“No, look. There's not that many vowels. Only fifteen. There's also not that many symbols in total, pretty close to your own script. It's not excessive if I ask you to memorize a handful of symbols, right? It's really just memorization, and then the rest is nothing but listening for the right sounds.” Frustrated, Corco tried his hardest to keep a calm voice while he explained his new writing system to the most recent batch of students.

“But Master Corco, why do we need to learn these? We already know how to read language. Why would we ever need any letters besides Vetrin?” Just as he had been taught, one of the newly hired Fastgrade merchants raised his hand before he asked his question, though the question itself was as ridiculous as the one his classmates had asked before. In total, there were seventeen in this room, studying the scripture Corco had invented, built from the phonetic alphabet in his head. All of them had doubts about accepting his teachings. It really was tiring, but from Corco's experience, the first session always was the hardest.

“Okay, back to the beginning. I'm sure you've heard from your colleagues about some of the stuff I've been teaching, like interest rate calculations or modal logic?”

All the men nodded their heads with vigor, like good students. Of course they had heard. As far as Corco understood, it was the only reason they were here and listening to a merchant's lecture. All of his teachings were voluntary, so he had needed a compelling reason for them to listen to a stranger without formal university training. Still, even when he first offered his wisdom to his employees, at least a few had been more than ready to learn, in this continent in which knowledge was a rare and special privilege. It hadn't taken long for the first students to show off their new knowledge in front of others. The result was a chain reaction. Soon, his classrooms had been filled with students willing to accept his conditions. In the end, he had to expand his classes. Whenever he wasn't busy going over the company books or writing down new knowledge, he would be in here, imparting wisdom and getting his men ready for their great purpose.

“Alright, since everyone here wants to learn what I have to teach, you should also understand the contract you enter when you do so. I will teach you advanced mathematics, natural laws, grammar and logic. However, the books which store this knowledge are not written in any arcavian language or scripture. This script is exclusive to the Medala Empire across the Weltalic Sea. At this point, it is no secret inside the company that I wasn't born in Arcavia. Once I return home, and I will return home, I expect you to follow along and support my endeavors there, for no less than five years. That is my condition for imparting my teachings. If you want to be of any help in a foreign country, you will need to know both the local language and the script. Now you will either accept my terms and learn everything I have to teach you, or you can leave right now. I understand that the prospect of leaving home to a far-off land is scary and that some of you might have family. Thus, I won't fire or disadvantage anyone for that choice, that I will guarantee.”

As he tried to suppress his worries, Corco's look swerved over the seventeen new students who sat before him, paper and feather quill in their hands. In fact, he hadn't told the full truth in his lectures, especially when it came to the letters he had introduced. They were, in fact, not something any scholar in Medala had ever seen. However, once he returned home, Corco, the crown prince, would take over the Empire. If he wanted to introduce concepts like universal compulsory education it would be necessary to get rid of the complicated letters of the upper classes.

There was a strong class divide within Medala, with the two upper classes far removed from the lowly commoners at the bottom. This reflected in the letters used by nobility as well. The medalan script of Yakua had been designed in a convoluted fashion to exclude the common folk from knowledge, something Corco was determined to change. Plus, he wouldn't pass up the chance to fix his country's messed up orthography. Replacing the myriad of pictographic symbols for a mere fifty-one letters would be a godsend, even more so since they encompassed all phonetic sounds their language had to offer. They were perfectly simple to learn and perfectly simple to use. As an added bonus, they would also be much easier to handle on a printing press, another important innovation he intended to bring across the sea. While it was already wide-spread in Arcavia, the countless letters of Medala would be a terrible fit for the presses and hinder their proliferation.

Just as Corco set off to continue the lecture on his New Yakua script, a small gong went off to halt the teacher in his tracks. Sounding out besides him was a complex construction of gears and springs. The clever automaton was a mechanical clock, something he had been delighted to find present in Arcavia as well. Though the clock was primitive and a bit imprecise, its mere existence would save him much time and trouble. It also showed how far Medala was behind the Arcavians in terms of technology, something else he would have to remedy. Crown Prince Corco was sure that his return would signal a new era for his people. Although in this instance, the gong had no such lofty meaning. Instead, it signaled the end of their session.

“Okay, class dismissed. Until tomorrow, learn the fifty-one characters, properly this time. We can't get anywhere without the basics and I won't answer pointless questions for another hour.”

Under the rustling of paper and clothes, his students packed up their things and, one by one, left the room. As his eyes followed them to the exit, Corco found his cousin Atau, his shoulder leaned against the entrance. Comfortable as he was, it appeared he had been waiting for a while. Now spotted, Atau pushed himself off and walked towards Corco.

“Hey boss, classes going well?”

“Somewhat. You're still keeping up with the others?” Corco answered as he sorted through his own papers.

“Yeah. I haven't slacked off at sea, been reading all the books you had me bring. Armed with a fleet and loyal troops, plus all that knowledge in tow. I'll enjoy our fathers' baffled faces once we get back home.”

Corco answered with nothing but a simple grin as he dropped the papers into their drawer, before he stood to welcome his cousin back home with a proper hug. They had both gone through similar circumstances, so the crown prince very much shared Atau's sentiment. Both of them had been sent across the sea by their fathers, both to avoid trouble in the succession of their respective houses. Just the same as Corco, Atau was determined to return home with honors, to show his father just how wrong he had been to push him away.

“When did you get back?” No further words were needed on the subject, so Corco switched topics. He still didn't know why Atau was seeking him out straight after his arrival.

“Just now, really. The crew's still unpacking the ship.”

