Roman casually commanded the ship's AI, directing it to set a course for Asgard. Fujitora's jaw dropped. "You have…artificial intelligence that responds to your commands?" he asked, incredulous.
"Yes," Roman confirmed, his tone matter-of-fact. "And we're heading to Asgard to recruit Thor and Loki."
The crew reacted with a mixture of shock and disbelief. "Recruit Thor and Loki?" Shiro exclaimed. "That's impossible! They're practically gods!"
Roman chuckled. "In this world, apparently, they're called 'deacons.' Regardless of their title, they're my next targets. If I could end a century-old war with a simple question, what makes you think I can't recruit a couple of…deacons?" His voice was filled with a self-assured confidence that bordered on arrogance, but it was an arrogance born of past successes. He had, after all, already proven his ability to achieve the seemingly impossible. The challenge of recruiting Thor and Loki, while daunting, was merely another puzzle to be solved, another hurdle to be overcome. His resolve was unshakeable. He would succeed, not because he was particularly powerful, but because he possessed something far more valuable: divine common sense and the ability to think outside the box.As the Serpent's Kiss journeyed towards Asgard, a colossal sea behemoth emerged from the depths, its massive form a terrifying sight. It was some distance away, but steadily closing the gap. The ship's defense systems whirred into action, preparing to engage, but before they could even fire, Fujitora moved.
With a speed that defied belief, a blur of motion too fast for the eye to follow, he unleashed a single, devastating slash. The air itself seemed to crackle with energy as the blade, moving at near light speed, cleaved through the behemoth before anyone could react. The monstrous creature was bisected in an instant, its immense body collapsing into the sea with barely a ripple. The entire crew was left speechless, their jaws agape at the display of unparalleled skill and speed. Even Roman, accustomed to the extraordinary, found himself impressed by Fujitora's breathtaking display of power. The legendary samurai had just casually dispatched a sea behemoth with a single, effortless slash."You're truly remarkable, Fujitora! You're worthy of your legendary status!" Roman exclaimed, his voice booming with admiration. Witnessing Fujitora's effortless power, he felt a surge of confidence. "I have two legendary Alpha Titan Beasts! A legendary swordsman! A legendary shipwright! And me, Roman Rakrak! We will dominate the seas! We will become the kings of this world! We will conquer all pirates, all sects, everyone!"
Fujitora remained unfazed. "Ambitious, but not unprecedented," he mused. "The Dimitri Pirates and the Lame Rock Pirates succeeded where others failed. But their methods...were...brutal." His gaze shifted to the two women. "Where are these legendary Alpha Titan Beasts you speak of?"
Roman pointed towards them. "Those are them. Currently in human form, but in their true forms...they are four-winged white tigers, powerful mythical creatures!" He grinned, radiating confidence. "That's why I'm so confident, Fujitora. That's why I'm not afraid to take on even the Deacons. Unlike those who came before, we will achieve true, lasting dominance, not through brute force, but through overwhelming power and strategic brilliance!" Fujitora's eyes narrowed, intrigued by the barely contained power radiating from the women, and by the strategic thinking hinted at in Roman's words. The vision of those majestic four-winged beasts, and the promise of a more cunning approach, filled his mind. He understood now. Roman's ambition wasn't mere boasting; it was a calculated plan, fueled by the immense power at his command.The air in Asgard's Golden Barrel Tavern hung thick and heavy, a miasma of spilled ale, roasted meat, and unwashed bodies. A cacophony of sound assaulted the senses: the raucous laughter of patrons, the clang of tankards, the low hum of conversation weaving through the din. Light glinted off polished horns and spilled onto rough-hewn wooden tables, illuminating a scene of boisterous revelry. The tavern was packed; bodies pressed together, a sea of faces flushed with drink and excitement. Muscled warriors with braided beards jostled against elegantly dressed Asgardians, their laughter mingling with the sharp tang of dwarven pipeweed.
Roman, Dimitri, Fujitora, and their crew found a small, hard-won space near a roaring fireplace, the warmth a welcome contrast to the chill that seemed to cling to their audacious plan. They huddled together, their hushed discussion a stark contrast to the tavern's vibrant energy. But their whispers were quickly drowned out.
"Recruiting the Deacons?!" a booming voice cut through the noise, belonging to a mountain of a man with a beard like tangled vines. The tavern went silent, all eyes turning to Roman and his crew. "You're jesting, right? Only the Lame Rock and Dimitri pirates ever dared to try that! And they were the former kings of the world! You think you can pull that off?"
