Blood and Steel: The Battle for the Sugar Islands

  As Zen soared toward the Southern Kingdom fleet, the dagger's whispers grew to a frenzied chorus in his mind. Wind magic carried him effortlessly across the azure waters, his blind eyes somehow perceiving the massive warships below with preternatural clarity.

  Kill them all, Zen. FEED ME THEIR CORRUPT SOULS!

  He descended like a wraith onto the nearest vessel—a heavily armed frigate with cannons lining its polished deck. The moment his feet touched the weathered planks, a startled marine spun toward him.

  "Who the hell are you?" the man demanded, hand moving to his sword.

  Zen's lips curled into a cold smile. Without hesitation, he drew the obsidian dagger from within his coat, its blade seeming to drink in the sunlight rather than reflect it.

  "I am judgment," he whispered, and in one fluid motion, drove the blade upward through the marine's jaw.

  The point erupted through the top of the man's skull with a wet crunch. Blood cascaded down in crimson rivulets, splashing across Zen's face and coat as the dagger pulsed with ecstatic hunger. The marine's eyes bulged in shock, his body still twitching as Zen wrenched the blade free in a spray of gore and brain matter.

  As the corpse collapsed to the deck, the ship erupted into chaos. Dozens of marines pivoted toward him, their faces contorted with fear and rage.

  "KILL HIM!" bellowed an officer, raising his saber.

  Zen turned his sightless gaze toward the gathering troops, his magic allowing him to sense each soul aboard—and the dagger helping him judge their worth.

  "Corrupt," he murmured, almost sadly. "Every last one of you. Slavers. Murderers. Thieves."

  A marine leveled his musket. "Die, Beast Kingdom dog!"

  Bullets and crossbow bolts cut through the air toward him from all directions. With a negligent gesture, Zen conjured a swirling barrier of wind that deflected the projectiles, sending them ricocheting across the deck. Several marines fell, pierced by their own ammunition.

  The dagger's voice was exultant now. YES! MORE! GIVE ME MORE!

  Zen channeled wind magic through his legs, propelling himself into the midst of the marines with blinding speed. The obsidian blade flickered like shadow given form, opening throats and piercing hearts with surgical precision. Blood fountained into the air, spattering the deck until it became slick underfoot.

  A burly marine swung a boarding axe at Zen's head. The blind warrior ducked beneath the blow and drove his dagger into the man's groin. As the marine doubled over screaming, Zen dragged the blade upward, splitting him from pelvis to sternum. Steaming intestines spilled onto the deck in glistening coils.

  "Captain!" a young sailor cried out, scrambling backward.

  Zen cocked his head, the dagger's influence evident in his twisted smile.

  He extended his free hand, calling upon his elemental magic. A whirlwind formed around him, lifting droplets of spilled blood into a grisly cyclone. With a thrust of his palm, he sent the crimson tornado cutting through the remaining crew. Where it passed, men were torn apart, limbs and organs ripped from bodies and flung across the deck.

  A marine with lieutenant's insignia attempted to flee, making for the ship's launch. Zen gestured, and water from the ocean rose in tendrils to ensnare the man's legs. With a savage downward motion, Zen dragged him overboard.

  But he wasn't done. His magic maintained its grip, pulling the officer underwater, then lifting him thrashing into the air, only to submerge him again. After the third dunking, Zen raised the half-drowned man level with the ship's railing.

  "Tell me," Zen demanded, "how many Beast Folk have you enslaved? How many families have you destroyed?"

  The lieutenant sputtered, coughing up seawater. "P-please! I was just following orders!"

  Zen's expression darkened. "Wrong answer."

  With a clenching of his fist, the water pressure around the lieutenant increased a hundredfold. The man's eyes bulged, then burst from their sockets as his body imploded with a sickening crunch. The resultant cloud of red mist and pulverized bone drifted slowly down to stain the waves.

  On the deck, only the captain remained, backed against the helm, sword trembling in his hand.

  "What are you?" he whispered, face pale as chalk.

  Zen advanced slowly, the dagger pulsing visibly now through his coat. "I'm the consequence of your choices."

  The captain lunged desperately, blade aimed at Zen's heart. Zen sidestepped effortlessly and caught the man's wrist. With a savage twist, he snapped the bones. As the captain howled in agony, Zen placed his palm against the man's chest.

  "Your soul is particularly corrupt," Zen observed, his tone almost conversational. "The dagger will enjoy it."

