”

Shibata: “Daijiro is right, don’t let me get a chance—if I do, I’ll blow up the powder magazine and send you all to heaven.”

Interpreter Gao Ren:

“Quartermaster Shibata says he’s willing to cooperate as well—he has an eighty-year-old mother above, a three-year-old child below. He manages the ship’s weapons and trains gunners, maintains munitions, and being a dog for Great Zhao is his greatest honor!”

Daijiro and Shibata: “Enough, we samurai will never surrender!”

But the interpreter was full of survival instinct—even bound, he struggled upright and kowtowed in supplication.

Alongside the two Japanese officers, he let out a final roar, his voice eclipsing theirs:

“We were wrong, spare us—!!”