They say the sea has a way of holding onto every promise made upon its waves.
They say it listens closely when men find themselves in desperate situations, when their voices tremble between pride and fear, when their hands shake not from terror but from the stark realization that they have nothing left to lose.
They say the sea responds to such men—with deals that never truly come to a close.
Seventeen-year-old Jack Sparrow discovered this harsh truth one fateful night when the ocean was darker than the deepest ink and eerily silent.
He stood alone on the shattered remnants of what had once been his family's ship, the Pearl, her hull charred, her cargo plundered, her decks slick with seawater and the blood that had long since washed away. The flames had flickered out hours earlier, leaving behind only smoke and the acrid scent of destruction.
His parents were gone. His family—his aunts, cousins, and younger sister—were taken too, dragged away in chains by jeering men under a fluttering flag adorned with a skull and a parrot.
Jack burned with a desire for revenge.
He had caught wind of a name in the hushed warnings of the docks and the ramblings of drunken sailors.
"Davy Jones."
And the ocean answered.
From the depths emerged a ship that didn't creak like wood should. It groaned as if it were alive, water cascading off its blackened hull as if the sea itself was reluctant to let it go. Barnacles scraped against the sides. Chains rattled ominously. Lanterns flickered to life without any flame. The figure at the helm was tall and broad, exuding an unsettling presence that Jack couldn't quite put into words—his silhouette twisted by shadows, his aura pressing down on the air like a heavy weight.
Davy Jones didn't bother asking Jack what he wanted.
Instead, he inquired about what Jack was willing to wager.
The deal was straightforward. Terrifyingly straightforward.
The Pearl would rise once more. Stronger. Faster. Touched by the depths and bound to the winds. In return, Jack Sparrow would carry a debt—one he couldn't escape.
Jack agreed before fear could catch up with him.
The sea surged. The wreck groaned. And from the dark waters, the Black Pearl was reborn.
The moment her sails caught the wind, Jack took off.
He didn't stick around to mourn. He didn't wait for regret to settle in. He seized the ship and fled toward the Grand Line, chasing the only thing that burned brighter than the instinct to survive.
Revenge.
He pursued the Blue Parrot Pirates through the first half of the Grand Line like a specter armed with a map and a haunting memory. He followed whispers in taverns, symbols etched into dock posts, and the unmistakable trail of cruelty they left in their wake. Every island marked by their presence reminded him that mercy was a luxury he couldn't afford and that power equated to freedom.
It was on Jaya that he finally found them.
The sun hung low over the bustling pirate haven, its docks teeming with ships of all shapes and sizes, each one carrying its own secrets. Jaya was a lawless place where rules went to die, and arguments were settled with bullets rather than words. Jack didn't need to set foot on the island to know this.
He stood alone on the deck of the Black Pearl.
Jack D. Sparrow was just seventeen, lean but not frail, his body shaped by a life of half-meals and sharp instincts. His white shirt bore the marks of salt and soot, his brown vest softened by time, and his trousers were patched more times than he could count. His long dark hair was tied back, keeping it out of his keen eyes that missed nothing and trusted even less.
He recognized the flag immediately.
A skull. A parrot perched on top.
The Blue Parrot Pirates.
Their ship loomed proudly at the docks, freshly painted, with a crew that was loud and carefree. They laughed, drank, and celebrated yet another successful heist, blissfully unaware that the sea was already collecting its due for their misdeeds.
Jack's jaw clenched as he maneuvered a cannon into place. It was heavy—much heavier than any deckhand should be lifting alone—but desperation had a way of giving you strength. Sweat trickled down his neck as he aligned the barrel, each scrape of metal against wood ringing out louder than it should have.
A massive black ship towered behind him, its hull as dark as midnight, its sails folded like wings at rest. The Black Pearl resembled less a ship and more a whispered legend come to life—sleek, predatory, and eerily silent. Her figurehead wore a faint grin, its carved eyes seemingly tracking anyone brave enough to gaze too long.
The other crews figured Jack was just a deckhand left behind while his captain indulged in the island's pleasures.
They kept their distance from the ship.
Jack took it as a sign from the heavens, if such a thing still held any weight.
He lifted a cannonball, almost losing his grip, muttering to himself as it thudded into place. With trembling hands, he packed the powder and steadied his nerves. For a fleeting moment, as he struck the match, a memory surged forth uninvited.
His father's hands, rough and insistent, pushing him into a cargo crate. The scent of spices filled the air. Shouts echoed around him. And a voice, calm even amidst the chaos.
Live. Be free.
The cannon erupted.
The force nearly knocked Jack off his feet as the shot hurtled across the water, crashing into the Blue Parrot Pirates' mast. Wood splintered. Ropes snapped. Sailcloth ripped apart like it was nothing.
The docks erupted in a cacophony.
Heads turned. Drinks spilled. Laughter shifted into curiosity.
"Marines?" someone yelled.
"Nah," another replied, squinting. "If it were Marines, they'd miss twice first."
Realization spread, followed by grins.
"Pirate fight!"
"Hey, don't hit my ship!"
The second cannon fired before anyone had a chance to intervene.
On the deck of the Blue Parrot, Armando Salazar froze mid-sip. He was a hefty man with a thick beard, known for his fearsome reputation built on bloodshed. A blue parrot sat on his shoulder, feathers all ruffled, its beady eyes blazing with intensity.
"Who dares to touch my ship?" Salazar bellowed.
The parrot squawked in response. "Rot the keel! Rot the keel!"
At first, Salazar chuckled. Who would be reckless enough to challenge him in Jaya? But when another explosion shook the docks and splinters flew from his hull, the laughter faded from his face.
"Captain!" one of his crew shouted. "It's true! Someone's firing at us!"
Salazar stormed to the edge of the ship, his boots thudding heavily against the planks. His eyes zeroed in on the source of the attack—and his breath hitched.
The Black Pearl.
Jim the parrot flapped his wings in anger. "Ugly ship! Curse it! Curse it!"
Salazar's gaze sharpened. That ship felt off. Too quiet. Too still. No crew in sight, just a single boy at the cannon, smoke curling around him like a taunt.
"Board it," Salazar growled. "Let's see who that brat thinks he is."
Jack lit the fuse again, his hands steady now, a grin creeping onto his lips despite the knot of anxiety in his chest.
It seemed that revenge had finally come knocking at his door.