Blackbeard's Wrath Upon the Eastern Seas

  The tranquil waters of the Eastern Sea shattered into chaos as the massive galleon—a proud vessel of the Royal Trading Company—found itself under relentless assault. From the mist emerged a sleek, battle-scarred ship flying the dreaded black flag, its skull and crossed bones insignia striking terror into the hearts of merchant sailors across three oceans.

  Cannon fire erupted from the pirate vessel's broadside, iron balls tearing through the galleon's wooden hull with devastating precision. Splinters as long as swords exploded across the deck, impaling unfortunate crewmen who screamed as they fell. The methodical bombardment had reduced the galleon's starboard rail to ruins, its mainmast splintered and leaning dangerously to one side.

  Standing at the helm of the attacking vessel was a figure whose mere silhouette struck fear into hardened sailors. Edward Teach—known throughout the seas as Blackbeard—surveyed the destruction with cold calculation in his eyes. His wild black beard was twisted into crude braids interwoven with smoldering slow-matches, the burning fuses releasing tendrils of smoke that wreathed his face in an otherworldly haze. The effect, designed to terrify his opponents, gave him the appearance of a demon risen from the depths.

  "Prepare to board!" Blackbeard bellowed, his voice cutting through the cacophony of battle like a cutlass through flesh. He drew his pistols—not one but two heavy flintlocks—from the bandolier crossing his broad chest. "These Company men have filled their holds with the blood of slaves and the gold of conquered lands! Today, we redistribute their ill-gotten fortune!"

  His crew—a collection of hardened killers, former naval men, and desperate souls from a dozen nations—responded with a disciplined yet savage enthusiasm that spoke to Blackbeard's reputation as a commander.

  "Aye, Captain Teach!" they shouted back, already throwing grappling hooks across the narrowing gap between vessels.

  As the ships ground against one another, Blackbeard was first across the gap, landing on the enemy deck with surprising agility for a man of his imposing size. Without hesitation, he discharged both pistols, dropping two officers who had rushed to repel boarders. The naval lieutenant to his left collapsed with a hole where his eye had been; the midshipman to his right clutched at his throat as blood poured between his fingers.

  Blackbeard cast aside the spent pistols without a second glance—no time to reload in the chaos of close quarters. Instead, he drew his cutlass, the blade notched from previous encounters yet still lethally sharp.

  "The sugar islands send their regards," he growled as he engaged the galleon's first mate, their blades meeting with a metallic ring. The Company man was well-trained but overmatched. Blackbeard's cutlass sliced through his opponent's guard and opened his abdomen in a single fluid motion, spilling entrails across the blood-slicked deck.

  Around him, his crew executed the boarding with brutal efficiency. The clash of steel mingled with pistol reports and the screams of the dying. A Company sailor rushed at Blackbeard from behind, but before the pirate captain needed to react, the man's throat erupted in a spray of crimson as Israel Hands—Blackbeard's trusted quartermaster—buried a dagger in the attacker's neck.

  "Watch your back, Captain," Hands called out, already moving to engage another opponent.

  Blackbeard acknowledged the save with a terse nod before driving his cutlass through the chest of a marine who had foolishly challenged him. As he wrenched the blade free, he reached for the flask of fortified rum strapped to his belt, taking a deep draught even as the battle raged around him.

  "Find the manifest!" he ordered, wiping his beard with the back of his hand. "And bring me the captain—alive!"

  His crew continued their methodical slaughter, but with purpose rather than wanton cruelty. Those who surrendered were bound; those who resisted met swift ends. The pirate code under Blackbeard was clear—unnecessary brutality was inefficient, but hesitation was fatal.

  As the Company sailors' resistance crumbled, Blackbeard strode across the captured deck toward the captain's quarters, his smoking beard and blood-spattered figure casting a demonic silhouette against the setting sun. The Eastern Seas had a new master now—one who took what he wanted and left only stories of terror in his wake.

  The battle's aftermath painted the galleon's deck a sickening crimson. Severed limbs lay scattered among broken weapons and shattered dreams of merchant sailors who had embarked on what they'd believed would be a routine voyage. The stench of blood, gunpowder, and voided bowels hung heavy in the salt air as dying men moaned their final prayers to gods who had abandoned them to Blackbeard's mercy.

  Two of Blackbeard's burliest crewmen, scarred veterans of countless raids, dragged the struggling captain from his hiding place in the ship's hold. The man was tall and lanky with the soft hands of nobility, his once-pristine uniform now stained and torn, revealing the coward beneath the facade of authority.

  "Found 'im cowerin' behind a barrel o' rum, Cap'n!" shouted a pirate with a jagged scar splitting his face from temple to jaw. "Whimperin' like a babe, he was!"

