Alan stepped carefully over the warm ashes, his boots crunching on the blackened debris, and approached Drake. The once-feared pirate leader was now nothing more than a grotesque shadow of his former self. His upper body twisted unnaturally, pinned amidst the charred wooden beams like a worm nailed to a board. His chest rose and fell faintly with shallow, ragged breaths, and a sticky, hoarse sound escaped his throat with every exhale.
Alan crouched down, grabbing the clumps of Drake's blood- and dust-matted hair. He yanked his head back with precision, forcing the pirate's only remaining eye to meet his cold, expressionless gaze. The reflection in the turbid pupil was mirrored by Alan's own unreadable face.
Without a word, Alan inserted two fingers into Drake's eye sockets. The wet, warm sensation met his touch, accompanied by the slight firmness of torn fascia. Drake arched violently, letting out a muffled groan that caught in his throat like a broken bellows.
Alan carefully removed the eyeballs, streaks of blood clinging to his fingers. He held them up to the fading evening light, his own distorted reflection shimmering in the globe of each removed eye. Then a low, eerie laugh slipped from his throat. It began softly, but grew louder and sharper, quickly escalating into a maniacal howl that rolled over the ruins, echoing among the scorched remnants of Axe Island.
Old Blind and Ni Luo moved quietly, counting the survivors. The sea breeze carried away the stench of blood, but it could not erase the pervasive smell of charred wood and flesh that hung in the air.
Ni Luo's luxurious silk robe, once wrapped elegantly around her figure, now circled Damian Thorne's waist. He adjusted the knot casually, stepping over burned debris as he walked through the decimated stronghold. All around him, buildings had been reduced to skeletal frames of blackened wood and stone. From beneath collapsed roofs and walls, faint cries of desperation rose, only to fade into silence, swallowed by the overwhelming devastation.
A breeze shifted through the ruins, carrying with it a strange, magnetic energy. Damian stopped, his senses reaching out instinctively. The currents drew his attention to a particularly thoroughly burned section of the stronghold. Only charcoal and ash remained there, but Damian knew something extraordinary was hidden beneath.
He raised his hand, and an invisible column of air shot downward, like a hammer crashing from nowhere. The debris, ash, and charred stones were violently scattered, revealing a single, shimmering object among the embers.
It was a piece of cloth, impossibly thin, flowing like liquid silver in the dying light.
"His Majesty," Alan said quietly behind him. He had approached unnoticed, his eyes now fixed on the magical fabric.
"That is magical fabric," Alan continued. "Woven from materialized magic itself."
Damian picked it up. The cloth was cold to the touch, its texture alien—not silk, not cotton, but something in between.
"And what use does it have?" Damian asked, curiosity flickering in his eyes.
"Your ability to transform into a dragon is a miracle of magic," Alan explained. "Ordinary clothing cannot withstand it. This material will."
Interest sparked in Damian's gaze. "Where can I obtain more of this?"
"This one piece is sufficient, Your Majesty," Alan replied. "Once you understand its composition, you can create as much as you need."
Damian pinched the fabric between his fingers. A small flame sparked to life at his fingertips, spreading along the cloth. He closed his eyes, feeling the magical structure within—the nodes of energy, the flow, the hidden architecture of spells woven into the fibers. After a moment, the fabric turned to ash, consumed by the fire without resistance.
Damian untied the silk robe from his waist and let it fall to the ground. Fire magic surged outward again, but this time it was not the destructive crimson of battle. It flowed over his body like living threads, weaving, solidifying, and shaping itself into a black-and-gold outfit of simple but regal design. Ancient majesty radiated from the garment, even in its simplicity.
"You can even change the color freely," Damian said, testing the magical weave. His mental command caused the golden lines to ripple, shifting from deep red to silver-white. He altered the style from a flowing robe to a more practical outfit, perfectly tailored for movement.
Alan's mouth fell open slightly. "Isn't… isn't there only one color—moonlight?" he muttered, realization dawning on him. His eyes glimmered with fanatical awe.