  Fire magic gathered in his hand, and with a deafening roar, erupted through the captain's body. The blast tore through flesh and bone, leaving a charred, smoking hole where the man's torso had been. The captain's legs remained standing for a surreal moment before collapsing in a heap of scorched meat.

  Zen turned to the ship's powder magazine. "One down," he murmured, igniting the explosives with a casual flick of his fingers. As he launched himself skyward on winds of his creation, the frigate detonated in a spectacular ball of flame. Burning debris and dismembered bodies rained down into the churning sea.

  Hovering above the carnage, Zen surveyed the remaining Southern Kingdom vessels. The dagger's bloodlust had been temporarily sated, but its hunger was already returning.

  "There," he whispered, eyes fixing on a massive galleon flying the admiral's pennant. "That one next."

  As he soared toward his target, fire and wind swirling around him like a vengeful tempest, Zen felt a moment of clarity amidst the dagger's influence.

  "This is war," he reminded himself. "This is justice."

  No, the dagger corrected, its voice silky with satisfaction. This is feeding time.

  Deep within the lush jungles of the largest Sugar Island, Aoi melted into the shadows beneath a canopy of emerald leaves. His black outfit and mask had been strategically modified, darkened with mud and plant matter to blend with the foliage. The assassin's breathing was imperceptible as he watched Southern Kingdom marines establishing a beachhead below.

  Through cold, calculating eyes, he counted. Forty-seven soldiers. Eight officers. Three heavy weapons. Estimated kill time: six minutes, fourteen seconds.

  The first landing party had secured a perimeter and was beginning to advance toward the native Beast Folk village half a mile inland. Aoi had already coordinated with the local defenders—a mix of rabbit, fox, and boar Beast Folk armed with primitive but effective weapons.

  "Remember plan," he had instructed the village chief earlier, his clipped manner unchanged even in the face of impending battle. "Distract. Disorganize. I eliminate."

  Now, as the marines began their advance up the jungle path, Aoi tapped twice on a hollow bamboo tube beside him. The signal traveled through a network of similar tubes, alerting the Beast Folk positioned throughout the jungle.

  The response was immediate. From a dozen hidden positions, arrows and spears rained down on the invaders. Most were deflected by armor or shields, but several found vulnerable spots—throats, eyes, gaps between plating. Men fell screaming, their comrades immediately forming defensive formations.

  "Ambush!" bellowed an officer, his feathered hat marking him as a lieutenant. "Form ranks! Return fire!"

  Muskets roared, sending plumes of white smoke into the jungle canopy. Most shots went wild, though Aoi heard the distinctive cry of a Beast Folk warrior taking a hit.

  The marines began advancing in formation, their discipline evident despite the surprise attack. This was the moment Aoi had been waiting for.

  He removed his kukri blades from their sheaths with surgical precision. The curved weapons, honed to microscopic sharpness, didn't glint in the dappled sunlight—he had blackened the metal to prevent reflections.

  "Commencing elimination sequence," he whispered to himself, the emotionless phrase a remnant of his previous life's conditioning.

  Aoi dropped from the tree directly behind the rearmost marine, a huge man wielding a heavy axe. Before the soldier could register the soft sound of landing, Aoi's kukri sliced through his hamstrings in one precise stroke. As the marine began to crumple, mouth opening to scream, Aoi's second blade swept across his throat with such force that it nearly decapitated him. Blood fountained six feet into the air, pattering against the broad jungle leaves like sudden rain.

  The marine collapsed face-first into the loamy soil, his life emptying into the thirsty ground. Aoi was already moving to his next target, a process of systematic elimination that resembled a dance more than combat.

  Two marines standing guard by a makeshift cannon fell next—the first losing his arms at the elbows before Aoi's kukri opened his abdomen, spilling steaming entrails onto his boots; the second receiving Aoi's blade through the roof of his mouth and into his brain as he turned to witness his comrade's demise.

  "Something's behind us!" shouted a soldier, spinning to fire his musket blindly into the jungle.

  Aoi was already elsewhere, materializing beside an officer who was studying a map. The kukri entered beneath the man's jaw and exited through the top of his skull. Aoi wrenched it free in a spray of gray matter and bone fragments, then used the corpse as a shield against a bayonet thrust from a nearby marine.

