The air was thick—too thick.
The cloaked figure stepped forward, boots quiet against the floorboards, but each stride hit like a drumbeat in the chests of every pirate present. Vlad's crew tensed immediately, hands flying to blades, pistols, clubs, whatever iron or steel they carried.
Around the tavern, the tension rippled outward like cracks in glass. Pirates turned to one another, weapons half-drawn. Some backed away, their eyes flicking between Vlad and the figure. Others smiled, that dangerous smile only found on men too familiar with death.
Jack remained at the bar, elbows relaxed against the wood, his empty milk mug forgotten. He didn't blink. Not once. This was better than any tale Iron Vlad could tell.
The figure's voice was calm, but cold, like sea water before a storm.
"That blade doesn't belong to you."
Vlad spat on the floor and grinned, yellowed teeth showing. "Funny," he said, "when I picked it off a dead man, I don't remember seein' you there."
He raised the blade again, this time resting the flat of it against his shoulder.
"One of us is lying," he added. "And it sure as hell won't be me."
Then, grinning like a lunatic, he leaned forward—
—and bit the edge of the blade.
That was the spark.
The figure moved.
A blur.
No shout. No warning. Just a rush of motion like the sudden crack of lightning.
A shot rang out—
BANG!
One of Vlad's men had drawn first.
But the figure raised his right arm and deflected the bullet mid-air—with a crescent-shaped blade, a perfect twin to the one Vlad held.
Before the tavern could process it, steel flashed once more.
SLASH.
The shooter dropped, cleanly cut through the chest. No scream. Just a body hitting the floor and a blood splash decorating the planks.
Uproar.
Tables flew. Drinks spilled. Vlad's chair tipped as the pirates leapt up to fight or flee. The tavern erupted.
Jack watched, eyes wide, a crooked grin forming. "Ohhh… this just got interesting."
"GET HIM!" Vlad shouted, scrambling to his feet. "Cut that freak down! Avenge Krill!"
His men charged.
But they were not ready.
The figure became a shadow.
Steel glinted in short, brutal arcs—economical, elegant. Each step flowed into the next. Every swing of the crescent blade was precise—silent death painted in silver and red.
One lunged—he parried, countered, downed him in a flash.
Another swung an axe—the blade curved around and took him from the side, faster than breath.
Two tried to flank him, but the figure spun low, cloak sweeping around as he pivoted between them and drew a red line across both chests in one fluid stroke.
By the time most had drawn their weapons, three were already down.
The figure danced through chaos like wind through sails. His cloak tore behind him, revealing the truth:
A mask of black iron hid his face, but his right eye gleamed through a crescent-moon lens—blood-red, glowing faintly like embers in the night.
The remaining pirates faltered. One dropped his sword. Another turned to run.
Jack leaned in, utterly mesmerized. "That's not just some killer. That's art."
The figure walked calmly through the bloodied floor, now littered with groaning bodies and clattering weapons.
And then—
He faced Iron Vlad.
The pirate had scrambled back behind an overturned table. But when the figure stepped forward, Vlad snarled and stood tall again, face twitching between rage and fear.
"You want the blade?" he growled, voice cracking. "Fine."
Suddenly—SHINK!
A long, jagged spike of metal jutted from Vlad's stomach, extending forward like a spear birthed from his own gut.
The figure leapt back just in time, the tip grazing his side and slicing through the cloak. A thin red line opened across his ribs, but he didn't cry out.
Vlad grinned, rising.
From his mouth came a sound—like retching—but then he pulled the metal spike up through his throat, jaw unhinging grotesquely.
With a final gag, he spat the weapon out and caught it midair.
A spear—black, jagged, and far too long to have fit inside a human body.
He spun it once, testing its weight.
Then Vlad looked at the figure again, grinning wider now.
"You want your fancy blade?" he jeered.
He tossed the crescent-moon blade into the air—
—and swallowed it whole.
The crowd gasped. Even the pirates who'd joined the brawl backed away.
Vlad wiped his mouth and pointed the spear at the figure. "Then cut me open, freak. Let's see if luck's on your side."
The figure's mask tilted slightly.
No words.
Just the wind catching his torn cloak, rippling it behind him.
He charged.
And Vlad roared in return, spear spinning as he prepared for the clash.