Chương 162: 14. Legacy of the Past 1

Originally, when I said "take whatever gear we can carry," I'd pictured something modest—grab an extra ancient short weapon or two, a few boxes of metal peanuts, maybe toss some explosives into a bag, then proceed to the next section while cursing my circumstances under my breath. As it turned out, I had fundamentally underestimated Ignicia. Before she pressed that heavier sealed door and headed deeper into the ship, we spent some time sorting through what qualified as "usable."

The definition of "usable" inside the belly of an ancient monstrosity called Texas was remarkably flexible. It broke down into roughly three categories: First, things I could at least theoretically operate. Second, things Ignicia considered dangerous, and therefore presumably valuable. Third, things neither of us understood, but which had been carefully locked in a weapons compartment—so we'd take them along and decide whether to regret it later.

I ran a final check on the ancient short weapons and selected the two in best condition. One went behind my hip, the other into a holster attached to the ancient webbing strap across my shoulder. Honestly, the sight felt deeply unfamiliar. I'd grown up learning sword, shield, cavalry lance, and the precise art of insulting people at formal dinners without violating etiquette.

Never once had I imagined standing inside an ancient submarine, strapping metal instruments designed to punch through human skulls—circa several thousand years ago—to my own body. The most embarrassing part was how well it all fit.

"This equipment was probably designed for people with normal proportions," I muttered, tightening the shoulder strap. Ignicia was crouched in front of an open armory cabinet, not looking up.

"Then congratulations. At least the ancients thought you were acceptable."

"Your Highness, it's rare to hear someone wield 'normal proportions' like an insult."

"Because you humans so frequently earn it."... I really should have kept my mouth shut. She kept pulling things out. Beyond the plastic-wrapped explosives and mysterious metal tubes from earlier, she found several small metal cases at the cabinet's base. Their lids bore the same aggressively unencouraging red warning symbols. Inside: rows of shorter, thicker metal cylinders with ring-pull safety mechanisms at one end. I took one look and immediately decided I didn't want to know their function.

"Those too?"

"Those too," she confirmed without the slightest psychological burden.

"This humble servant has a suggestion."

"Say it."

"If we survive this and make it back to the capital—could we ensure no scholar ever witnesses Your Highness in your current state as an enthusiastic collector of ancient war relics?" She finally looked up at me. Her expression was calm in a way that bordered on terrifying.

"Cedric."

"Yes."

"If we survive this and make it back, the capital's scholars will have considerably more pressing matters than my appearance." I went quiet. That sentence landed like a thin blade, slicing cleanly through whatever absurdist composure I'd been maintaining. Because she was right. If the Blazing Yanxia Empire truly intended to weaponize this ancient strategic vessel, everything we were currently strapping to ourselves was merely buying us a few extra hours on what was already a desperate road.

The real problem was the ship itself. That neat row of missile silos in its mid-section, numbered like coffin slots. The reality that "glowing spears" weren't poetic invention—they'd been manufactured, possibly mass-produced, by people who'd thought it reasonable to do so. Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. And worse: someone in the present was apparently planning to make them reality again.

I reorganized the canvas bag—ammunition cases, spare light cylinder, rope, and the two flat liquid canisters arranged by layer. The weight was unreasonable. My entire posture sank when I shouldered it. Yet somehow that heaviness was grounding. It meant I wasn't facing an ancient civilization's coffin armed with nothing but sarcasm. Ignicia lifted the harder military bag, testing its weight, calculating whether she could run with it. Then she walked toward the torpedo racks.

Watching her back, a premonition surfaced—the kind that, over the past several days, had proven reliable enough to qualify as prophetic.

"Your Highness." I employed my most carefully calibrated tone of reasonable concern.

"May I ask in advance what category of object you're planning to move next?"

"Usable objects," she replied.

"I understand they're usable. My concern is that Your Highness's definition of 'usable' sometimes diverges from normal human parameters to a degree that makes me want to draft a will." She ignored me and ran her fingers along the locking mechanism on one torpedo mount. She gave it a pull. Nothing. On the second attempt, a deep, ominous clunk of a release mechanism echoed through the compartment. My eyelid twitched.

"Wait—wait—" I stepped forward immediately.

"That surely doesn't fall under 'things we can conveniently carry,' does it?" Ignicia turned her head, giving me a look that suggested she couldn't believe I was only just realizing this.

"Cedric."

"Yes."

"This is a weapons compartment."

"I can see that."

"On a warship."

"I can also see that."

"Then why did you assume I was only planning to take the small toys that hang from a belt?" I opened my mouth and discovered no response that wouldn't make me sound like I'd abandoned rational thought entirely. By then, she'd already dragged the first torpedo free of its mount. It was larger up close than I'd estimated. Ridiculously large. Long like a coffin segment wrapped in iron plating, thick enough that I genuinely questioned whether two full-grown soldiers could lift it without complaint.

As it cleared the rack, the nose dropped and struck the deck with a sound so dense and heavy I felt it in my back teeth. I stood completely still. Not to preserve dignity—my brain had simply stalled processing the visual information. Ignicia appeared to find nothing unusual about any of this. She gripped the torpedo's midsection, tested the balance once, then—with the casual efficiency of someone picking up luggage—swung it onto her shoulder and settled it into place.

I stared at a weapon capable of sinking an entire conventional vessel, now resting across her shoulder like an exceptionally hostile bundle of firewood. Several emotions moved through me simultaneously. Awe. Stomach distress. A moment of mourning for the laws of physics. And a small, ill-timed flash of understanding: Even in human form, a Dragon Princess is fundamentally still a dragon. She had the first torpedo secured. She turned back for the second. At this point I no longer possessed the energy to intervene.

I simply stood there, watching my diplomatic counterpart and temporary traveling companion calmly dismantle a second anti-ship weapon from an ancient nuclear submarine's armory. I couldn't help thinking: if I painted this scene and sent it back to the capital, Gilbert would probably opt for early retirement. Victoria would pour herself a drink first, then ask whether I'd finally found a life path more unconventional than our family's arranged marriage candidates.

As for the old King, he might genuinely wonder whether assigning me this mission had been, in some recess of his mind, an act of vindictive humor. The second torpedo came free with a grinding shriek of metal on metal. She didn't even bother testing the weight this time—just loaded it straight onto her other shoulder. One torpedo per side. The combined mass pressed her stance slightly lower than usual, but only slightly. She remained perfectly stable and turned back toward me with complete composure.

My temple twitched. Then twitched again. By the third time, I was fairly certain my face had produced the expression that, in illustrated manuscripts, would be rendered as two vertical lines of profound exasperation. Ignicia walked back to me in the white beam, one torpedo balanced on each shoulder, and stopped. Her expression was so perfectly serene it bordered on offensive—as though she hadn't just dismantled two mass-casualty weapons from an ancient armory, but had simply picked up extra firewood for the road.

I looked at her. At the torpedoes. Back at her. After a long moment, I finally produced something resembling human speech.

"... Your Highness."

"Mm?"

"I desperately require an explanation. Preferably one that won't make me immediately regret surviving this far." She looked at me, golden slit-pupils catching the cold white light, and the corner of her mouth moved—just barely. Not a smile. The expression of someone who already had an answer prepared, and was absolutely certain I wasn't going to like it.