Chapter 1: Tumultuous Waves (Dear readers, please continue following the story! Just scroll to the latest chapter.)
June 1340, Kingdom of France, County of Flanders, Port of Sluis.
“Swish—swish—,”
The waves surged rhythmically.
Whispering and roaring incessantly by Carlo’s ear.
A powerful dizziness swept over him like a tidal wave.
Suddenly awakening from terror, Carlo realized he was hanging upside down over the sea, bound by reins.
The thick scent of the ocean, salty and briny, enveloped him like a vast net.
The sea churned right before his eyes, not calm and mirror-like, but vibrant and alive.
Tiny bubbles appeared and burst rapidly on the surface, like dancing notes.
“Splash—”
A wave surged forward, drenching Carlo’s body.
The icy touch made him feel the true might of the sea.
So this was no dream.
On the ocean’s surface,
Carlo saw himself—a sturdier figure with dark hair and eyes, sun-kissed and handsome, clad in a tattered, ill-fitting sailor’s uniform.
“Carlo, Carlo, are you alright? Don’t panic! Hold tightly to this rope.”
Roberto threw down a rope.
Carlo grabbed it quickly and was slowly pulled up.
He had somehow transmigrated into medieval France. He struggled to focus, piecing together his memories.
Carlo was thirteen, the son of a merchant from Florence.
His father was an official of the blacksmith guild, harboring great expectations for him.
Thus, Carlo had been trained from a young age not only in swordsmanship and horsemanship but also in principal trade languages—Latin, Arabic, Italian, and French.
Literature, philosophy, history, and rhetoric were compulsory studies.
However, during an excursion earlier this year, he and his cousin Roberto were forcibly kidnapped by a band of Genoese mercenaries.
They were taken aboard the ship “Guardian of the Lighthouse.”
Roberto, much older at twenty, along with Carlo, was compelled to serve under the naval commander Barbarossa, steering and fighting.
In the Middle Ages, war spared no one.
It was common for boys as young as twelve or thirteen to be drawn into conflict, willingly or not.
After months of arduous sailing, the Genoese fleet arrived at the Port of Sluis.
There, they joined forces with the French and Castilian fleets to form a united armada.
Castile was an ally of France; the Genoese were mercenaries.
Slowly, Carlo was hauled from the sea’s surface.
As his body rose, he distanced himself from the turbulent waves.
The ocean on the horizon was a breathtaking and awe-inspiring tableau.
Waves rolled and crashed continuously, roaring and unleashing boundless power.
The deep blue sea surged in towering crests, then plunged into profound troughs.
Nearby, warships stood like a dense forest of towering masts.
Their hulls shimmered softly under the sunlight.
1340? The French allied fleet?
Carlo’s previous life had left him ignorant of the historical details.
What exactly was happening here?
It turned out Sluis was a crucial hub in England’s wool trade.
It was also a target for French blockade, which explained why France’s main fleet was anchored here.
England? More memories flooded Carlo’s mind.
In 1337, King Philip VI of France “forfeited” the Duchy of Guyenne from King Edward III of England. (Aquitaine under France; at this time, England was called Guyenne.)
Edward immediately declared his claim to the French throne.
Carlo felt a flicker of excitement:
“This is—The Hundred Years’ War between England and France!
Could I possibly find Joan of Arc?
The Hundred Years’ War!
The rumor that Edward III was not actually the son of Edward II.
But rather the child of his mother Isabella and another man.
He shouldn’t have been considered the English king at all.
Yet because his mother, the ‘She-Wolf of France’ Isabella, was the youngest daughter of Philip IV, he contested the French throne with the legitimate Philip VI.
Whether this is historical fact or legend, it’s certainly wild!”
Then, his heart sank with despair.
“Transmigrating to the Middle Ages—others become kings or crown princes, at least nobles.
Wait, this is 1340, Port of Sluis.
Though I don’t remember the war’s details,
Being on this warship feels way too dangerous!
Carlo, Carlo.
Why are you even thinking about these things on this ship?
The dynastic struggles and inheritance wars between England and France have nothing to do with you.
A disaster is coming, you know?
You have to escape, quickly escape.
Oh no! I must get back.
Who would willingly abandon the comfort of the modern world to suffer in the Middle Ages?