  The bayonet-wielder's eyes widened in shock as Aoi swept his legs from under him with a precise kick. As the man fell, Aoi drove both kukris into his chest cavity, then ripped them outward in opposite directions. The marine's ribcage exploded outward in a grisly display of shattered bone and ruptured organs.

  "DEMON!" screamed another soldier, firing his pistol at Aoi's blurred form.

  The shot went wide. Aoi closed the distance in three precise steps, disarming the man with a strike that severed his hand at the wrist. As the pistol and the still-twitching appendage fell to the ground, Aoi performed a spinning maneuver that planted one kukri in the man's right eye socket and the other in his left. Brain matter leaked down the soldier's cheeks like gruesome tears as he collapsed.

  A burly sergeant charged at Aoi with a roar, swinging a massive two-handed sword. Aoi sidestepped with mechanical precision, allowing the blade to embed itself in a tree trunk. As the sergeant struggled to free his weapon, Aoi retrieved his compact sledgehammer from his back.

  The hammer's first strike shattered the sergeant's left knee into a pulp of bone fragments and cartilage. The second crushed his ribs on the right side, driving bone shards into vital organs. The third—delivered with cold efficiency to the base of the skull—reduced the man's head to a flattened mass of tissue barely contained by skin, his features no longer recognizable as human.

  "Tactical assessment: southern flank compromised," Aoi muttered to himself, surveying the carnage he'd created. Seven dead in under thirty seconds, and the main force still unaware of his presence.

  From the jungle came the sounds of Beast Folk warriors engaging the invaders from multiple directions. Screams, gunfire, and the meaty impacts of primitive weapons finding their marks created a symphony of war.

  Aoi moved toward the heaviest concentration of marines, where an officer was organizing a defensive square. This one wore the insignia of a captain—eliminating him would maximize tactical advantage.

  The assassin paused momentarily, studying the situation with cold calculation. The captain was surrounded by his most elite guards, all vigilant and scanning the jungle. Direct approach: suboptimal. Alternative required.

  Aoi sheathed one kukri and retrieved three throwing spikes from a hidden pocket. With precision born of countless hours of training, he launched them in quick succession. Each found its mark, penetrating the eye sockets of three guards who dropped without a sound.

  The remaining guards tightened their formation, backs to their captain.

  "It's just one man!" the captain shouted, his voice betraying fear despite his words. "Stand firm!"

  Aoi's lips twitched in what might have been the ghost of a smile on anyone else. "Incorrect assessment," he whispered.

  He dropped a small object into the undergrowth—a sealed clay pot he'd prepared earlier. The pot shattered, releasing a cloud of fine powder that the sea breeze quickly carried toward the marine formation.

  The effect was immediate. Men began coughing, then screaming as the caustic powder burned eyes, nostrils, and lungs. In the confusion, Aoi struck. He moved through the blinded, choking marines like a surgical instrument, his kukris opening throats, severing arteries, and penetrating vital organs with mechanical precision.

  Blood sprayed in high arcs, coating the surrounding vegetation with a crimson sheen. Limbs were separated from bodies; heads from necks. One marine, sliced from collarbone to pelvis, stared in shock at his own organs spilling onto the ground before Aoi's kukri entered the back of his skull and emerged through his mouth.

  The captain, partially protected from the powder by his position, drew his ornate saber and pistol. "Face me, coward!" he challenged, eyes watering but still functional.

  Aoi appeared before him, movements so swift they seemed to bend space itself. "Request acknowledged."

  The captain fired his pistol. Aoi tilted his head precisely two inches to the right, allowing the ball to pass harmlessly by. Before the officer could process his miss, Aoi had disarmed him with a strike that shattered the bones in his sword hand.

  "Southern Kingdom naval officer. Slavers division. Confirmed," Aoi stated, his voice devoid of emotion as he drove his kukri through the captain's cheek, pinning his tongue to the opposite side of his mouth. "Previous agreement with Beast King: all slavers mine to eliminate."

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  The captain made unintelligible gurgling sounds, blood flooding his mouth and bubbling around the embedded blade.

  "Elimination method selection: dismemberment," Aoi continued, as if discussing something as mundane as the weather.

  What followed was methodical butchery. Aoi removed the captain's limbs one by one, cauterizing each wound with a heated blade to ensure his victim remained conscious. The process took exactly three minutes, by which time the once-proud officer was reduced to a screaming torso.

