"Open fire!" Blackwood ordered, his voice sharp now, laced with a cold resolve, realizing diplomacy was no longer an option. "Target their mast, try to disable their rigging! Full evasive! Maintain speed!" He knew it was a desperate gamble, a futile attempt against such overwhelming might, but The Storm Hounds fought to the last.
The Phantom's Grace's few cannons roared, sending solid shot hurtling towards the warship. Most bounced off the armored hull, harmlessly splashing into the sea, barely leaving a mark. A few struck true, chipping paint, gouging shallow furrows, like pebbles thrown at a mountain. It was a pinprick against a giant. The warship, in turn, unleashed another devastating salvo, a terrifying roar of heavy guns.
This time, a shell found its mark with sickening precision. It slammed into the Phantom's Grace's stern, near the engine room. A tremendous explosion ripped through the vessel, tearing through decks, sending fire and smoke billowing into the bright morning air. The ship lurched violently, groaning as if in agony, its timbers screaming in protest. Corvus Blackwood, despite his unshakeable balance, felt the deck beneath him buckle, the fine, intuitive connection to the ship's mechanisms shattering into chaos. Fire began to spread rapidly, consuming the wooden superstructure with terrifying speed.
"Hull breach! We're taking on water fast!" a crewman screamed, his voice raw with panic, as the deck beneath them tilted precariously.
"Abandon ship!" Blackwood roared, his command cutting through the chaos with absolute authority. "All hands, lifeboats! Get off her!" He moved swiftly, directing his crew, his movements precise even amidst the inferno and the shuddering death throes of his beloved ship. His slight control over air currents allowed him to subtly deflect some of the thick smoke and hungry flames, clearing pathways for his men to escape, a testament to his subtle Sequence-9 abilities. Several of The Storm Hounds, relying on their increased lung-capacity, plunged fearlessly into the smoke-filled lower decks to retrieve stragglers, their loyalty unwavering.
Within minutes, the Phantom's Grace was a burning wreck, listing heavily to one side, its sleek lines consumed by fire and smoke. The lifeboats, quickly launched, bobbed precariously on the waves, carrying the grim-faced Storm Hounds away from their sinking vessel. Blackwood was among the last to leave, his black eyes fixed on the Phantom's Grace, his ship, his extension, as it succumbed to the overwhelming force of the Croele Navy. The thought of plunging into the icy waters, of relying on his enhanced swimming, was strangely liberating in its stark simplicity.
The warship, its guns now silent, loomed over the scene, a colossal shadow against the rising sun. Small, armed longboats were deployed from its belly, swiftly approaching the bobbing lifeboats. There was no resistance. The Storm Hounds, though defeated and adrift, were professionals to the core. They knew when the fight was truly over. Corvus Blackwood allowed himself to be taken, his hands clasped behind his back, his expression utterly unreadable, a mask of cold composure. He felt the rough hands of the Croele marines as they hauled him aboard their warship, his boots clanking on the unforgiving steel deck of their victor. The morning that had promised a sunrise of new opportunities had instead delivered a crushing defeat.
The steel deck of the Croele warship was a stark contrast to the familiar wood of the Phantom's Grace. The captured members of The Storm Hounds, soaked and grim-faced, were immediately herded to a secure holding area, their weapons confiscated, their defiance simmering beneath weary eyes. Corvus Blackwood, however, was singled out. He was escorted directly to the commander's private quarters, a functional, spartan space that smelled faintly of brine and polished brass.
The initial interrogation was harsh, brutal even. The Croele naval officers, operating under the assumption that they had just captured a notorious pirate captain, were consumed by a righteous fury. They demanded to know the location of his hidden coves, the full extent of his phantom fleet, the names of his associates, his connections within the underworld. The commander, a burly man with a bristling, salt-and-pepper beard and a temper as volatile as a squall, paced the small cabin, his voice booming, his threats growing steadily more severe. He slammed his fist on the desk, his eyes alight with conviction. "Speak, pirate! Or we will make you regret the day you ever set sail!"
Blackwood, however, remained impassive. His dull blue hair, still damp from the sea spray, lay heavy on his shoulders, framing a face that was a study in unflappable calm. His black eyes, deep and unreadable, met the commander's gaze without a flicker of fear or defiance. He offered no resistance, no counter-threats, no desperate pleas, merely a profound, unnerving silence. He was a stone, utterly unyielding, his composure a strange form of defiance in itself. He allowed himself to be searched, prodded, and questioned, his silence a shield against their accusations.