  The crew formed a half-circle around their captain, their faces masks of contempt as they spat upon the deck at the feet of the captured officer. Some brandished bloodied weapons, eager for one more kill before the day was done. Others simply watched with detached amusement, veterans of too many such confrontations to find novelty in another officer's humiliation.

  Blackbeard stalked toward the kneeling man, his heavy boots leaving bloody footprints across the deck. The smoking fuses in his beard had burned lower now, but their effect was no less terrifying in the dying light of day. In his previous life, such theatrics had served him well; in this new existence, they were no less effective.

  The memories of his past life remained vivid—the hanging at Hampton, Virginia, the five pistol balls that had torn through his flesh, the sword wounds that had finally felled him. Yet here he was, reborn into a world of magic and monsters, where Beast Folk walked alongside humans and ancient dungeons held treasures beyond imagining.

  But some things remained constant across lives—the cruelty of powerful men, the exploitation of the weak, and the sweet taste of vengeance against oppressors.

  Blackbeard loomed over the trembling captain, his massive frame blocking out the setting sun. With surprising gentleness, he knelt down to eye level with his captive, studying the man's features as one might examine an interesting insect before crushing it beneath one's boot.

  "So," Blackbeard growled, his voice like gravel churning in the depths, "ye must be the captain of this fine vessel." He gestured expansively, taking in the blood-soaked deck, the splintered railings, the corpses cooling in the evening breeze. "Not doin' a particularly good job of it, I'd say."

  The captain's eyes darted frantically from side to side, seeking an escape where none existed. Sweat beaded on his brow despite the cooling evening air, and a dark stain spread across the front of his trousers.

  "I—I demand to be treated according to the maritime codes of the Southern Kingdom!" the captain stammered, attempting to summon some shred of dignity. "If it's ransom you seek—"

  Blackbeard's laughter cut through the man's protests, a sound devoid of humor and rich with menace. He seized the captain by his throat, massive fingers digging into the tender flesh as he lifted the man bodily from the deck. The captain's feet dangled helplessly, his face rapidly purpling as he clawed ineffectually at Blackbeard's iron grip.

  "Tell me," Blackbeard snarled, bringing the man's face inches from his own, "why have ye been enslaving the folk of the sugar islands in the East while flyin' a Southern Kingdom flag? Seems a mite dishonest, don't it?"

  With his free hand, Blackbeard drew a freshly loaded flintlock from his bandolier, pressing the cold metal barrel against the soft flesh beneath the captain's jaw. The click of the hammer being drawn back was deafening in the sudden silence that had fallen over the deck.

  "Ye have one chance—ONE—to tell me the truth," Blackbeard continued, his voice dropping to a whisper that somehow carried to every ear. "Or I'll be decoratin' this deck with whatever passes for yer brains."

  He loosened his grip just enough to allow the captain to speak. The man gasped desperately, color returning to his face in ugly blotches.

  "P-Please!" the captain wheezed, tears streaming down his face to mingle with mucus and spittle. "I was ordered by the Kingdom! The Sugar Trade Expansion Act—it was all authorized by the Royal Council! We were to secure the islands by any means necessary!"

  Blackbeard's eyes narrowed. "By enslaving Beast Folk? By chains and whips and separatin' families?" His grip tightened again, causing the captain to gag. "I've seen yer cargo holds. I've counted the shackles. Ye make me sick."

  "The Beast Folk are natural laborers!" the captain protested desperately. "Their strength and endurance—the Council deemed it the most efficient approach! The profits have tripled since we—"

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  "PROFITS?" Blackbeard roared, spittle flying from his lips as rage contorted his features. "Ye speak to me of PROFITS while the blood of innocents fills yer coffers?"

  "PLEASE!" The captain's voice rose to a shriek as he felt the pistol press harder against his flesh. "IT WASN'T MY FAULT! I WAS FOLLOWING OR—"

  The thunderous report of Blackbeard's flintlock silenced the man mid-plea. The back of the captain's skull exploded outward in a gruesome spray of bone, brain, and blood that spattered across the deck and several nearby crewmen. For a moment, the captain's body remained upright in Blackbeard's grip, a marionette with cut strings, before the pirate captain contemptuously tossed it aside like garbage.

  Skull fragments skittered across the bloodied planks as the corpse landed with a wet thud. One eye stared sightlessly skyward; the other had been obliterated along with most of the man's face. A pool of crimson expanded around the ruined head, seeping between the deck boards to drip into the levels below.

  Blackbeard calmly reloaded his flintlock, seemingly oblivious to the gore that had splashed across his face and chest. When he spoke again, his voice was unnervingly calm, like the eye of a hurricane.

  "'Following orders,' he says." Blackbeard spat onto the corpse. "The excuse of cowards throughout history." He turned to address his crew. "Kill the captured. Every last one. Feed 'em to the deep."