  "Final assessment: Southern Kingdom invasion force tactical failure," Aoi informed the dying man, before delivering a mercy stroke that opened his throat from ear to ear.

  Standing amidst the carnage—twenty-six bodies in various states of dismemberment—Aoi casually cleaned his blades on a fallen marine's uniform. The jungle around him had been transformed into a slaughterhouse, the rich soil turned to mud by the volume of spilled blood.

  From the tree line, Beast Folk warriors emerged cautiously, their expressions a mixture of awe and terror at the devastation one man had wrought.

  "Enemy eliminated," Aoi informed them flatly. "Secure perimeter. Prepare for secondary landing force."

  A fox Beast Folk with russet fur approached, carefully avoiding the pools of blood and scattered viscera. "How... how did you kill so many so quickly?"

  Aoi regarded him without emotion. "Efficiency. Precision. Experience." He surveyed the beach where more Southern Kingdom ships were approaching. "Second wave: incoming. Prepare elevation ambush points."

  As the Beast Folk scrambled to obey, Aoi retrieved his sledgehammer and checked his remaining throwing spikes. Twenty-one enemies eliminated. Twenty-six remaining on this island alone.

  His cold eyes narrowed slightly—the closest thing to anticipation his features ever displayed.

  "Acceptable progress."

  Billy Hawkins perched atop a skeletal tree on the highest ridge overlooking the Sugar Islands, his weathered hat pulled low against the glare of the midday sun. The dead tree offered the perfect vantage point—devoid of leaves that might obscure his vision, tall enough to provide an unobstructed view of the sky in all directions.

  "Come on, you scaly bastards," he muttered around the stub of a hand-rolled cigarette clenched between his teeth. "Show yourselves."

  He didn't have to wait long. On the horizon, dark shapes appeared—the distinctive silhouettes of the Southern Kingdom's dreaded Storm Drake air cavalry. Even at this distance, Billy could make out the massive reptilian forms, their leathery wings spanning twenty feet or more, each carrying a gondola-like structure beneath its belly where soldiers operated specialized weapons.

  "Well I'll be damned," Billy whispered, a grin spreading across his face as he counted. "Forty-three of the ugly sumbitches." He spat out his cigarette and ground it under his boot. "Time to go to work."

  He hoisted his lever-action rifle, the weapon custom-modified with intricate runes etched into the barrel and stock. The wood was worn smooth from years of handling, the metal components gleaming with loving care despite the brutal battles they'd seen.

  "Little lady," he crooned to the rifle, "today we're gonna make us some history."

  Billy closed his eyes for a brief moment, centering himself. When he opened them again, his normally blue irises had turned a deep crimson—the manifestation of his special ability, the Death's Eye.

  The world slowed around him. The distant drakes, previously rushing toward the islands at terrifying speed, now appeared to crawl through the air like insects trapped in amber. Billy could see every detail—the scales on their hides, the glint of armor on the soldiers in their gondolas, even the vapor trails from the alchemical weapons they carried.

  "One bullet," he whispered, activating the second aspect of his power. "That's all I need."

  He loaded a single round into the chamber—a bullet unlike any other, crafted by his own hands with a core of enchanted silver and a casing inscribed with runes of seeking and devastation. As he worked the lever, the distinctive ch-chink echoed across the ridge.

  Billy raised the rifle to his shoulder, drawing a bead on the lead drake. Through his Death's Eye, he could see the pattern of scales on its head, could count the teeth in its half-open maw. He could even see the nervous sweat beading on the brow of the soldier controlling it from the gondola below.

  "Inhale..." he breathed in slowly, his heartbeat steadying to a metronome-like rhythm. "Exhale..."

  As he released his breath, Billy channeled his magic into the bullet, infusing it with wind energy that would allow him to control its trajectory after firing. With perfect calm, he squeezed the trigger.

  The rifle bucked against his shoulder, the report splitting the air like thunder. Through his Death's Eye, Billy watched the bullet's journey in excruciating detail—the spiraling path as it left the barrel, the distortion of the air around it, the perfect arc that carried it toward the lead drake.

  The bullet struck precisely where he'd aimed—the junction between the creature's skull and spine. It punched through scales, bone, and brain matter with devastating force, leaving an exit wound the size of a grapefruit. Blood, brain, and bone fragments erupted in a grotesque fountain.

  But instead of continuing past its target, the bullet altered course at Billy's mental command. It curved impossibly in midair, arcing toward the next drake in formation.