Even the simplest things like eating and drinking here can break a person.
And I’m just an ordinary commoner,
Forced to be dragged into this brutal war!”
Carlo’s heart echoed these thoughts repeatedly.
Homesickness surged like a tide.
He pondered whether he could ever return to future China.
Perhaps, he even entertained a wild thought—would dying send him back?
But he dared not try; death meant losing everything.
Better to stubbornly cling to life!
“Right, system! System! Mission! Sign-in!…”
Carlo reluctantly accepted his seemingly “tragic” fate.
He called out frantically in his mind, eyes shining with longing and hope.
He glanced around anxiously,
As if expecting some mysterious, magical presence to suddenly appear,
To offer a chance, to rescue him from this terrifying predicament.
But nothing came!
His gaze dimmed, and he gave a bitter smile:
“Well, since fate has brought me here to experience life, I can’t chicken out!
Besides, there’s no use in being cowardly!”
Yet, the thought of being caught up in war filled him with dread.
“War is far too dangerous!
I must find a way to escape!”
What it meant for a captive boy to be swept into war needed no further explanation.
Finally, Roberto pulled Carlo aboard.
Carlo collapsed onto the deck, whether from exhaustion or fear, he did not know.
He gasped heavily, his chest rising and falling violently.
The surrounding sailors laughed mockingly at his condition.
Roberto's face darkened instantly. His eyes blazed with fury:
“Shut up! Who do you think you are, nobles? None of us are anything but forced peasants and townsfolk.”
He drew a short knife swiftly, gripping it tightly.
“Anyone who dares mock Carlo again, I’ll fight to the death. We’ll see whose swords draw blood!”
The laughter ceased instantly.
Roberto’s life had always been filled with hardship.
His parents died when he was very young, leaving him bereft of the most vital support and the warmth of a family.
Fortunately, his aunt took him in, allowing him to live with Carlo’s family.
There, his uncle and aunt cared for him wholeheartedly, treating him as their own.
Carlo was like the closest companion Roberto ever had.
They gave Roberto the familial warmth he had longed for and gradually healed the wounds left by his parents’ passing.
Carlo had always held a deeply important place in Roberto’s heart—the one he cherished most.
Yet now, they were trapped here, embroiled in this dreadful situation.
Roberto blamed himself, feeling his negligence had led them into this plight.
That guilt weighed heavily on him.
Thus, when he looked at Carlo now, his concern was more intense than ever.
It was the fear of losing him again, and the determination to protect him at all costs.
His eyes grew moist; tears slipped down:
“Carlo, are you okay? You scared me to death.
The deck is so high; when you fell, I really feared the waves would crush you…”
Carlo looked at Roberto, feeling warmth flood his heart.
His cousin cared so deeply.
He shook his head gently:
“I’m fine, Roberto. I think this place is too dangerous. We have to escape.”
A look of sorrow and sadness crossed Roberto’s face. He sighed:
“Escape? It’s too hard. These past months, I’ve wanted to run away with you constantly. I want to take you home.
But those mercenaries guard us tightly. We’re drifting farther from home; it’ll be hard to return.”
Carlo urged:
“Roberto, let’s think of a plan. On this ship, we’ll fight the English. It’s too dangerous.
There’s a chance if we escape. Staying here means certain death.”
“We’re neither French nor Genoese.
We’re kidnapped Florentines. What does this war have to do with us?” Roberto comforted.
“Carlo, I think we’re safe on this ship.
I heard the French fleet has over two hundred warships.
More than twenty thousand warriors in total.
The fleet is strong.
Once the Genoese mercenaries’ contract ends, we’ll have a chance to go home.”
Carlo retorted:
“Roberto, you don’t understand. The English fleet will be far more terrifying!”
Roberto was about to say more when he suddenly opened his mouth wide, eyes wide with terror, pointing behind Carlo:
“Carlo…”
Carlo swiftly turned, gazing toward the horizon and the sea.
There, a vast fleet slowly emerged.
Warships were tightly arrayed, nearly covering the entire surface of the water, emanating a staggering sense of oppression.
The lead ship flew a simple yet striking banner.
Its background was pure white, with a vivid red cross centered upon it.
The English fleet had arrived!