Sorry for the Delay hope you enjoy it now that is here :)
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The northern port of Kutsukku blazed under a star-strewn sky, its dock a fiery gauntlet of torches casting jagged shadows across the weathered stone. The air was heavy with the briny stench of the sea, laced with the sharp tang of gunpowder and the coppery reek of blood already spilled.
Barkos, the Salt Dogs' Boss, stood at the pier's edge, his bronzed skin glinting in the firelight, his oversized canines flashing as he sniffed the air, trusting his instincts over any scout. His spies had warned him: the Gray Sharks, Red Rhinos, and Black Bulls were lurking, their eyes fixed on the Red Tide shipment. They'd strike the moment Jerry's men arrived. Barkos's rusted hook-hand twitched, his wild brown hair swaying as he scanned the dark horizon, the crash of waves a grim underscore to the tension.
"Stay sharp, boys!" he roared, his voice cutting through the night like a blade. "Those scavengers are watching, waiting to steal what's ours! Not a damn chance!" His Salt Dogs gripped their guns and swords, their faces hard, the torchlight glinting off barrels as they formed a defensive line along the dock. Some crouched behind crates, others stood ready, their boots scuffing the stone, every nerve taut for the inevitable clash.
A sudden explosion shattered the silence, followed by the thunder of boots and the sharp crack of gunfire from the jungle's edge. The Salt Dogs reacted instantly, their weapons blazing, bullets tearing through the dark, splintering wooden crates, and sparking off the pier's stone. Shouts and screams erupted as shadows moved, the air thick with smoke and the acrid burn of powder.
Barkos charged into the fray, his hook flashing like a guillotine, his fighting style pure savagery—hook slashing, teeth snapping like a rabid dog. Blood sprayed as his hook ripped through an attacker's chest, the man's scream drowned by the chaos. The attackers wore massive horned helmets, their black clothes marking them as Black Bulls. At their center loomed Bront, a grizzled giant, his massive axe slung over his shoulder, his dark skin gleaming, his beard wild under a battered helmet.
"Barkos, your fangs are looking sharp! Trying to hog the prize?" Bront's voice boomed over the gunfire, a taunting growl.
"Bront, shove those horns up your ass and get off my turf!" Barkos snarled, dodging a bullet that grazed his tattered coat, tearing a gash in the faded fabric. "This is Salt Dog territory!"
Bront's laugh was a deep, earth-shaking rumble. "The party's here, Barkos! The others are coming, but I'm starting the fun early. Let's dance!" He charged, his axe swinging in a deadly arc, the blade crashing into the pier with a bone-rattling boom. Stone shattered, chunks flying like shrapnel, and the ground quaked, forcing Barkos to brace himself, his teeth gritted.
Barkos dodged with feral speed, his reflexes razor-sharp, his body a blur as he lunged, his hook slashing at Bront's arm. The old man parried with the axe's haft, metal screeching, sparks flying into the smoke-choked air. "Old bastard, when will those muscles of yours give out so I can gut you easier?" Barkos growled, his claws raking again, only to be blocked, the clash ringing out like a hammer on steel.
"Hah! The older I get, the stronger I am—that's why I'm still here!" Bront roared, his axe swinging again, carving a deep gouge in the dock. Splinters exploded, dust billowing, and a nearby crate burst into shards, its contents spilling across the blood-slick stone.
The battle erupted into a maelstrom of violence. Salt Dogs and Black Bulls clashed in a brutal melee, fists and blades flashing in the torchlight. A Salt Dog drove a dagger into a Black Bull's throat, only to take a bullet to the chest, his body crumpling as blood pooled. Others fired from cover, Flintlocks and Mosquetes roaring, the air a haze of smoke and flying lead.
Bullets pinged off stone, shattered lanterns, and tore through flesh, screams mixing with the relentless crack of gunfire. A Black Bull charged, his sword raised, but a Mosquete blast to his face dropped him, his helmet rolling across the dock. The pier groaned under the chaos, torch flames flickering wildly as bodies piled up, the ground slick with blood and debris.
Amid the carnage, a ship glided into the port, its dark silhouette stark against the torchlit dock. Olbap stood at the bow, his suit crisp despite the day's bloodshed, his sharp eyes scanning the chaos.