  "That's one," Billy muttered, his concentration absolute as he guided the ensorcelled projectile.

  The bullet struck the second drake through its left eye, the soft tissue offering no resistance. The creature's head practically exploded, showering its rider with gore and brain matter. As the beast died instantly, it plummeted from the sky, its rider's screams audibly dopplering away even at this distance.

  "Two."

  Billy's fingers twitched subtly, guiding the bullet on its impossible journey. It punched through a third drake's throat, a fourth's heart, a fifth's wing joint—each hit precisely calculated for maximum damage.

  Drakes began falling from the sky like gruesome rain, some dying instantly, others spiraling out of control as their vital organs were destroyed. Their riders plunged to their deaths, screams cutting off abruptly as they impacted the unforgiving ground or the churning sea below.

  The remaining formation broke apart in panic, the drake riders finally realizing they were under attack. They scattered in different directions, some diving for cover, others attempting to locate the source of the assault.

  "Oh no you don't," Billy growled, sweat beading on his forehead from the strain of maintaining both the Death's Eye and his control over the bullet. "Nobody gets away."

  With a savage gesture, he sent the bullet cutting through the retreating formation. It sliced through wings, severed tails, and punctured skulls with methodical precision. Drake after drake fell, their bodies creating massive splashes as they crashed into the sea or devastating impacts as they hit the rocky shores.

  One particularly large drake—clearly the mount of a commanding officer based on its ornate harness—folded its wings and dove directly toward Billy's position, its rider having spotted him on his perch.

  "Well now, ain't you the clever one," Billy remarked, a tight grin spreading across his face.

  The drake opened its maw as it approached, revealing rows of dagger-like teeth and a glowing orange light building in its throat—a fire breath attack preparing to launch.

  Billy redirected his bullet with a sharp mental command. It streaked across the sky and entered the drake's open mouth just as the creature was about to release its fiery breath. The bullet pierced the specialized gland in the beast's throat that generated its flame.

  The result was catastrophic. The drake's head exploded in a fireball that consumed its rider as well, sending charred remains raining down across the battlefield. What was left of the creature—a headless, burning corpse—crashed into the hillside below Billy's position with enough force to shake the dead tree where he perched.

  "Thirty-nine," Billy counted, his voice strained now. The magical bullet was beginning to destabilize, its structure deteriorating under the stress of multiple impacts and the continuous application of his wind magic.

  Four drakes remained, their riders desperate now. They climbed higher, attempting to escape the range of whatever was killing them.

  "Don't matter how high you fly," Billy muttered through gritted teeth. Blood had begun to trickle from his nose—the price of maintaining the Death's Eye for so long. "Death comes for everyone eventually."

  With a final surge of magical energy, he sent the bullet hurtling toward the escaping drakes. It passed through them in rapid succession—one, two, three—leaving gaping holes in their bodies. As they fell, Billy guided the bullet toward the final drake.

  But the strain had taken its toll. His control slipped, and the bullet grazed the creature's wing instead of striking a vital area. The drake shrieked in pain but remained airborne, banking hard and accelerating away from the battlefield.

  "Oh hell no," Billy growled, reaching for his Tommy gun. "Nobody tells that story."

  He shouldered the automatic weapon, its drum magazine loaded with enchanted ammunition. Through his Death's Eye, now flickering as his stamina waned, he tracked the fleeing drake. It was nearly a mile away now, a distant speck against the clear blue sky.

  Billy inhaled deeply, steadied himself, and squeezed the trigger. The Tommy gun roared to life, spitting a stream of bullets that he infused with wind magic as they left the barrel. The recoil would have thrown a lesser man from his perch, but Billy's feet were planted firm as oak roots.

  He couldn't control these bullets with the precision of his special round, but he could guide their general trajectory. Like a swarm of deadly insects, the enchanted bullets curved through the air, closing the impossible distance.

  The fleeing drake jerked violently as the bullet swarm found its mark. Its wings shredded, its body riddled with holes, the creature plummeted from the sky in a death spiral. Billy watched with grim satisfaction as it crashed into the sea, sending up a plume of white water visible even at this extreme range.

  "Forty-three," he stated with finality, lowering the Tommy gun.

  The Death's Eye faded, his irises returning to their normal blue. Immediately, the backlash hit him—a crushing migraine that made him stagger against the dead tree's trunk, nearly falling from his perch. Blood flowed freely from both nostrils now, and a red tear tracked down his left cheek.