It was Finn, the first mate, who finally broke the deadlock, though not in the way the Croele officers expected. During his own rough questioning on the deck, as the commander's frustration mounted, Finn calmly, precisely, began to detail their recent engagements. He spoke of the Sea of the Rising Sun patrols they had conducted, the specific dates, the precise locations, and, most damningly for the Croele Navy, the names of the notorious pirate captains they had actually brought to justice. He listed off crews that the Croele Navy itself had been hunting for years with little success: 'The Serpent's Coil', 'Captain Bloodtooth', 'The Crimson Tide' – all now languishing in various port jails, thanks to The Storm Hounds.
As Finn spoke, with a quiet, undeniable conviction, he pulled out a hidden, coded manifest from within the worn leather of his boot – a thin, carefully preserved sheaf of papers. It was a list of bounty claims, complete with official seals from various Croelean port authorities, the Imperial Admiralty, and even a few legitimate trade consortiums. Each claim meticulously documented, each bounty paid. All of it legitimate.
The commander's bluster slowly deflated, replaced by a growing disbelief that warped his features. He snatched the manifest from Finn's hand, his brow furrowed, his eyes scanning the official seals with a rising sense of unease. He immediately barked orders for his communications officer to cross-reference the names, check the manifests against official records, and send hurried coded messages back to naval headquarters in the capital. The answers came back swiftly, confirmation after confirmation, each message stripping away his bluster and replacing it with a dawning horror.
These weren't outlaws. These were The Storm Hounds, one of the most effective and notoriously quiet bounty hunter crews operating in the region. They were feared by pirates, yes, but respected (if warily) by legal authorities for their unparalleled success in rooting out maritime crime. The Croele Navy had just made a catastrophic error. A genuine, valuable asset in their own fight against piracy had been mistakenly obliterated.
The realization hit the Croele Navy like a rogue wave. Their solemn faces, previously set with grim determination, now contorted with a mixture of embarrassment, mortification, and a deep, churning sense of regret. The commander, his face now a mask of profound chagrin, immediately had Blackwood and his crew released from their binds. He approached Blackwood, offering profuse, if awkward and heavily formal, apologies. His earlier ferocity was completely gone, replaced by a nervous deference and a palpable sense of shame.
"Captain Blackwood," the commander stammered, his voice losing its booming quality, now almost meek. "My deepest apologies. This is... a grave mistake. We... we saw the ghost ship, Captain. It was an unfortunate misunderstanding. A terrible miscalculation. We were simply following protocol, you understand, given the prevalent outlaw activity in these waters. It was zeal, not malice, I assure you."
Blackwood merely raised a brow, his black eyes utterly unblinking, betraying nothing of his thoughts. "Protocol, Commander," he rasped, his voice soft but sharp, cutting through the commander's blubbering. "Is often a poor substitute for vigilance. Your protocol cost me a good ship and valuable resources. And nearly cost my crew their lives. We are professionals, sir. We operate within the law, for the law." His slight facial hair seemed to bristle with an understated accusation.
The commander flinched, then nodded vigorously, eager to appease. "Indeed, Captain. And we intend to make amends. The Croele Navy will compensate you fully. Not just for your losses, which we will assess at top value, but as a token of our profound regret and recognition of your invaluable service. We will commission a new ship for you, one of your choosing, built to your specifications, and fully outfitted with the latest naval technology available. Consider it a formal apology, and a retainer for future cooperation in these treacherous waters."
A faint, almost imperceptible curve touched Corvus Blackwood's lips, a semblance of his strange, predatory smile. A new ship. It was a costly mistake for the Croele Navy, yes, but a surprisingly convenient one for him. It would delay his grander plans slightly, the pursuit of the ancient paper's secrets momentarily suspended, but a brand new vessel, customized to his exacting standards, could be a truly invaluable asset. And it would provide an excellent, unimpeachable cover for his true pursuits, far beyond the mundane capture of outlaws. He simply nodded, his silence more powerful than any acceptance. "Very well, Commander. We shall discuss the specifications. But first, my crew will need provisions. And privacy."
The commander, visibly relieved at Blackwood's seemingly agreeable demeanor, immediately barked orders to his men, scrambling to accommodate their unexpected guests. Corvus Blackwood, the Sequence-9: Sailor and captain of the now-legendary Storm Hounds, watched the bustling activity on the warship's deck, his gaze lingering briefly on the expanse of the Sea of the Rising Sun where the Phantom's Grace had met its fiery end. The destruction was a setback, certainly, a momentary inconvenience, but a new vessel would rise from its ashes. A new, more potent tool for his relentless, hidden agenda. His quest for the ancient knowledge, the whispers of the Fourth Epoch, remained paramount, and now, he had the inadvertent resources of a national navy contributing to his cause. The bitter irony of the situation was not lost on him; it merely sweetened the prospect of what was to come.