The gray ocean gives way to towering emerald mountains shrouded in dense mist as the four galleons—the Julia, the Cealina, the Maria, and the heavy-laden Amelia—drop their iron anchors into the deep-water bay of Port Lactuca. The heavy chains clatter through the hawseholes, sending plumes of iron dust into the air before splashing into the dark tide. Located roughly six hundred and eighty nautical miles southwest of mainland Ofliran, this thirty-one-thousand-square-kilometer island feels entirely distinct from the flat plantation lowlands of Ambustus. Steep volcanic ridges cascade down to muddy river mouths, where small wooden docks bulge with crates of high-value cash crops.
The air here is noticeably cooler in the sea breeze, rich with the roasted, earthy aroma of drying coffee beans and fermented cocoa pods wafting from specialized shore-side drying houses. Above the canopy, broad-winged crested hawks circle the thermals rising from the volcanic slopes, their shrill calls echoing across the rocky gaps, while below in the underbrush, vibrant blue-and-yellow finches dart among the wild ginger blossoms. Port Lactuca's infrastructure is young and rugged; half-built stone customs offices sit alongside bustling timber docks, while the unfinished cut of the great Highland Mountain Road snakes its way up into the dense cloud forests above.
Down along a muddy track bordering a wide cocoa estate, Hano—the perpetually cynical platoon leader of the 204th Company—slouches against the side of a heavy wooden hand-cart. He, Ryong Min Ki, and thirty teenage slave-soldiers trudge through the red clay, their boots caked in earth.
"Great. Another island, another day of manual labor," Hano groans. He raises a dirt-smudged knuckle, pushing his slipping glasses back up the bridge of his nose, his eyes narrowed at the endless rows of cocoa trees stretching toward the hills. "They call this 'high-value commodity transport.' I call it breaking my back so rich Ofliran merchants can drink hot chocolate in velvet armchairs."
Ryong Min Ki steps beside him, balancing a thick wooden crate filled to the brim with dried cocoa beans against his shoulder. His muscles strain under the weight, sweat glistening on his temples, but he keeps a steady pace.
"At least it smells better than salted cod," Ryong Min Ki offers, tilting his head toward the fragrant breeze blowing down from the drying racks.
Near the timber drying frames, several local farmworkers sweat over large mesh trays, using wooden rakes to turn the drying beans under the pale sun. Hano pauses, leaning his weight against the cart frame, and strikes up a casual conversation with an older farmer who has stopped to wipe his dripping brow with a ragged linen cloth. The old man squints at Hano's dusty uniform, then chuckles softly, leaning his forearm on the handle of his wooden rake. He explains that unlike the older colonial territories, Lactuca was completely uninhabited before Ofliran explorers arrived in 1274 A.H.M.
"No natives, no ancient ruins—just mountain wilderness," the old farmer says, shaking his head with a faint smile. "Most of us are contracted workers from mainland Ofliran who came over during the harvest boom after 1286. Mayor Julia Aurelia Caeliana keeps the land split up into smaller contracted farms rather than letting massive merchant monopolies buy everything out. Hard work, but it pays better than starving in Aquapolis."
Hano scoffed softly, his eyes rolling behind his salt-stained lenses as he lifts another wooden box from the ground and tosses it onto the cart with a dull thud.
"Right. So instead of one big boss, you have fifty smaller ones. Marvelous progress."
[Fifty smaller leeches sucking the blood out of the land instead of one giant tick. What a revolutionary triumph.]
Farther down at the paved quayside, where the deep-water moorings meet the stone town square, Lei Delun stands silently beside a tall stack of iron-hooped timber barrels. He holds a blank parchment board under his arm, calmly waiting for an official delivery slip from the harbor master. Nearby, in the cool shadow cast by an unfinished limestone customs house, a group of silk-trimmed Ofliran merchants and shipping agents are gathered in a tight circle, engaged in a furious, hushed debate.
"She's pouring every copper of tax revenue into that damn Highland Road!" one bloated merchant complains, his face turning a dark, mottled red as he gestures angrily with a gold-headed cane toward the distant mountain construction site. "Four years of building, and it's still unfinished! The profits from the 1300 coffee boom should be going to the investor houses in Aquapolis, not spent on paving mule tracks through mud!"