  His quartermaster, Israel Hands, stepped forward, his weathered face betraying a rare hint of uncertainty. "Cap'n, some of these men are just common sailors. They might not—"

  Blackbeard rounded on him, eyes blazing. "Did ye not see what was in the hold, Israel? The chains? The whips? The brandin' irons still caked with burnt flesh?" He gestured toward the bound prisoners. "Every man on this ship knew what trade they were in. Every man took his coin knowin' it was paid in blood."

  He lowered his voice, speaking now only to Hands. "Remember what we were in our past lives, old friend. Remember how we died. The world gave us no mercy then—why should we dispense it now?"

  Understanding passed between the two men, a shared memory of deaths long past yet forever seared into their souls. Hands nodded grimly and turned to the crew.

  "You heard the Captain! Do it quick and clean!"

  What followed was methodical butchery. The bound prisoners were dispatched with swift knife-work—throats slit from ear to ear, sending arterial sprays arcing through the salt air. Some begged; others faced their ends with stoic resignation. It made no difference. Within minutes, the deck was slick with fresh blood, and the last gurgling cries had faded to silence.

  One by one, the bodies were heaved over the railing to splash into the darkening waters below. Each impact sent ripples across the surface, concentric circles of disturbance that hinted at the greater disturbance to come.

  Blackbeard moved to the railing, peering down at the floating corpses as they bobbed in the gentle swells. The sunset painted the scene in shades of crimson and gold, nature's beauty contrasting obscenely with man's cruelty.

  "This should make a fine feast for Locky," Blackbeard commented, almost conversationally, as he withdrew a silver whistle from inside his coat. The instrument was ornately crafted, shaped like a miniature sea serpent with emerald eyes that caught the fading light.

  One of the newer crew members, a young man barely out of boyhood with only a wispy attempt at a beard, looked puzzled. "Locky, Cap'n?"

  A veteran crewman elbowed him sharply. "Keep yer voice down, fool! Ye'll see soon enough."

  Blackbeard raised the whistle to his lips and blew. No sound emerged—at least none perceptible to human ears—but the effect was immediate. The calm waters around the floating corpses began to roil and churn, as if something massive was rising from below.

  "In my previous life," Blackbeard said quietly, as much to himself as to his crew, "I had no magic, no beasties at my command. Just men and steel and gunpowder. But this world..." He smiled, a terrifying sight with his blood-flecked teeth and smoking beard. "This world offers so many more... opportunities."

  The sea exploded upward as a monstrous form breached the surface. A massive Mosasaurus—easily sixty feet of primal predator—launched its front half out of the water, jaws gaping to reveal rows of dagger-like teeth. Its scale-covered hide gleamed a sickly green in the dying light, ridged with bony protrusions along its spine. Vestigial limbs ended in webbed claws that twitched with anticipation of the feast to come.

  The creature's enormous head swung toward Blackbeard's ship, intelligent yellow eyes fixing on the pirate captain with what could only be described as recognition. A forked tongue, grotesquely similar to a snake's but vastly larger, flicked out to taste the blood-scented air.

  "There's my beautiful girl," Blackbeard crooned, his tone suddenly gentle, almost paternal. "Been keepin' ye hungry, haven't I? Well, feast now, Locky. These souls deserved their fate."

  The crew had backed away from the railing, even the most hardened among them unnerved by the presence of the sea monster. Only Blackbeard stood unwavering, seemingly untroubled by the fact that the creature's head was easily large enough to swallow him whole.

  With a sound like a thunderclap, Locky's massive jaws crashed down upon the floating corpses, consuming half a dozen at once. The water churned red as she dove and surfaced repeatedly, methodically devouring the dead sailors one mouthful at a time. Bones crunched audibly, the sound carrying across the water like macabre applause.

  Blackbeard watched with satisfaction as his pet—his weapon—his companion—made short work of the evidence. When the last body disappeared into Locky's gullet, the massive creature circled once, then approached the pirate ship with surprising gentleness, coming alongside as docilely as a trained hound.

  The captain reached down to stroke the creature's massive snout, his hand tiny against the expanse of scaled flesh. "Good girl," he murmured. "Now back to the depths with ye. I'll call when I need ye again."

  Locky's yellow eyes blinked once in acknowledgment before she submerged with barely a ripple, disappearing into the darkening waters as if she had never existed.

  Blackbeard turned back to his crew, all business once more. "Quartermaster! What treasures have we liberated from these slavers?"

  Israel Hands stepped forward, consulting a ledger they'd taken from the captain's quarters. "Three chests of Southern Kingdom gold sovereigns, Cap'n. Approximately two thousand pieces. Trade goods worth another thousand—spices, primarily. And..." He hesitated, his weathered face darkening. "Documents. Plans for expanded operations. Maps of Beast Folk villages targeted for... acquisition."

