Leave the Villainous Second Male Lead Alone - Chapter 7.7

Lawrence finally broke the silence, his voice trembling.

“What are you planning to do on your own?”

The biting, salty wind coiled around his neck. I can’t leave Etienne’s life to chance. After much deliberation, Callisto had come to that conclusion.

He refused to cling to a mere 50% chance and hope. He had always forged his own destiny. This time would be no different.

“I’m…”

Callisto’s lips curled into a sharp smile, his golden eyes gleaming with resolve.

“I’m going to cross the doldrums.”

The doldrums—also known as the “windless sea”—dominated the central route from the Northern Continent to the Empire.

Crossing the doldrums was the ultimate gamble.

“Yes, Admiral.”

Callisto silently watched the retreating figure of the soldier, his gaze dark and brooding.

There were barely ten naval soldiers aboard this ship. These men had served under Callisto for years, owing their lives to his leadership on numerous occasions. Even after learning that they were about to sail through the windless zone, they chose to stay with Callisto rather than boarding the Etienne.

“The ship piloted by the Admiral would never sink, would it?”

That had been the blunt remark of Pete, the sailing officer, when Callisto advised them to reconsider. His sentiment was unanimously echoed by the others. Callisto had quietly bowed his head in gratitude, though his heart grew heavier with every passing moment. The windless zone, or “the graveyard of ships,” was a place from which only a handful of vessels had ever returned. For every hundred ships that ventured in, ninety-nine were lost to the abyss.

The lives of these sailors—men who had endured so much with him—now rested in Callisto’s hands. To save Etienne, was it right to lead them all into such peril? Callisto wrestled endlessly with this question. Though he couldn’t find an answer, one thing was certain.

He had to make it back alive.

Suddenly, a commotion erupted behind him. Footsteps clattered urgently across the deck, and the crew seemed to gather in a rush. Callisto glanced up at the mast.

The once-taut square sails were sagging, drooping as if all their strength had left them.

“Admiral, we’ve entered the windless zone.”

The soft blue ocean stretched out to the horizon, where a faint breeze caressed the water’s surface. It was the last gust of wind they would feel before the stillness took over.

The ship came to a halt. Callisto gave a small nod and spoke.

“Lower the boat.”

Unlike the grand warship Etienne, the hastily purchased vessel they now relied on was small—almost too small to safely traverse the open ocean. Its design was narrow and elongated, optimized for speed with minimal weight. Yet, being a sailboat, even this clipper was powerless in the absence of wind. It now lay adrift, an impotent speck upon the vast expanse of the sea.

Callisto ordered the emergency boat to be lowered and tethered to the ship. Thick ropes were secured tightly, connecting the two vessels. As Pete climbed into the boat and grasped an oar, Callisto took his place at the bow, staring resolutely out at the endless blue.

To conserve strength, half of the crew remained aboard the ship while the other half took to the oars. They sat in a line and began rowing in unison. In the windless zone, the only way forward was to haul the ship using human power. For the next ten days—or perhaps longer—they would have to wage a grueling battle against the sea.

The ship inched forward, cutting through the water at a snail’s pace.

Pete occasionally lifted his gaze to the sky. Rare as it was, he had heard tales of faint breezes occasionally brushing through even the windless zone. The few survivors who escaped this treacherous expanse had mostly relied on such fleeting miracles.

But no such miracle came in the days that followed. They continued to row in silence, following Callisto’s lead, their arms moving in rhythmic, tireless repetition.

The desolate sea, untouched by any other vessel, remained eerily serene. The sky above alternated between deep indigo and faint gray, but the ocean below retained its unchanging sapphire hue. Amidst the oppressive stillness, the only sound was the soft splashing of oars meeting water.

The crew was nearing their limits. Day after day, they rowed under the scorching sun, collapsing only to wake up unsure of how far they had progressed. Wherever they looked, the glaringly bright sea mirrored the relentless sun, with no land or end in sight.

As hope dwindled, a creeping realization began to settle in—the journey across the windless zone was impossible.

By the seventh day, as the tenth day approached, the crew noticed something peculiar about Callisto.

The admiral, who had always been their pillar of strength, had not uttered a single word in days. Unlike the others, who took sips of water and nibbled on bread to maintain their strength, no one had seen Callisto eat or drink. While the men rotated shifts to rest in the cabin, Callisto remained at the bow, his hands gripping the oars without pause.

He hadn’t stopped once.

“Admiral, you need to rest. You can’t keep going like this,” Pete cautiously called out to him. Callisto hesitated momentarily but said nothing, merely adjusting his grip on the oars. Pete caught a glimpse of his bloodied palms, the torn skin raw and oozing.

“At least drink some water, sir—”

Callisto finally raised his eyes to meet Pete’s.

“Pete.”

“…Yes, Admiral.”

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