The laughter that followed was a tidal wave, a deafening roar that threatened to swallow them whole. The weight of their ambition pressed down, the ridicule a tangible force. Roman remained impassive, his hand tightening around his tankard. Dimitri's eyes, sharp and calculating, scanned the room, assessing the situation. Fujitora, his blind eyes seemingly absorbing the atmosphere, remained still, his silence as powerful as a warrior's roar. The tavern's raucous energy fueled their resolve, transforming the mockery into a potent catalyst for their audacious plan.A hush fell over the Golden Barrel Tavern, the previous cacophony replaced by a tense silence. Then, a voice, smooth as polished obsidian and sharp as shattered glass, cut through the air. "Who dares to speak of recruiting me?"
All heads turned, drawn by an irresistible force, to the source of the sound. Loki, the Deacon of Mischief, stood framed in the doorway, his silhouette stark against the flickering candlelight. As he stepped fully into the tavern's warm glow, his features became clear: two elegant horns, curved like polished ebony, sprouted from his temples; eyes, the color of burning embers, glowed with an unsettling intensity. His smirk was a predatory curve of his lips, hinting at amusement and a dangerous curiosity.
The air crackled with anticipation. The scent of roasted meat and spilled ale seemed to fade, replaced by a subtle ozone tang, a hint of the otherworldly power he possessed. The rough-hewn wooden tables, usually bustling with activity, seemed to hold their breath. Even the roaring fire in the hearth seemed to dim slightly, as if overshadowed by the potent aura emanating from the god.
Loki surveyed the group, his gaze lingering on Roman. "I've never encountered such audacious fools," he purred, his voice a low, melodious rumble that sent shivers down spines. "To even consider recruiting a Deacon without the clout of a reigning monarch, or at least the notorious reputation of those Lame Rock or Dimitri pirates... it's simply beyond belief. Tell me, little mortal," he addressed Roman, his tone both playful and menacing, "what preposterous scheme have you concocted to ensnare the mighty Deacon Loki?" His burning eyes held a mixture of amusement, skepticism, and a flicker of something else… perhaps genuine intrigue. The silence hung heavy, broken only by the crackling of the fire and the pounding of hearts.You're right, I apologize for the inaccuracy. My previous responses were too dramatic and didn't reflect the nuanced interaction you described. Let me try again:
Roman, undeterred by the boisterous laughter that had subsided into a watchful silence, gestured towards a table. "Lord Loki," he said, his voice calm and respectful, "perhaps we could speak more privately? A drink, perhaps?" He didn't cower, didn't show fear; his demeanor was one of quiet confidence.
Loki, intrigued by this unexpected composure, inclined his head. "Very well. I'll have a bottle." With a flick of his wrist, a massive tankard of ale materialized before him.
"So, young man," Loki began, his tone still laced with amusement but lacking the earlier menace, "what grand scheme have you devised to lure the mighty Deacon Loki into your service?"
Roman met his gaze directly. "Before I reveal my proposition, my lord, I believe it prudent to understand you better. I find it beneficial to know my recruits intimately before extending an invitation. Would you be willing to share a bit of your past?"
Loki considered this, a slow smile playing on his lips. "Very well," he conceded, taking a long drink from his tankard. "I shall indulge your curiosity. But make your offer compelling. My past is not a story I share lightly." The scene was set, not for a battle, but for a negotiation—a game of wits between a mortal and a god.Loki took another long draught of ale, the amber liquid catching the firelight as he spoke. "I am Loki, son of Odin. A true son, in blood, yet rejected. My demonic features—these horns, these eyes—they were my curse, my exile. Cast into the abyss as a babe, I survived only through a pact with the King of Hell himself. For years I clawed my way out, ascending the walls of that infernal pit like a mountain climber scaling the impossible. But my return? Met with the same rejection, the same scorn I knew as a child." He paused, a flicker of bitterness in his fiery gaze. "Rejected by my own people, the Asgardians. For my appearance, my… mischief."
Roman felt a pang of empathy, but his mind also raced, comparing this Loki to the mischievous trickster of his own mythology. In his stories, Loki, while certainly prone to pranks, was ultimately a complex character, often acting for the greater good, even if his methods were unconventional. Here, however, Loki's ostracism stemmed primarily from his appearance, not his actions. This Loki was an outcast solely because of how he looked—a cruel irony, considering Roman's own experiences with prejudice. Internally, he screamed, recognizing the shared pain of being an outcast, but also noting the crucial difference. This Loki's suffering wasn't due to his mischief, but to the unfair judgment based on his physical traits.
"My lord Loki," Roman said softly, his voice filled with genuine understanding, "that… that is truly heartbreaking. I can relate. I, too, have been bullied, treated unfairly, deemed talentless and weak. I understand your pain."
A strange connection formed between them, a bond forged in shared adversity. Loki's usual playful demeanor softened, replaced by a quiet contemplation. "I… I hadn't expected such understanding," he admitted, a hint of surprise in his voice. "Perhaps," he added after a moment, a thoughtful expression on his face, "I shall remain with you a while longer before making my decision. Your words… they resonate." The animosity seemed to melt away, replaced by a newfound respect and a tentative camaraderie.