Ultimate Battleship

Chapter 5

That evening, Nie Yun drained every last dollar of his savings to buy two barrels of diesel and a mountain of scrap iron. The metal scrap towered like a rusted monolith beside the dock, its jagged edges glinting in the dying sunlight. He loaded the cargo onto the Sea Wolf, grunting as he hoisted the diesel drums—each weighed enough to strain his back, a testament to how far he’d go to save his ship.

He set sail before dawn, the vast ocean stretching into infinity. As the first tendrils of sunrise curled over the horizon, the sea turned liquid gold, casting a warm glow across the deck. Nie Yun stood on the bow, saltwater mist kissing his face, arms outstretched like a man embracing a long-lost lover.

This wasn’t some impromptu poetic gesture. For years, he’d watched sunrises from this very spot, but today felt different. The warmth seeping into his bones wasn’t just from the sun—it thrummed through him, as if his veins had been wired to the cosmos.

“Hmm, not bad,” he muttered, tilting his head back. “Never knew sunbathing could feel like this—warm, energizing. Refreshing as hell, actually.” His voice carried over the waves, half-laughing, half-wondering.

A thought nagged at him: *Am I turning into one of those mechanical bugs? Sunlight’s killing my appetite.* He shook his head. *Existential questions can wait. I’ve got a ship to fix.*

Turning, he chuckled at the silver mechanical insects clustered on the sails. They rippled like mercury, each tiny body absorbing sunlight with a faint hum. After last night’s proliferation, the keel was fully repaired—no more creaking planks or water seeping through cracks. The swarm had grown exponentially, now a roiling circle the size of a millstone.

They covered half the sail, their movements forming an abstract pattern of silver. It was as if an artist had splashed liquid metal across the canvas, each bug a brushstroke in a living masterpiece. “Come on, little treasures,” he called, waving his hand. “Eat up! ‘Many hands make light work,’ right? We need more muscle, more miracles. Replicate like there’s no tomorrow—no family planning here, got it? None!”

The swarm surged toward the scrap heap, their tiny appendages clicking like a thousand typewriters. By noon, the diesel was gone, the scrap iron reduced to a pile of grayish-white dust. But the payoff was staggering: every sail glistened with silver, the bugs sunbathing as they reinforced the hull. Any passing fisherman would’ve gaped, cursing: “What kind of madman covers his ship in bugs?”

The Sea Wolf was decades old, her wood rotted, her rigging frayed. Nie Yun ran a hand along a beam, feeling the rough grain. *She’s seen better days,* he thought. *Time for a makeover.*

His destination loomed on the horizon: an uninhabited island, its cliffs covered in moss. He’d visited twice before, drawn by rumors of shipwrecks. Today, he knew exactly what he sought—fuel for his mechanical horde.

As the Sea Wolf glided onto a deserted beach, Nie Yun spotted it: a half-buried schooner, its hull smothered in algae, muck clinging to its rotting timbers. To most, it was trash. To him, it was a goldmine.

He tied his ship to the wreck with a thick rope, then waved. The sun-energized bugs swarmed forth, their collective hum rising like a hive. He watched in awe as the contact point between the ships dissolved, the Sea Wolf’s hull rippling like water as it absorbed the wreckage.

“Profiteering with a purpose—now that’s the good stuff!” he yelled, grinning.

Grabbing an axe, he headed ashore. “Firewood” was the excuse, but he knew better: he needed fuel, and lots of it. Soon, a bonfire blazed on the deck, flames leaping high. The bugs feasted on the wreckage, their silver bodies pulsing as they transformed rusted metal into something new.

“Brother,” he murmured, patting the deck, “I haven’t forgotten you. Soon, we’ll find a proper metal hull—something shiny, modern.” Gone were his plans to preserve the ship as a relic; this was no museum piece now—it was a living, breathing entity.

A familiar “shasha” sound pulled him from his thoughts. Looking down, his axe was dissolving—only the wooden handle remained, the metal head reduced to silver dust. Around him, more “shasha” noises: his anchor, a trusty companion for years, shimmered silver as it thinned.

“Damn bugs! What’re you doing?!” he yelled, dumbfounded.

Then he remembered: *no family planning.*

“Stop! Cease replication!” he shouted, scrambling to grab the anchor. It weighed next to nothing now, a shadow of its former self. “We’ve been through everything together—how can you just… melt?” He shook his head, half-amused, half-panicked.

Suddenly, he bolted for the cabin. A moment later, a cry echoed: “My utensils! All of them!” He emerged, empty-handed, staring at the bugs feasting on his pots and pans. To them, metal was metal—no difference between an anchor and a frying pan.

Resigning himself, he sighed: “At least leave me a pot for noodles. I gotta eat, right?”

As if on cue, a cluster of bugs reshaped into a shiny pot. He tapped it—*clang*—solid as steel. “Material conversion. Well, I’ll be damned.”

In an instant, a stack of pots and bowls materialized, identical to the ones he’d lost. “Hahaha! Now that’s what I’m talking about! Eat up, replicate—no family planning, I repeat: none!”

His laughter echoed across the island, startling a flock of seabirds. The Sea Wolf, now half-rebuilt, shimmered under the swarm, her hull stronger than ever. Nie Yun leaned against the railing, watching the bugs work. Maybe losing everything wasn’t a loss after all. Maybe, with a little alien tech, he could build something better—something that sailed not just seas, but the stars.