Krafft's Anomaly Notes

Chapter 415 Port Side
Where did that kid go?

The profanity on his lips circled the deck, from bow to stern, but he couldn't find a target.

Oliver instinctively felt he would find that figure on the ship's side or near the mooring bollard, until his gaze inadvertently left the deck and was cast towards the vast waves.

The gray and white churned, leaving no trace.

In such water conditions, there is little difference between large boats and small sampans, let alone people.

The ocean has already made its judgment on the captain's wrongdoing, and there is no room for argument.

The current pushed the hull, making a final, bumpy turn, parallel to the direction of the strangely surging waves. A new wave crest was caught by the stern, some of the force flowing upwards along the stern plate before being forced to split, like a tendon cut by a blunt knife.

The white line breaks off at the stern, the foam tumbles and is stretched into two symmetrical arcs, flowing along the port and starboard sides, then gradually converges after passing the ship, leaving behind a fleeting whirlpool.

The deck then dropped back down, the lateral violence temporarily subsided, and was replaced by a back-and-forth undulation.

Sinking, rising, sinking again, a heavy, breathing rhythm. Though still struggling to maintain its footing, it had at least escaped the fate of capsizing.

The cracking sound overhead abruptly ended with a final, higher pitch; the sail, finally unable to withstand the wind's pull, snapped completely.

A torn section of the connecting cable hung from the horizontal mast, while the main body was completely rolled up.

This is a good thing. Like a gecko shedding its tail, although the cost is huge, it frees it from the interference of the wind, further reduces lateral swaying, and prevents damage to the mast.

Oliver seized the rare respite to inspect the deck.

Fortunately, apart from the unlucky sailor, everyone else managed to grab onto something that saved them. Several familiar old comrades had already reacted and rushed to where they were needed most.

The tattered sails were immediately hoisted up, the tangled ropes were retrieved by the winch, and the bewildered newcomers were sent to their posts. Everything was gathered up; anything superfluous on deck was a potential hazard.

Oliver made further adjustments to the helm, aligning the course more closely with the waves, so that the power of the ocean would spare this tiny creation that obeyed its will.

The price they paid was that they completely abandoned their original course and began to drift with the tide.

The speed of the current is often far beyond imagination, and re-establishing contact with the Xue Song is out of the question. Before the storm subsides, no one can predict how far they will be carried away.

"Rotate!" Oliver shook himself off, and large water droplets and small ice shards fell. The advantage of the fur of the tundra animals is that most of them are somewhat waterproof. While the outside is completely wet, the inside remains mostly dry.

But not everyone can wear such an outfit.

Most sailors could only wrap themselves in layers of ordinary wool and coarse cloth. Some inexperienced sailors even stuffed themselves with cheap cotton wadding in an attempt to keep warm.

This works well under normal circumstances, blocking wind and snow without any problem, but once it gets wet, the situation changes drastically.

These materials are so absorbent that they lose their fluffiness when they get even a little moisture, becoming heavy, damp, and cold against the body. Instead of keeping you warm, they draw heat away from you even faster.

You can see people starting to shiver and curl up; in cold weather, clothes that are completely soaked are sometimes worse than wearing nothing at all.

The only reason I can still move now is because of the stress response after the shock. If I wait any longer, I'll either die or freeze to death.

"Quickly, everyone get down! Light the brazier!" If another batch of patients arrives now, it will be a disaster.

He pulled the flask from his pocket and took a swig. A thin, sharp flame entered his mouth, passed through his chest, and burned his stomach. The water stains inside his collar no longer seemed so cold.

Others could take turns, but the captain had to stay glued to the deck. It was truly William's prized possession; the effect was exceptionally remarkable. A wave of heat quickly washed over him, his cheeks burned, his ears turned red, and his skin felt as if it had suddenly received a surge of new blood.

The cold hadn't disappeared, but it felt somewhat distant, becoming a blurry background.

His stiff shoulders and fingers loosened slightly; he could hold on a little longer.

A group of sailors filed out of the hatch; they had been waiting anxiously inside, and they looked around in fear as soon as they came aboard.

The terrible sea conditions, the tattered sails, and of course, the captain's gloomy face meant no one dared to say or ask anything; everyone hurried off to do their own thing.

Only the last one, coughing, slowly moved towards his post. He didn't react much when his shiftmate nudged him, and only when he sluggishly moved to the winch did he realize that the cable he was supposed to be taking care of had broken.

So he stood there, looking bewildered, or as if he hadn't fully woken up, completely lost in thought.

This serious lapse in concentration made him forget his situation. He stood near the ship's side but didn't grab the gangline, letting his steps falter with the rise and fall of the deck.

Oliver frowned as he watched his free hands occasionally reach into his dirty sheepskin coat and scratch.

It was the suspect he had kicked before; that guy's problems seem to be getting worse.

He wanted to go over and reprimand him, but the restless steering wheel in his hand effectively suppressed his temper.

"You over there!"

The roar was so loud that even the people at the bow of the ship turned their heads to look, and when they realized it wasn't directed at them, they turned away in embarrassment.

However, the person in question remained unmoved, focused on their tickling, and their movements became increasingly exaggerated. Ignoring the cold, they widened their collar and dug their hands deep into their skin like a plow, as if something was trying to crawl out from under their skin.

"Port side, furl the sail, I'm talking to you!"

The volume was raised again, and this time it seemed to have an effect. The scratching stopped, and in its place came an almost deliberate listening motion—raising one ear and turning the neck from left to right, slowly and attentively.

It didn't sound like the captain's reprimand, but rather like trying to catch some elusive sound.

To others, including Oliver himself, his actions were undoubtedly a provocation against the captain, an inopportune provocation.

Even those who don't get along with Oliver normally would find it hard to approve of this behavior—this is not the time to pick a fight; infighting in a crisis will only lead to everyone's death.

They chose to stand by and watch, while their close old friends had already taken action.

The group rubbed their hands together, ready to drag this brainless guy off the deck and stop him from making a fool of himself.

The chaotic footsteps approached, but they couldn't interrupt him.

Instead, as if he had heard something, he quickly and accurately turned and lunged toward the gunwale, stretching half of his body out.

His posture almost made people think he was going to jump ship.

The arriving crew grabbed his legs, and one of them punched him in the waist. Instead of the expected scream of pain, they cursed and kicked him through the hatch.

However, Oliver, standing high up at the stern, could see clearly that even when he was being beaten and dragged away, the man's face was always turned outwards, towards the sea where snow and mist were churning.

His gaze followed a certain target, something that only he could see.