The morning sun burned fiercely over the South Blue, its golden rays splintering across the restless waves, casting a deceptive calm over a sea still raw from battle. Thin clouds drifted lazily in the sky, untouched by the chaos below, where four ships had clashed in a brutal symphony of cannon fire and splintering wood.
Three bore the crimson flag of the Red Tide, their hulls bristling with deadly intent, while the fourth—a pirate vessel marked by a black flag with a leering skull—listed heavily, its broken frame sinking into the churning depths. Smoke coiled from its shattered deck, the air thick with the acrid bite of gunpowder, mingling with the salty tang of the ocean and the faint, coppery scent of blood.
The fight had been swift, a one-sided slaughter. The Red Tide ships, each armed with six cannons per side and two below, unleashed a relentless barrage that tore through the pirate vessel's defenses. Three against one left no room for resistance; the enemy's cannons roared briefly, their shots wild and desperate, before falling silent. The sea growled as it swallowed the wreck, its surface littered with debris—splintered planks, tattered sails, and the glint of a lost blade vanishing into the abyss. The creak of the sinking ship's timbers was a final, mournful note in the Red Tide's victory.
At the bow of the central Red Tide ship, Liro stood, his gaze locked on the sinking pirate vessel. At 29, standing 1.85 meters tall, he exuded a quiet, unshakable confidence, his presence as steady as the deck beneath him. His black hair, streaked with sky-blue tips, was tied in a low ponytail, a single lock falling over his left eye, matching the celestial blue of his irises.
His attire was forged for combat: a fitted black shirt, its sleeves taut against muscles honed by years of battle; fingerless gloves for a sure grip on his cutlass; metal bracers on his forearms to parry strikes without breaking his guard; loose black cargo pants with a belt securing his cutlass; and lightweight boots for agile movement on blood-slick decks. His aura was calm yet electric, a man who thrived in the heart of danger, his lips curling into a faint smile as the sea claimed its prize.
Beside him stood Toro, 27, his sun-darkened skin etched with tattoos that chronicled his victories and losses—each mark a story of survival. His long, unruly brown hair, streaked reddish under the sun's glare, framed fierce, near-black eyes that held a noble spark beneath their intensity.
A deep red leather vest, open to reveal a muscular torso, bore the scars of close calls. A pendant—a musket ball that had nearly killed him—hung at his neck, a grim reminder of his resilience. Heavy gauntlets with spiral engravings adorned his hands, built for wielding his spiked mace, while loose charcoal-gray pants and reinforced boots suited the chaos of shipboard combat. A harpoon, its tip gleaming wickedly, rested at his side, a weapon as brutal as his fighting style.
"Liro, these pirates were pathetic," Toro said, lighting a cigarette and exhaling a plume of smoke that curled into the salty air. The sea hissed around the wreckage, its final gurgles marking the pirate ship's end.
"Exactly," Liro replied, turning with a smirk. "That's ship number 25 this week. I'm winning our bet, Toro."
Toro shook his head, grinning. "Dream on. The week's not done yet, and I'm betting we hit 50. You'll see."
"Loser's talk," Liro teased, his voice sharp but playful. "Can't wait to see your face when I collect your money into my pockets." He joined a huddle of crew members on the deck, their voices buzzing with excitement as they divided the pirate ship's spoils—gold, weapons, supplies—under Marlon's gruff commands.
For two years, Liro and Toro had held the front lines of the Red Tide's defenses, a far cry from their original plan. They'd joined with Kael, aiming to lead the Coral collection, a grueling but lucrative job harvesting the ocean's Coral. But relentless attacks from rival organizations and pirates forced Olbap to reassign them. Sent to the first line of defense, they'd thought Olbap was sending them to their deaths. Instead, they found their true calling. The clash of steel, the roar of cannons, the thrill of outwitting enemies—it was better than the swamp's stifling dangers or the ocean wating for people to do their jobs. They trained relentlessly, reported every move to Olbap, and reveled in the chaos. The pay was exceptional—Olbap's generous bonuses atop the Red Tide's standard wages made every battle worth it. "No complaints here," Toro had said once, cleaning blood from his mace after a skirmish, his grin wide despite the gore.
When they first met Olbap, they'd underestimated him. A kid, barely out of his teens, running the Crimson Flowers operations? They'd joined the Crimson Flower collection for the beli, not expecting much from their boss. Liro and Toro had been friends since their youth, scraping by in Krakenport's rough streets, surviving through grit and cunning. Their bets kept life sharp—a way to stay competitive without losing too much. Three years ago, needing a third for their work crew, they met Kael, a humble man whose charm and quick tongue won them over. Together, they braved the Brackmor swamp, dodging carnivorous plants and crocodiles, earning good beli thanks to Kael's knack for negotiation.
Their break came when Olbap noticed their efficiency. He paired them with Anna and Vanessa, twin sisters with crimson hair that burned like the flowers they harvested. "If I were younger, I'd have tried for a date," Liro had joked, though at 29, he preferred women his age.
The twins were opposites—Anna's commanding presence balanced Vanessa's quiet focus, both with fiery red hair that caught the swamp's dim light. Over drinks one night, the sisters shared how Olbap handled thieves, his swift, brutal justice leaving no room for defiance. That's when Liro and Toro realized Olbap was no ordinary kid. His aura was different—calm, commanding, backed by Popeye, a hulking figure whose mere presence could silence a room. They gave him their respect, especially since the beli flowed like water.
Soon after, Olbap pulled them aside, offering better pay to work directly for him. There was no reason to say no. Liro funneled his earnings into a small orphanage he and Toro ran, a haven for Krakenport's abandoned children.