"Mayor Julia Aurelia is a fanatic for her 'Coffee Road policy,'" another agent grumbles, pulling at his stiff velvet collar and shaking his head in disgust. "She insists building highland bridges comes before distributing dividend checks. If she keeps spending colonial revenue on surveying and agricultural research, the merchant consortiums will vote her out of her office."
Lei stands motionless, his shoulders relaxed and his dark eyes fixed on the harbor horizon. He does not turn his head, but his ears track every word. His fingers tap once against the wooden board at his side.
[A merchant-governor prioritizing long-term state infrastructure over the short-term greed of private capital... Aldo will dissect this for hours once he hears about it.]
Near a row of vibrant roadside fruit stalls laden with wild mangoes, plantains, and dried spices, Comtois is causing a commotion purely out of aimless, restless curiosity. The tall, muscular youth leans low over a woven bamboo counter, pointing aggressively at a wide woven basket filled with dried brown beans.
"Hey! What's this?" Comtois demands loudly, his voice echoing off the timber overhangs as he prods a single bean with his thick index finger. "Is this cocoa? Or coffee? Why are these beans small and those ones big? Do you brew them or roast them? Why is your hair tied like that? Is that an island hat?"
The young local girl running the stall stares up at him with wide, thoroughly exhausted eyes. She looks at his massive frame, his dusty military trousers, and his wide-eyed, completely unbothered expression as he keeps pointing at random items around her small shop. Her shoulders slump.
She lets out a long, dramatic sigh, resting her soft cheeks in her palms as she rests her elbows on the counter.
"Are you... a tourist?"
Comtois blinks, resting a hand on his hip while his other hand scratches his jaw.
"A tourist? Do I look like I'm on vacation? I'm a slave-soldier loading a galleon!"
"Then why are you bothering me like a bored child on a weekend trip?" she snaps back, reaching down, grabbing a hollow, dried cocoa pod, and flicking it straight at his broad chest. "Buy something or move your giant shoulders out of my sunlight!"
Comtois catches the spinning pod easily in one palm, lets out a booming laugh that startles a flock of nearby pigeons into flight, and tosses a small copper coin onto her counter before strolling off down the alley, thoroughly satisfied.
In the cool, air-conditioned stone quarter of the newly established Chocolate Guild, the atmosphere is drastically different. High glass windows let in soft light, illuminating polished dark mahogany tables, glass jars filled with roasted cocoa nibs, and copper melting pots oozing with thick, dark liquid sweetmeats.
Aldo, Onaga, and Adelberd stand clustered around a central display table. The Guild master, dressed in clean linen, has offered the three young officers a sample platter of their finest refined local confections—a rare, unbelievable luxury for teenage boys who have lived on hardtack, salt pork, and thin soup for months on end.
For a moment, all ideological calculations, Prussian discipline, and cold military stoicism completely evaporate.
Onaga's eyes light up, his delicate face flushing with instant, pure delight as he places a small square of dark, spiced cocoa on his tongue. His hands fly to his face, resting against his cheeks as his eyes close in bliss.
"Oh... it's sweet! It's actually sweet!" Onaga gasps softly, his voice trembling with joy.
Adelberd takes a cautious, measured bite of a hard chocolate disc blended with highland mountain honey. He chews slowly, his rigid, posture melting slightly as his shoulders drop. A rare, broad, boyish smile breaks across his normally stern face.
"In Bayern... we had fine sweets," Adelberd mutters, his voice dropping its sharp military edge, sounding suddenly like a regular fifteen-year-old boy again. "This... this is remarkably good."
Aldo stands between them, holding a small wooden spoon dripping with warm, melted dark chocolate. He stares at the glossy brown liquid for two solid seconds, his eyebrows knit tight. He pops the spoon into his mouth—and freezes. His usual cold, calculating eyes widen significantly.
"High sugar content. High fat. High morale impact," Aldo mutters, trying desperately to sound analytical while his mouth works quickly to swallow the sweet treat. He immediately reaches out his hand, his fingers aiming straight for a second sample piece on the silver tray. "We... should purchase three crates for the ship's store."
Onaga giggles, slapping his hands together before popping another chocolate disc into his own mouth.
"You just want to eat more sweets, Aldo!"
"It is a strategic reserve for crew efficiency," Aldo insists flatly, his face returning to its rigid mask even as his hand doesn't hesitate for a fraction of a second to pick up another dark chocolate square, the three boys eating side-by-side like sweet-deprived kids in a candy shop.