Indeed, Your Majesty, this is the miracle of magic itself.
At the call of the old blind man, the remaining captured pirates on the boats were disembarked. The blind man, with uncanny precision, selected a few individuals from the surrendered ranks—crew members of the "Sea Dog" fleet. A single glance was enough to identify them. Newly surrendered pirates nearby quickly dragged the selected men into a corner. Muffled screams and snapping bones echoed briefly before silence fell again.
Ni Luo lingered outside a makeshift kitchen, observing the servants as they packed provisions to deliver to Damian's quarters. Her hand was pressed against her chest, fingertips clutching a small, cold bottle. Etched into the glass were the words: "Tears of Rees."
Her knuckles whitened as she clenched the bottle tightly. After a long, silent sigh, she loosened her grip and tucked the bottle deeper into her bosom.
Inside the house, Damian sat cross-legged. The air currents carried every movement outside into his awareness: the blind old man's resolute brutality, Ni Luo's hesitation, and her ultimate act of surrender. A faint sneer played across Damian's lips, then vanished as quickly as it appeared.
After the meal, Alan regained some strength and approached Damian with a small object.
"Your Majesty," he said, offering a dark bottle filled with thick, dark green liquid. "Drake took this from me. I call it 'Zombie.'"
He explained further, his voice soft but chilling: "It is my unique potion. When combined with magic, anyone who drinks it will gradually lose their vitality, slowly transforming into a mindless, undead creature." His expression carried the innocence of a child presenting a gift, but the aura of the potion was anything but innocent.
"I suppose this will make a fine porridge for the pirates," Damian murmured, a subtle glint of amusement in his eyes.
The surviving pirates were gathered in the open space of the stronghold. A massive iron cauldron simmered with a strange porridge, emitting a peculiar, sweet aroma that made some hesitate. Alan stirred diligently with a wooden spoon, a strange, almost gleeful smile on his face.
He scooped a full bowl and placed it before the blind old man.
"Drink," Alan said. "This is your fate."
The old man studied the steaming bowl, hesitation visible even in his cloudy, unseeing eye. "And… what about—"
A soft sound interrupted him. Damian had appeared beside the cauldron silently, tapping it lightly with his knuckles.
The old man's body tensed instantly. His hesitation vanished. Without another word, he lifted the bowl and drank it in one gulp.
The first one had drunk. The rest would follow naturally.
Each pirate in line held a bowl, their faces a mixture of fear and curiosity. Some sensed something amiss, but no one resisted. Survival instincts outweighed suspicion. The sea breeze fluttered the black dragon flag above them, a silent witness to their submission.
Damian stood on the deck of his flagship. Behind him stretched a fleet of sixty ships, varying in size and strength. The black dragon banner flapped in the wind, a terrifying symbol of control.
Ni Luo remained in the Lizard Islands, tasked with consolidating remaining strongholds and integrating supplies. Old Blind, now the fleet commander, led the combined forces of surrendered pirates and magically subdued "zombies." Under Damian Thorne's command, the fleet turned northwest, charting a course toward Slaver's Bay.
The air was thick with the scent of smoke, ash, and the latent magic that still pulsed faintly across the ruins. Yet the survivors understood one immutable truth: their fate was now in the hands of the Dragon King. Those who resisted would perish. Those who obeyed might live, if only barely.
Damian's calm, measured gaze swept across the scene. Power, submission, and fear—all intertwined, all maintained with effortless authority. And at his side, Alan's expertise promised even greater mastery of the arcane arts. The Basilisk Islands had been cleansed, and the Dragon King's dominion over the seas had expanded further still.
The final lesson had been delivered. The addiction to kingship, the lust for power, the arrogance of mortals—they were meaningless in the face of a true Dragon King.
And with the surviving pirates, magically subdued and obedient, Damian Thorne was ready to reclaim Slaver's Bay, one obedient fleet at a time.
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