Olbap, somehow learning of it, sent aid—a 25-year-old woman hired to care for the kids while they were at sea. "He's not a bad guy," Liro had said, impressed by the gesture. Olbap helped others, too, quietly solving problems without expecting anything in return—wells for the poor, shelters for the homeless, fishing boats for the jobless. It made Liro want to follow him, not just for the money but for the vision. Toro felt the same, as did Popeye, Olbap's ever-present shadow, who checked on the orphanage during their missions, his massive frame gentle with the children.
Olbap's ambitions were a mystery, but they were vast. The Red Tide answered to Barrakuda Silco, the organization's elusive leader, but Olbap was Liro's true boss. His actions hinted at a grander plan—perhaps to rule Brackmor. He'd brought builders from other islands, creating jobs and markets, transforming Krakenport into a bustling hub. Wells ensured clean water, vegetable fields fed families, and fishing boats gave the jobless purpose. To outsiders, these might seem small, but for Brackmor's poor, they were lifelines. The island was finding order, hunger was fading, and Liro wondered when Olbap would reveal his true goal.
A heavy thump on his shoulder broke Liro's reverie. Toro nodded toward Marlon, who was divvying up the pirate ship's loot—gold coins clinking, swords gleaming, crates of supplies stacked high. The crew's laughter mixed with the ship's creaking timbers, the sea's salty breath tugging at their clothes.
The week's end meant a shift change, a chance to return to Brackmor's solid ground. Liro craved the island's earthy scent; the ship's bunks were hard as rock, and days without battles dragged like an anchor.
"Toro, what's your plan on land?" Liro asked as they walked toward the orphanage, the cobblestone path crunching under their boots.
"A long nap," Toro yawned, stretching. "These ship beds are trash. You?"
"Drop off my report, then roam Krakenport. See what new reforms our 'island leader' has rolled out," Liro said, smirking.
"Olbap's gone mad with all this," Toro chuckled, picturing their boss. "Bet he doesn't sleep. Poor Popeye's probably running himself ragged. Next time we see him, he'll want a spar to shake off the stress."
"Think we're strong enough to beat him yet?" Liro asked, eyeing the orphanage ahead. Its walls, once crumbling, now pulsed with life—children's laughter spilling out, a stark contrast to its grim past.
They parted ways, Toro greeting the kids with a grin before collapsing into a bunk, while Liro showered, swapped his battle gear for a clean shirt, and headed out.
Toro was a paradox: in battle, he was a beast, charging enemies with his harpoon spiked mace, emerging drenched in blood—never his own—his aggression a force of nature. On land, he softened, even donning an apron to play "kitchen" with the orphanage girls, a sight that had haunted Liro for weeks. "If it keeps him sane after killing, who am I to judge?" Liro thought, shaking his head.
Liro's own approach was colder, driven by logic: fight to survive, eat to live, die if you fail. His cutlass, sleek yet deadly, could cleave through bone with a single, precise stroke. It suited him—decisive, unyielding, a blade that looked fragile but wasn't.
Beyond survival, he had no clear purpose. The orphanage was Toro's dream; Liro just pitched in. Kael had his family, Anna and Vanessa had theirs—twin sisters with crimson hair, their bond unbreakable. Odoho, split off by Olbap's orders, was a ghost, his whereabouts unknown. The others in their crew were reserved, leaving Liro feeling like the odd man out, driven by beli and little else. Maybe I'm just a leaf in the wind, he thought, spotting a new tavern, its sign gleaming with fresh paint under Krakenport's salty air.
Inside, the tavern buzzed with life, the scent of polished wood, spilled ale, and roasted fish filling the air. Sailors and locals crowded the tables, their laughter mingling with the clink of glasses. Liro slid onto a barstool, lighting a cigarette, its smoke curling upward like a signal. The bartender, a man his age with a weathered face and steady hands, polished a glass with a rag.
"Welcome," the bartender said, his voice warm but measured. "What'll it be?"
"Something for a lost soul with no direction," Liro said, exhaling a plume of smoke, his eyes distant.
The bartender grinned, undaunted. "That's a tall order. How about a Dark 'n' Stormy? Fits the mood."
"Sounds right," Liro said, leaning forward, watching the man work with practiced ease.
The bartender nodded, grabbing a crystal glass and two bottles—one dark as night, one pale gold—along with fresh limes that gleamed in the tavern's dim light. He poured 4 to 6 ounces of ginger beer, its sharp, spicy scent cutting through the smoky air. Slicing two limes, he squeezed their juice into the glass, the citrus tang sharp and bright. Then, tilting the glass, he poured 2 ounces of dark rum over the back of a spoon, letting it float atop the ginger beer, creating a stormy gradient—dark above, gold below. A lime slice adorned the rim as he slid the drink to Liro with a nod.
"This is what you asked for—dark, stirred up, but with a spark if you look for it. Take your time," the bartender said, his eyes steady.
Liro studied the glass, its dark top fading to gold, a storm captured in crystal. He took a sip, the taste hitting like a wave: the ginger beer's spicy sweetness bubbled on his tongue, its fiery bite tingling; the dark rum added warm, rich notes of caramel, molasses, and a hint of vanilla, grounded by a bitter edge; the lime juice cut through with bright acidity, tying the flavors into a complex dance. Sweet, spicy, sour, bitter—it was a storm in his mouth, warm yet invigorating, like a moment of clarity in a restless mind.
Liro closed his eyes, savoring it, the cigarette's smoke blending with the tavern's hum—glasses clinking, sailors laughing, the distant crash of waves outside. Time slipped away, the world fading until the cigarette burned out, the glass empty. He sighed, the weight of his thoughts settling like sediment, and slid a 500-beli note across the bar.
"Have a good one," the bartender called, picking up the glass. "Name's Elias."
Liro nodded, stepping into Krakenport's salty air, the drink's aftertaste lingering—a flicker of hope in a drifting life.
End of the chapter.