He looked down at his empty hands, then at the scattered pistols lying across the blood-slick floor.
The silence pressed against his ears, thick and hot.
His eyes lifted to the row of cannons lining the port side. Big, immovable. He remembered the idea that had sparked — fusing a cannon with a pistol.
He picked up one of the discarded pistols, then stepped to the nearest cannon.
His fingers hovered over the cold, pitted barrel.
Do it.
He pressed them together.
Metal groaned and shrieked. The pistol handle twisted and thickened. The cannon's massive barrel warped, shrinking slightly but still monstrous.
When it finished, he tried to lift it — and nearly fell backward.
It sagged in his arms like a dead animal, far too heavy to steady. His knees bent under its weight.
He tried to raise it again. It tilted down uselessly.
No good.
He let it crash to the deck with a hollow clang.
---
He wiped sweat from his forehead, staring at the half-fused monstrosity.
It's too heavy. Too slow. I can't even aim it.
His gaze drifted along the floor — piles of spilled powder, stacked cannonballs.
A smaller cannonball rolled lazily toward his foot.
He bent down, picked it up. Cold, dense.
Then his eyes flicked to a stray musket round beside a dead marine's hand.
The thought struck sharp and sudden.
A pistol can't reach another ship. But a musket… longer barrel, stronger force.
He crouched, holding the small cannonball in one hand and the musket round in the other.
In his mind, he pictured it: a single round with the force of a cannonball — when it hit, it would explode, tearing through wood and bone alike.
Explode on impact. Straight and far.
Metal trembled under his grip. With a final push of intent, they fused — seams vanishing, metal twisting into a new, heavy cartridge.
He held it up to the dim light. It gleamed faintly, larger than a standard musket round but slim enough to load.
---
Nearby, he spotted a marine's musket — long-barreled, battered but intact.
He grabbed it, turned it over.
What if…
He glanced at one of his hybrid pistols.
The idea came quick: More chambers. Less reloading.
He pressed the musket against the hybrid pistol.
The wood and metal screamed, shrill and furious this time. The hybrid pistol's frame resisted, shuddering under his fingers.
His vision blurred at the edges. A deep, grinding ache rolled through his arms and into his chest — sharper than any fusion so far.
Fusing a fused shape with something new… it already costs this much.
Imagine fusing two fused items together…
He grit his teeth, forcing the intent through: More chambers. Longer barrel. Stronger.
Finally, the metal locked into place. The musket barrel lengthened, reinforced, and the pistol's multi-chamber core nested inside, allowing it to hold several shots at once.
When he finished, he slumped forward, bracing on the new weapon. His breath scraped the back of his throat, each exhale a ragged pulse.
It felt solid, balanced — a heavy, brutal thing. But the price rang in his bones.
He slotted the new explosive hybrid rounds into the Repeater Musket. Each clicked into place with a satisfying finality.
---
His gaze shifted again — further down the pile of ammunition.
A crate sat cracked open, small lead balls spilling onto the deck. Grapeshot.
He approached, lifting one of the small clustered balls.
Close-range. Scatter. Better for multiple targets.
He dug through the remaining pistol rounds on the floor, gathered a handful.
Intent burned behind his eyes.
Grapeshot and pistol round merged together under his hands, forming a rough, slightly bulbous bullet.
He nodded once.
---
He returned to the scattered hybrid pistols, wiping blood and dust from their barrels.
He loaded each one with a grapeshot hybrid round, sliding them into his bandolier after checking the chambers.
He bent to adjust the straps, tested a few quick draws. Each movement was sharp and practiced now — not graceful, but efficient.
---
A faint rustle caught his ear.
He turned.
In the shadow of a crate, two wide eyes glinted — the boy.
They stared at each other again, no words crossing between them.
He didn't move toward him, didn't shoo him away.
After a moment, he simply turned back, adjusting the musket-pistol across his back.
---
His eyes flicked to the stairs leading up.
The smell of salt, powder, and blood drifted down in heavy waves.
Above, orders were screamed, steel clashed, men cried out.
He took one last look at the deck below — the dead, the broken weapons, the discarded shells.
His fingers flexed once at his sides.
Up.
---
He climbed slowly, knees bent, musket-pistol across his back, hybrid pistols tight against his chest.
As he neared the deck hatch, the din hit him fully — the screams, the crashing of waves, the shrill ring of clashing steel.
He peeked out.
The deck was a jagged battlefield. Marines scrambled to hold positions, some fleeing below. Pirates clung to grappling lines, some hesitating, others readying to jump across.
Smoke poured from ruptured barrels, the sails torn into ragged shreds.
His fingers curled around the first pistol.
---
He pushed the hatch open.
Noise slammed into him — cannon blasts, musket fire, steel clashing against steel. Smoke hung thick, curling around screams and shouted orders.
The marines didn't see him at all. They were locked in a frantic melee with pirates spilling over the rails.
He stepped forward, hybrid pistol raised.
A marine staggered back, sword buried in his shoulder — he fired, dropping the pirate before the blade could twist free.
Another group of marines and pirates clashed near the mast. He pivoted, aimed, and fired a wide grapeshot burst. Both sides fell in a tangled, broken heap.
He moved in short, quick steps, firing in controlled arcs. Each scatter shot tore through clustered bodies.
When one pistol emptied, he dropped it without hesitation and drew another from the bandolier.
The screams changed. Marines and pirates turned at last, eyes wide with horror.
A pirate lunged at him from the side — he spun and shot point-blank, the man crumpling at his feet.
Within moments, the deck fell silent except for the creak of wood and the low moans of the dying.
---
He let the last empty pistol drop, breath ragged in his throat.
A shadow shifted at the rail — another pirate scrambling over, blade raised.
He swung the Repeater Musket from his back.
Braced. Exhaled. Pulled the trigger.
The shot punched through the pirate's chest, hurling him backward over the side in a mist of red.
Without pausing, he chambered the next explosive round and swung his aim toward the pirate ship beyond.
Fired.
The shot slammed into the hull, tearing a massive splintered wound through the deck.
He chambered again and fired a second blast. Another explosion rocked the pirate ship, sending ropes and debris into the sea.
Panic ripped through the remaining pirates. Some clawed at the rails to jump back, others screamed for the crew to cut lines and disengage.
His breath thundered in his ears, each inhalation scraping raw against his ribs.
He looked down at his empty hands, then at the hybrid pistol on the deck beside him.
Then his gaze shifted to the Repeater Musket, heavy and brutal, the seams still warm from the fusions.
For the first time, a thought rose through the fog of exhaustion and blood.
With this… maybe I can make all the things I dreamed about. Maybe… I can shape them into something real.
The corners of his mouth twitched. Slowly, almost unsure, a small smile broke across his face.
The first smile he'd worn in a long, long time.
The wind tugged at his hair, the deck creaked under his feet, but he stood still, the smile lingering.
Above the broken deck and scattered bodies, a thin, electric excitement sparked somewhere deep inside him.