  "Worth it," he gasped, fumbling for his hip flask. The whiskey burned going down but helped dull the pain. "Every damn drop of blood worth it."

  From his elevated position, Billy surveyed the results of his work. The sea around the islands was dotted with the massive corpses of fallen drakes, some still twitching in their death throes. The beaches below were littered with the broken bodies of riders who had survived the initial fall only to die on impact. The air, previously filled with the threatening shapes of the aerial cavalry, was now clear save for circling seabirds already descending to feast on the unexpected bounty.

  "Guess they won't be using those fancy airships anytime soon," he remarked to himself with grim satisfaction, reloading his Tommy gun. "Not without their flying lizards to pull 'em."

  A movement on the horizon caught his attention—a small group of drakes approaching from the south, likely a reserve force sent to support the main attack.

  Billy sighed, wiping blood from his face with a bandana. "No rest for the wicked, I suppose."

  He reached into his bandolier for more ammunition, his fingers brushing against specially marked bullets—explosive rounds he'd been saving for a special occasion.

  "Well," he grinned wolfishly, working the lever of his rifle, "I'd say this qualifies."

  As the new wave of drakes approached, Billy settled back into his shooting stance, the pain in his head forgotten as the thrill of battle surged through him once more.

  "Come on then," he whispered, his finger finding the trigger. "Let ol' Billy show you fellas how we did things back in the West."

  Captain Edward Teach—known throughout the Eastern Seas as Blackbeard—stood on the quarterdeck of the Queen Anne's Revenge II, his massive frame silhouetted against the smoke-filled sky. The fuses woven into his beard smoldered, sending tendrils of acrid smoke curling around his face like a demonic halo.

  "BRING HER ABOUT!" he roared, his voice carrying over the thunder of cannons and the screams of dying men. "PREPARE FOR BROADSIDE!"

  The Queen's crew—hardened pirates to a man—rushed to obey, hauling on lines and adjusting sails with practiced efficiency. The massive ship heeled over as it came about, presenting its port side to an approaching Southern Kingdom warship.

  "FIRE!" Blackbeard bellowed, and the ship shuddered as thirty cannon erupted simultaneously.

  The effect was devastating. The Southern Kingdom vessel's hull splintered under the barrage, massive holes appearing along its waterline. Men were thrown from their stations by the impact, many torn apart by the deadly wooden splinters sent flying by the cannonballs. Blood washed across decks suddenly canted at an unnatural angle as the ship began taking on water.

  Blackbeard watched with grim satisfaction as the enemy vessel listed heavily to starboard, its crew scrambling for the few intact lifeboats.

  "No quarter!" he commanded, gesturing to his sharpshooters positioned in the rigging. "Send them to the depths!"

  Musket fire crackled from above, picking off the fleeing sailors with methodical precision. Bodies tumbled into the churning waters, some still moving as they hit the surface, others already lifeless.

  "Captain!" called his quartermaster, Israel Hands, pointing toward a massive galleon flying an admiral's pennant. "The Southern Kingdom flagship approaches!"

  Blackbeard's eyes narrowed as he assessed the oncoming vessel. It was larger than the Queen, bristling with cannon and crowded with marines in gleaming armor. At its bow stood a figure in an elaborate uniform—the admiral himself, directing the attack.

  "So," Blackbeard growled, "their commander shows himself." A predatory grin spread beneath his wild beard. "Good. I was beginning to think this would be too easy."

  The flagship's bow chasers opened fire, sending round shot whistling overhead. One struck the Queen's mainmast, sending splinters flying and wounding two riggers who fell screaming to the deck below.

  "MR. HANDS!" Blackbeard roared. "Show these Southern dogs how real sailors fight!"

  Israel Hands grinned savagely, revealing teeth filed to points. "With pleasure, Captain!" He turned to the gun crews. "GRAPE SHOT AND CHAIN! AIM FOR THEIR RIGGING!"

  The Queen's gunners loaded the specialized ammunition—canvas bags filled with musket balls for grape shot, and lengths of chain for dismasting. As the ships closed to medium range, Blackbeard himself took the wheel, his massive hands handling the polished wood with surprising delicacy.

  "Steady..." he called, eyes fixed on the approaching flagship. "STEADY..."

  When the ships were barely a hundred yards apart, he gave the command: "FIRE ALL!"

