Above the Raging Sea, the Age of Steam

Also known as My Battleship Is a Transmigrator. One female lead.

Gray fog hangs forever above the sea. The salty breeze carries fine spray against the scattered patches of land known as "the sparks of humanity." The world has long since been reshaped by the ocean. Ninety-nine percent of the old world lies drowned in the abyss, with only the peaks of a few mountain ranges still above water, embedded in the endless, raging sea like shattered teeth. People call these last footholds "Peak Isles."

Each Peak Isle is a vertical city. Houses built from wood and sheet metal climb the steep mountainsides in layer upon layer, all the way to the cloud-wreathed summit. The foot of each island has been turned into a crude harbor, where rust-stained steamships load and unload fresh water and dried fish, the most precious supplies of the age. Across the vast waters between the islands, countless "floating cities" built from driftwood and air bladders drift like fragile eggshells, rising and falling with the waves. Ropes connecting them to the Peak Isles are their lifeline to human society.

Human civilization has long since retreated into the folds of the steam age. Gunpowder is now little more than a hazy term in old books. In its place are steam-powered weapons: the "thunder cannons" mounted on the cliffs of the Peak Isles take three strong men ten minutes of cranking to build up enough pressure. When fired, their shells fly through clouds of white steam, but often plunge into the sea hundreds of meters short of their targets. The "steam rifles" slung at soldiers' waists are more like ridiculous toys. Each shot requires pulling a piston to build pressure, their range is less than fifty meters, and they're even less accurate than a thrown spear.

Electricity is rarer than gold.