His crew worked fast, unloading Red Tide bricks with mechanical precision, stacking them in crates as bullets whizzed past, one splintering the ship's railing inches from a worker's head. Olbap's jaw tightened—he wanted this job done and gone. The gang war wasn't his fight, but the sight of Barkos and Bront locked in combat, their styles as distinct as their outfits, held his gaze. Barkos fought like a rabid beast, his hook and teeth tearing through enemies, while Bront's axe swung with the force of a collapsing mountain, each blow shaking the earth. A damn spectacle, Olbap thought, but he shook it off. Focus. Deliver and leave.
Popeye stood beside him, his massive frame tense, his platinum-white hair streaked with blood from the earlier fight, his metal-studded gloves creaking as he clenched his fists. Olbap saw the hunger in his friend's dark eyes, the urge to dive into the fray. He laid a hand on Popeye's shoulder. "Not our war, Popeye. We drop the cargo and get out. No profit in their bloodbath."
Popeye grunted, his steel-tipped boots scuffing the deck. "Fine, but those bastards are begging for a beating," he muttered, his voice low but burning with restrained violence.
The battle shifted as the Gray Sharks and Red Rhinos stormed in, their shouts and gunfire adding to the chaos. The dock became a killing ground, the air thick with smoke, the ground littered with shattered crates, broken weapons, and bodies.
The Salt Dogs fell back, taking cover behind barrels and overturned carts, their Mosquetes blazing. The Black Bulls did the same, their horned helmets glinting as they fired from makeshift barricades. The Gray Sharks and Red Rhinos spread out, their eyes locked on the Red Tide bricks, their weapons trained on the ship. No one was allied—every gang wanted the cargo, and the sight of Olbap's crew unloading crates drew their focus like blood in the water. Barkos broke away from Bront, sprinting toward the ship, his hook dripping crimson, his coat torn and bloodied.
"So, you're the kid running this show?" Barkos said, eyeing Olbap with a dangerous, toothy grin. "Expected someone with more years on them."
Olbap met his gaze, his expression cold as steel. "That's me, Rabosce Olbap. You're the Salt Dogs' boss. Things are messier than when we arrived. I'll leave your cargo and be gone."
Barkos's grin faltered, his eyes narrowing, his hook glinting in the torchlight. "Leave? Just like that?"
"Our job was to deliver the Red Tide," Olbap said, gesturing to the crew stacking bricks, their hands steady despite the gunfire. "Nothing here's worth staying for, not with your enemies closing in."
Barkos stepped closer, his voice low, almost drowned by a nearby explosion. "Normally, I'd say screw your job, kid, but I need your help. I've got intel you'll want—but you'll have to fight with us."
Olbap raised an eyebrow, his Mosquete still in hand, its barrel warm from earlier. "Intel? Spill it first, then I'll consider helping."
"And what's to stop you from running once you know?" Barkos countered, his canines flashing.
"My word's ," Olbap said, his voice steady. "Tell me, and I'll fight with you. Break that, and I'm no better than the scum on this dock."
Barkos studied him, his hook twitching as he weighed the gamble. A kid, maybe 11, running a job this big? It was absurd, but something in Olbap's eyes—cold, calculating—gave him pause. Finally, he spoke, his voice a growl over the gunfire. "Fine. The intel's about your boss, Barrakuda Silco. Someone in the black market sold info on who controls the Red Tide trade—and where Silco's hiding. Imagine what a bastard like me could do with that."
Olbap's mind raced, his pulse quickening. Silco's exposed? That's a game-changer. He glanced at the battlefield, where the other gang leaders—Bront, Drax, and Rogar—seemed to pause, their eyes locked on the Salt Dogs, a silent agreement to crush them first. "Good info," Olbap said, adjusting his suit and loading his Mosquete with a sharp click. "Red TIde at your service. Let's do this."
Barkos's grin returned, his hook raised like a banner. "Barkos, pleasure's mine. BOYS, YOU HEARD HIM! NO ONE WALKS AWAY—IT'S THEM OR US!" He charged back into the fray, his Salt Dogs roaring, their weapons blazing as they surged forward.
Olbap signaled his crew, who grabbed their Flintlocks and Mosquetes, diving into the chaos. The dock became a warzone, bullets raining like a storm, shredding crates, shattering lanterns, and painting the stone with blood.
Olbap fired his Mosquete, his aim deadly, honed by shootouts in his old life. Back then, he'd avoided drawing police attention, but here, in the lawless South Blue, there were no cops—only Marines, who'd abandoned islands like Kutsukku to their fate. Gangs ruled, their armies clashing in brutal, bloody spectacles. Olbap ducked behind a crate, a bullet grazing his sleeve, tearing the fabric. He fired back, dropping a Gray Shark with a shot to the chest, the man's dagger clattering to the ground. I'm getting too good at this, he thought, his pulse steady despite the chaos.