  The Queen's guns roared in devastating sequence. Chain shot tore through the flagship's rigging, shredding sails and severing important lines. The grape shot swept the enemy deck like lethal hail, cutting down scores of marines where they stood. Men fell in heaps, some literally torn apart by the concentrated fire, chunks of flesh and bone spattering across the once-pristine deck.

  "PREPARE TO BOARD!" Blackbeard thundered, drawing his cutlass with one hand and a flintlock pistol with the other. "SHOW NO MERCY TO THESE SLAVING DOGS!"

  His crew howled in response, brandishing weapons and scrambling to positions along the railing. Grappling hooks were prepared, boarding planks readied.

  As the ships drew alongside each other, the Southern Kingdom flagship attempted to return fire, but their gun crews were in disarray from the devastating grape shot. Many cannon remained silent, their crews dead or dying on the blood-slick deck.

  Blackbeard fired his pistol, the ball taking a Southern Kingdom officer through the eye in a spray of blood and brain matter. Without pausing, he tucked the spent weapon into his belt and drew another from the bandolier across his massive chest.

  "FOR THE BEAST FOLK!" he roared, and his crew echoed the cry as grappling hooks sailed across the gap between ships, biting into the flagship's railings and drawing the vessels together with inexorable force.

  Boarding planks slammed down, creating bridges between the ships. Blackbeard was the first across, his cutlass cleaving through the first marine to oppose him with such force that it nearly split the man from shoulder to hip. Blood fountained, drenching the pirate captain who seemed to revel in the gore.

  His crew followed, a wave of violence breaking over the Southern Kingdom ship. Pistols cracked, blades flashed, and men screamed as the pirates—fighting with the desperate ferocity of those who knew defeat meant death—overwhelmed the more numerous but less experienced marines.

  Blackbeard carved a path of destruction toward the quarterdeck where the admiral directed the defense, shouting orders with increasing desperation as his forces were cut down around him.

  "ADMIRAL HOLBROOK!" Blackbeard bellowed, his voice cutting through the chaos of battle. "FACE ME, YOU COWARD!"

  The admiral—a tall, aristocratic man with silver at his temples—drew his ceremonial sword, its jeweled hilt glinting in the sunlight. "I am no coward, pirate scum! I am Admiral James Holbrook of the Southern Kingdom Navy!"

  Blackbeard laughed, the sound devoid of humor. "I know who you are, slaver. I know how many Beast Folk have died in the holds of your ships." He gestured with his bloody cutlass. "Today you answer for those crimes."

  Holbrook's face contorted with rage. "They're animals! Property! You dare judge me?"

  "Not judge," Blackbeard corrected, advancing up the steps to the quarterdeck. "Execute."

  The admiral was skilled, his technique precise and formal. He parried Blackbeard's first brutal swing, riposting with a thrust that would have skewered a lesser opponent. But Blackbeard was no ordinary swordsman. He moved with surprising agility for his size, turning aside the thrust and countering with a slash that opened a gash across Holbrook's chest.

  The admiral staggered back, blood staining his pristine uniform. "Marines!" he called. "To me!"

  But his marines were otherwise engaged—those still alive fighting desperately against Blackbeard's pirates, most already cooling in death upon the bloody deck.

  "No one's coming to save you," Blackbeard growled, advancing relentlessly. "Just as no one came to save the Beast Folk you packed into your holds like cattle."

  Holbrook attacked again, desperation lending strength to his blows. His sword sliced through Blackbeard's coat, drawing a line of blood across the pirate's massive chest.

  Blackbeard seemed not to notice the wound. He pressed forward, his cutlass a blur of lethal motion. The admiral retreated step by step until his back pressed against the ship's railing.

  "Surrender!" Holbrook gasped, his sword arm trembling with exhaustion. "I can offer you wealth beyond imagining!"

  Blackbeard paused, head tilted as though considering. Then, with speed that belied his bulk, he lunged forward. His cutlass knocked aside the admiral's blade before plunging into the man's abdomen, driving through flesh and organ to emerge from his back, pinning him to the wooden railing.

  Holbrook screamed, blood bubbling from his lips as he stared in disbelief at the steel protruding from his body.

  "I have all the wealth I need," Blackbeard stated coldly, twisting the blade. "What I want is justice."

  With a savage jerk, he ripped the cutlass free, releasing a torrent of blood and viscera.