The cold monsoon wind on the east coast pierced to the bone, subtly seeping under the skin and bringing a faint chill. Momentarily, a few thick clouds covered the celestial light, dimming the surroundings slightly.  

The Count did not respond but simply motioned with his hand, prompting the butler waiting nearby to hand a letter to Li Site.  

“This isn’t wartime. Letters of marque are handed out freely without charge. But in peacetime, they’re worth more than gold.”  

The Count abruptly shed his previous politeness, his aura as the superior showing a trace of pressure.  

Li Site naturally understood this principle. There were no eternal enemies, only eternal gold dragons. In times of war, the East Coast governor had to serve tea to the big shots of Heaven’s Port. The power of Heaven’s Port served as an emergency reserve and was an advantage for East Coast pirates.  

If Black Sails weren’t involved in every major case, Li Site would have long been mixing in the prime areas of the inner sea.  

In peaceful times, letters of marque were equivalent to ironclad contracts, allowing free reign within the Beima Principality’s territorial waters. Even in international waters, merchant ships from hostile countries with zero diplomatic favor could be freely plundered. If any trouble arose, the governor and the principality would cover for them. Although the Beima court was weak now, the skinny camel was still bigger than the horse. It was far from being a geopolitical sacrificial lamb; as a strategically buffered minor state, it was still capable of influence. The idiot king couldn’t wield a knife, but the divided nobles and powerful courtiers still could.  

The Beima Principality received support from the East Coast, so even if its overall economy was poor, it wasn’t beyond repair. The common people became paupers, but the lords remained rich. Yet the inland nobles sensed a brewing storm—heavy taxes were being forcibly collected and directed entirely to the military. If you fish with ten thousand volts, I’ll counter with the Thunder Emperor’s scripture. The situation was spiraling out of control, causing many to flee famine as indebted tenant farmers.  

The Western Continent was dotted with many countries, but ninety percent were merely wild zones for top-tier players. Real confrontations were limited to a handful of long-established powerful nations and depended heavily on the moods of the Western Continent’s strongest warrior, the Emperor.  

In short, in peaceful times, captains of privateering ships were even more formidable than some low-ranking nobles with small fiefs.  

Li Site unfolded the letter and read its contents.  

It was from Beima’s royal descendant, Chai Daguanyren’s direct handwriting, basically saying he didn’t care, and it was up to the Count to decide.  

The letter was handwritten because it bore a red official seal—the family crest of Chai Daguanyren: a mighty eagle.  

In Beima Principality or anywhere on the Western Continent, any woodworker engraving seals had to register with the Ministry of Justice. Illegally forging a seal carried two types of punishment depending on the seal’s use. Forging commercial seals meant jail time and forced labor, but forging official seals was a brazen act punishable by hanging. The Ministry’s enforcers were no mere ghosts but legitimate officials from the living world.  

Li Site didn’t waste words. Holding the letter himself was useless; the Count’s nod was needed to pass it back to the butler.  

“We already know the Count’s sincerity, but we still need to know exactly who’s being transported. How can I know if it’s a royal family member or whether those chasing them are the Western Continent’s top experts? Since you came to us, there must have been a leak—this isn’t a simple sightseeing trip to Heaven’s Port.”  

Fen believed the Count’s generous terms meant they were buying the lives of his men for a job and demanded full disclosure.  

The Count tapped the table with two fingers and replied, “First, it’s not royalty—rest assured. Second, so far, there have been no leaks. By now, they’ve likely crossed the Great Wall and taken root in the central-western regions. They’re moving fast on official roads; it’ll only take about half a month. I’m just being thorough.”  

Seeing the Count evade the point, Fen was dissatisfied. No leak at all was impossible. Someone had to be tracking them. It was only a matter of time before the pursuers found them. No matter how secretive, it shouldn’t have reached the lunatic extremes it had. The handover should have taken place in Linden City, not in that cursed Heaven’s Port.  

Just as Fen was about to speak, Li Site stopped him. Being a pirate meant risking death; otherwise, what kind of pirate would they be? This deal was crucial for Black Sails. Either they continued scraping by on the East Coast or they sailed the seas with pride, dominating all. If it wasn’t royalty, it had to be a significant figure—an old gun broken out of the grand prison or a notable’s illegitimate son.  

“I understand the Count’s meaning. At least, I need the backgrounds of two bodyguards. Until delivery, I won’t disturb these three gentlemen. They’ll have separate rooms and special meals, and I won’t ask questions. No problem, we’ll take the job. You know I’m straightforward. This is my final bottom line. If it falls through, I’m known for my honor on the streets. I’ll keep the Count’s secret and soon return to our pirate base.”  

Li Site spoke calmly. Once aboard, he was at the mercy of fate anyway. He just needed to gauge the bodyguards’ strength to roughly identify the principal’s identity range.  

The Count frowned deeply.  

Li Site and his two companions knew that if this deal failed, they’d be at war with the Count. They couldn’t just leave like yesterday.  

Li Site decided to play a bit cool and whistled softly with two fingers pressed to his lips—a Black Sails internal signal, not complicated. A whistle longer than two seconds meant all clear; a short one meant immediate attack.  

Sven, who had been resting on the windowsill, now clung to the ceiling as the matter turned serious.  

Seeing Li Site signal, Sven and Archer, whose emotional intelligence was leagues apart, knew it was time to show some strength. Like ghosts, they silently dropped from the ceiling, landing directly between the Count and his young wife.  

The Count’s youthful wife screamed, clutching her chest. The eldest daughter and the Count’s son on one side were so startled they dropped their utensils and stumbled back several steps.  

The ten loyal guards waiting in the room’s corners clanked loudly as they surrounded the four men.  

“Stop! Everyone stand down.”  

The Count barked at the guards, though he was slightly panicked. If the tiger man suddenly stabbed him from less than a foot away, could these guards take the blow for him? He knew Li Site wouldn’t kill him—nor dare to—but it was all a bluff. The city tower, their ship’s docking Secret Port, were all his turf. Breaking out wouldn’t be easy.  

“I’ve long heard from the Linden City admiral that the hardest trouble in the East Sea isn’t the big pirates—they have legitimate businesses and don’t associate with thugs. The most rampant groups now are desperate men fighting with force and ruthlessness. Black Sails is one of them, truly living up to its reputation.”  

The Count sighed. He wasn’t afraid Sven would kill him and was finally speaking plainly, using the words “thug” and “pirate.”  

“Good news doesn’t travel far, bad news travels a thousand miles. My brothers are heroes robbing from the rich to help the poor. Those rumors have just been twisted. Whether we succeed or fail, the Count owes us a clear answer.”  

Li Site lit a cigarette and took a drag.  

That was the way of a Count.  

“Give this tiger man friend a seat and open two bottles of the estate’s finest wine.”  

The Count casually instructed the butler.  

Li Site finally relaxed. The deal was made. With hostages, there was no fear the Count wouldn’t pay the final installment.