The real fight was with the leaders. Barkos and Popeye dove into melee, their styles raw and brutal against Bront, Drax, and Rogar. Olbap watched from cover, his heart pounding. I'd be dead in seconds out there. Their speed and power were inhuman, their blows shaking the pier. Popeye dodged Bront's massive axe, the blade cratering the stone, sending shards flying.
He blocked a kick from Rogar, whose tree-trunk legs made him a towering, disproportionate giant. The kick sent Popeye skidding back, his boots screeching on the dock. Popeye grinned, seizing Rogar's leg and slamming him into Bront, both stumbling in a tangle of limbs. He leaped, his fist crashing down like a cannonball, the impact cracking the pier, dust and debris exploding into the air. Bront and Rogar staggered, blood dripping from their mouths, but they stayed upright, their eyes burning with defiance.
Drax, the Gray Shark leader, lunged at Barkos, his curved daggers slicing through the air, drawing blood from Barkos's arm. Barkos parried with his hook, sparks flying, the clash ringing out. "Your cuts only make the shark hungrier," Drax snarled, his pale skin slick with blood, his gray ponytail whipping as he moved.
Popeye blocked another axe swing from Bront, his arms trembling, blood trickling from his wrists where the blade's force had bruised his bracers. "Hah! You're fun, man!" Bront laughed, his horned helmet glinting. "Name's Bront. Yours?"
"Popeye," he growled, breaking the stance and stepping back. "I'm taking you down, Bront." First blood I've spilled in a fight, he thought, his promise to Olbap burning in his chest. I'm not dying until I'm his right hand to the end.
Popeye charged, dodging Rogar's kick and using him as a battering ram to slam into Bront, both stumbling back. He leaped, his fist crashing down, the ground shattering, dust choking the air. His punches were a blur, each blow a thunderclap, sending both bosses reeling. Drax, nearby, bled from Barkos's hook but stood tall, his daggers gleaming with menace.
"Give up," Barkos growled, standing beside Popeye, his hook dripping blood. "The cargo's mine. Pay for the damage, and we'll call it peace—for now."
Bront wiped blood from his mouth, his smile feral, his horned helmet casting a monstrous shadow. "Without Popeye, you'd be nothing, Barkos."
Drax's daggers flashed. "Your scratches only guide the shark to its prey."
Rogar spat, his massive legs steady, his rusted shoulder plates glinting. "Popeye's strong, but you don't know this island and why we're the bosses here."
Drax's voice dropped, cold as the deep sea. "Let me tell you a story. We four were pirates on the same crew, but a fight tore us apart. Our ship sank, and we washed up here, each claiming an chest—four chest, one for each of us."
As he spoke, his body convulsed. His pants stretched, his legs swelling with muscle, a gray caudal fin sprouting from his spine. His eyes turned cold, predatory, his mouth twisting into a maw of serrated teeth. Gray scales enveloped his body, blade-like fins erupting from his arms, his shark-tooth necklace growing to match his monstrous form—a towering man-shark, its presence a promise of slaughter.
Rogar transformed next, his body widening, his leather vest shredding as his skin fused with red-brown hide. His rusted shoulder plates morphed into massive horns, his legs thickening into pillars, his boots melding into cloven hooves. His face stretched into a snout, a giant horn sprouting above, his human features erased—a red rhinoceros, its bulk shaking the pier with every step.
Bront followed, his veins bulging, his black skin sprouting coarse, dark fur. His horned helmet fused with his skull, the horns growing massive, his armor melding with his body. His legs swelled, his boots becoming hooves, his axe now small in his giant hand—a minotaur-like black bull, its roar vibrating the air.
Barkos joined them, his tattered coat tearing as his shoulders and torso expanded. His brown hair thickened into sandy dogo fur, his pants fusing with his hide, his bandages melding into clawed paws. His rusted hook integrated into his hand, his necklaces gleaming on his canine form, his face elongating into a snarling muzzle—a monstrous dog, its eyes burning with ferocity.
Olbap, crouched behind a crate, blinked in disbelief, his Mosquete nearly slipping from his grip. What the hell is this? We were fighting men a second ago, and now there's a shark, a rhino, a minotaur, and a damn dog! Popeye stood in the center, dwarfed by the towering beasts, his fists clenched, his blood-streaked hair glinting in the torchlight. How's he going to survive that?
End of the chapter.