  "I see." Blackbeard's voice was dangerously soft. "And what of the cargo hold?"

  "Empty, Cap'n," Hands replied. "They were outbound—heading to the islands to collect their 'cargo' for the return journey."

  Blackbeard nodded thoughtfully, stroking his wild beard where the fuses had finally burned out. "So we've stopped them before they could take more victims. Good." He turned to address the entire crew. "Listen well! Take everything of value from this vessel—every coin, every weapon, every scrap of useful supplies. Leave nothing behind."

  The men moved quickly to obey, practiced hands stripping the trading vessel of anything worth taking. As they worked, Blackbeard conferred quietly with his ship's master, a grizzled old salt missing three fingers and sporting a patchwork of scars across his leathery face.

  "Once we've finished here," Blackbeard instructed, "set the compass for the Sugar Islands. With these documents, we know exactly which villages they meant to raid next. We'll spread warning—and perhaps offer our... protection."

  The ship's master nodded knowingly. "For a modest fee, I assume?"

  Blackbeard's grin was wolfish. "We're pirates, not bloody saints. But our price will be fair—and paid in coin, not flesh." His expression hardened. "Unlike some, we don't trade in slavery."

  As the last of the valuables were transferred to Blackbeard's vessel, a young crewman approached hesitantly. "Cap'n? What about the ship itself? She's a fine vessel—three masts, solid construction. Could fetch a good price or serve as a sister ship to the Queen."

  Blackbeard considered the suggestion for a moment before shaking his head decisively. "Nay. This ship has blood in her timbers. More importantly, she's known—marked as a Southern Kingdom trader. She'd bring more trouble than benefit." He gestured to another of his officers. "Harlow! Prepare one of the powder barrels. We send this vessel to the depths where she belongs."

  Harlow, the ship's master gunner, grinned eagerly, revealing a mouth with more gaps than teeth. "With pleasure, Cap'n!" He disappeared below decks to retrieve one of the specially prepared demolition charges they kept for just such occasions.

  As the pirate crew completed their looting and returned to their own vessel, Blackbeard remained aboard the captured ship, standing at the helm and gazing across the blood-stained deck. For a moment, memories of another life flickered through his mind—memories of a different ocean, a different time, yet similar deeds.

  Harlow returned, rolling a barrel of black powder that had been augmented with additional explosives and a specialized fuse designed to give them just enough time to clear the blast radius.

  "All set, Cap'n," Harlow reported, positioning the barrel at the center of the main deck. "Shall I light her up?"

  Blackbeard nodded. "Do it. Then make haste back to the Queen. We've unfinished business with the Southern Kingdom, it seems."

  Harlow struck a match against the sole of his boot and touched it to the specialized fuse. It caught immediately, the flame racing along its length with hungry eagerness.

  "Fire in the hole!" Harlow shouted, already scrambling toward the boarding planks. "She'll blow in three minutes!"

  Blackbeard took one last look around the doomed vessel before following at a more dignified pace. As he crossed back to his own ship, the crews quickly separated the vessels, using long poles to push them apart while others raised sail to catch the evening breeze.

  Standing at the stern of his ship—the Queen Anne's Revenge II, named for the vessel he'd commanded in his previous life—Blackbeard watched impassively as the distance between the ships grew. The burning fuse had disappeared into the powder barrel, its deadly work continuing unseen.

  "A life for a life," he murmured to himself. "A ship for a ship. The scales must balance, even across different worlds."

  The explosion, when it came, lit up the darkening sky like a second sunset. The trading vessel's main deck bulged upward before disintegrating in a spectacular eruption of flame and wooden shrapnel. Secondary explosions followed as the fire reached the ship's own powder stores, transforming the once-proud galleon into a floating inferno.

  As the burning wreckage began to sink beneath the waves, Blackbeard turned away. His thoughts were already racing ahead to their next destination—the Sugar Islands, where innocent Beast Folk would soon learn they had an unlikely protector in the most feared pirate of the Eastern Seas.

  "Set course southeast," he commanded, his voice carrying easily across the deck. "Full sail through the night. We've work to do."

  As his crew rushed to obey, Blackbeard retreated to his cabin, where maps and plans awaited his attention. The intelligence they'd gathered from the trading vessel would prove invaluable in his new campaign against the Southern Kingdom's slaving operations.

  In his previous life, Edward Teach had been a pirate feared across the Caribbean. In this new existence, with the memories of his past life intact and the advantages of a world where magic existed alongside gunpowder, he intended to become something more—a force of vengeance against those who would enslave others.

  The Eastern Seas had indeed found a new master—one who remembered all too well what it meant to die at the hands of those who claimed authority without justice