“So how did it go? Does the ship sail well?”

With a grin, Atau looked out of the window, towards the nearby harbor.

“The Homeward's a great piece of work. After the disaster last time, this journey's been a drizzle to a storm. Still...” Soon, his grin transformed into a look of worry, eyebrows pinched together.

“Still what? You're not telling me that there's something wrong with the ship, not after we've paid so much for the thing?” Corco could already feel himself get annoyed over the sloppy shipwrights.

“No, it's not that. The biggest problem is the situation in the Weltalic Sea itself, really. On our way back home we came across some bornish ships, hellbent on stopping us dead in our tracks.” Atau sat on one of the student tables as he spoke.

“They'd attack a neutral vessel? So then what?”

“So, the Homeward is the fastest ship I've ever been on. With that slim profile of ours they'd never catch us in the wind. Still, Whiteport and Borna have been getting more and more at odds. You can see that all across the western coastlines. Let's hope Whiteport smashes their fleet soon. If the Bornish get control of the southwestern coast, that's gonna spell almost certain doom for us. At that point, we're gonna have to be more than just quick if we don't wanna get screwed.”

“It's worse than that,” Corco added. “You might not believe this, but there's no way Whiteport's antiquated fleet could actually stand up to the Bornish. For now, all that's keeping them alive is the lack of confidence the Borna side have in their new navy. Their ships with sails and cannons are largely untested, but believe me that they're far beyond the Whitan vessels. Once Whiteport forces a fight, they might lose control of the entire western sea.”

“In that case, let's just hope the Whitan aren't being stupid.”

Corco thought back to the great king Albius of Whiteport, the man who had so adamantly believed in his quack doctor and had swallowed Corco's lies just the same.

“Maybe we should get ourselves armed, just in case. If the Bornish free up their hands, Etra is gonna be their first target, Duke Herak or not. Let's not leave this one in the hands of fate.”

A storm was brewing to the west. They had to prepare now, before their new home would be blown away by the winds of change.

The heart swelled, ballooned up by purest pride, Alric looked at the results of his bravery. All around them floated pieces of splintered driftwood, leftovers of the greatest fleet western Arcavia had ever seen. In the distance, he could still hear the thunderous roar of cannon fire as his ships pursued the final remnants of footlicker scum.

Despite the stiff breeze which had served them so well in the battle, their great flagship would not take part in the cleanup. A look up showed Alric the simple reason. Once they had understood their inevitable fate, the enemy had charged them in one final, desperate attack, hoping beyond hope to take the bornish capital ship with them. Of course the footlickers with their outdated style of combat could do no harm to their modern vessel, but their consistent arrow fire had still turned their mainsail into a termite's nest. With all those holes, they would have to patch or replace it before they could call themselves seaworthy again. Thus, they had been denied the great honor of leading the final battle. Still, it wouldn't change the outcome.

If he was honest, and of course this wasn't something he would ever admit to anyone, he had been more than worried when the Whiteport fleet had forced them into a corner. After all, behind them stood centuries of proud tradition, of naval dominance, something their numbers very much reflected. An impressive five hundred ships, a good third of the notorious Whiteport Navy, up against no more than sixty bornish vessels. It seemed like an impossible task, like a young tree before an avalanche. Thus, Admiral Alric had ordered retreat, out towards the open sea. Like all the times before, he had expected the Whiteport ships to retreat as well. So far, they had settled for little scares to prove their dominance to the other lordships of the continent. However, this time the Whiteport fleet had shown much more bite. It seemed as if the footlickers had finally been angered enough by the bornish conversion to the great Revering Church. As a result, his fleet had been driven out, away from the coast and out into the rough waves of the open sea.

Sailing out in the eternal blue, without any land to navigate by, was a challenge even under the best of conditions. Moreover, the admiral had never packed the relevant sea maps to travel this far off the coast. He didn't even know if the bornish admiralty had sea maps like that. At least Alric had never seen any. Thus, boxed in by the blue hell in front and the white hell behind, the desperate admiral had ordered the engagement, to break through and escape back into bornish waters. At first, his men had been desperate, cursing their fate as they were whipped to order, but they changed their tune soon after the first salvo of cannon fire. In the end, it was a war like none they had ever seen.

The mighty Whiteport Navy had been helpless as the heavy iron balls had burst through their rudders, splintered apart their hulls. While their ships had stalled one by one, sinking or immobile, they had blocked the path for the rest of their onrushing fleet. Meanwhile, Alric's own vessels had flown on the wind of the high seas, as if they had been given wings. This must have been how the arcavian knights of years past had felt when they had invaded the Shimoan deserts, as the mounted archers of the heathens had run circles around them: No way forward and no way back, no future and no hope. It was a total massacre. Alric could only imagine the fear their opponents must have felt in their final moments.

However, there was no time for compassion, not now that history was calling him. Now that the battle was over, Whiteport's grasp on the western coast had ended, the fire of the cannons rang in a new era of bornish dominion over the Weltalic Sea. It would also be the death knell for the old-fashioned galleys and boarding parties which had given Whiteport all their power in the past. The future belonged to the deafening thunder of cannon fire, of this Alric was sure.

With a look over his busy deck, the admiral observed his batteries of three-pounders, which had so expertly dismantled the enemy's rudders, before they swerved to the three massive six pound cannons which had even pierced the foe's hulls, causing deaths hitherto unheard of in naval combat. At last, Borna had survived the Whitean crisis. At last, they could stand proud, free to fight the unbelieving north, free to usher in a new era on land just as they had done at sea.