Rewritten Chapter: Titch vs. Schiller
Loya watched in silent agony, her trembling hands covering her mouth as tears streamed freely down her cheeks. The weight of the moment crushed her chest, sobs catching in her throat as her clothes became damp with grief.
Doyle stood beside her, silent. Beneath his sleeve, his clenched fist slowly relaxed, fingers twitching from restrained emotion.
Outside the tavern, the townsfolk stood frozen. Some had risen to their feet. Others sat cross-legged on the dusty ground, food forgotten in their laps as they watched the surreal calm within. Titch sat with a plate of fried rice, eating casually, savoring every bite like a man enjoying a moment of peace amid chaos. His calmness struck a stark contrast to Luoya's tears—and to the growing storm outside.
Even the notorious Mad Knife Pirates, typically unshaken, looked uneasy. Whispers broke the silence as they watched him.
Teach finished the last of his meal, licked the spoon clean, then stood. He grabbed a small burlap sack from the table, the clink of rum bottles inside soft and familiar. He turned to Doyle and offered a lazy smile.
"Haha, Doyle. Days like these are rare. Good food, good drink. If I get the chance, I'll come back to share another bottle."
Doyle nodded. "You're welcome anytime, Teach."
Just as Teach turned toward the exit, a flash of steel swung in from the side. A jagged machete hovered inches from his neck. The blade's serrated edge gleamed wickedly under the tavern lantern.
"Bastard! I've had enough of your smug face," Schiller growled, his eyes blazing. "Now you'll pay—with your head."
But even with a blade at his throat, Teach showed no fear. No twitch of his brow. No tightening of his muscles. He simply looked at Schiller with calm, assessing eyes.
Schiller's rage only deepened.
"He's not even afraid," Schiller muttered, teeth clenched. "What're you playing at? You think you're above me?"
From outside came murmurs of dread.
"Schiller's furious. That kid's done for."
"He didn't even flinch..."
"Still, isn't it a shame? Such a man..."
"No... I think something unexpected's coming."
Teach's voice was low, almost amused. "This thing—" he gestured at the blade with his finger, "—isn't meant for threats."
Schiller's lips curled. "No. It's for killing. And I'll carve your screams into the floor before I'm through."
Teach tilted his head slightly. "So this is your declaration of war."
"What?"
Teach's gaze darkened. "Are you ready to die?"
The words hit like thunder, sending a chill through the room. Mostima, standing by the entrance, nodded quietly. His eyes gleamed. This was the moment he had been waiting for.
Teach continued, his voice unwavering. "A pirate who declares war must be ready to die in battle."
"You cocky bastard!" barked one of the Mad Knife crew. "Think you're better than us? Let's see you dodge this!"
He whipped out a pistol and fired.
But the bang never came.
Instead, a sharp pop and a burst of red filled the air. The pirate's head jerked back violently—his skull blown open. Blood sprayed across the wooden beams. His pistol fell uselessly to the floor.
In his hand, Teach held a smoking flintlock. No one had seen him draw.
Gasps filled the room. One of the pirates stumbled back, eyes wide.
"W-When did he—?"
Hardno's brow slicked with sweat. "That speed..."
"He's not just a gunner," someone whispered. "He's a top-level gunman."
Mostima shook his head. "No... Look at his waist. Three swords. This guy isn't just a gunner. That shot? That was pure instinct. His technique's been honed through fire."
He rubbed the hilt of his own blade, feeling a flicker of awe. Titch's blades weren't ornamental. They were the real deal—likely as deadly as his gun.
Hope began to rise in the crowd. Could this man be the one to put an end to Schiller's reign of terror?
Schiller, meanwhile, seethed. His face contorted in rage.
"He was my right hand," he growled. "You just shot him like a dog. Now I'll teach you what it means to cross me!"
He raised his jagged sword high and charged. The tavern rang with the clash of steel and the roar of pirates.
The Mad Knife Pirates surged forward, blades flashing, pistols drawn. They didn't hesitate. They were killers, seasoned and bloodthirsty. The tavern erupted in chaos.
"I'll take his arm!"
"His leg's mine!"
"Hack him apart!"
Teach moved.
His body twisted gracefully as he sidestepped Schiller's heavy strike. The blade whooshed past, missing by a hair. To outsiders, it looked like a narrow escape. To the trained eye, it was calculated, almost casual.
Mostima watched closely. Something clicked in his mind.
Teach sighed. He was growing irritated. The cacophony of shouting and bloodlust grated on his nerves. Ants, he thought. Scurrying, noisy ants.
He slipped off his coat. A flicker of blue lightning danced along the hilt of one of his swords. Titch drew it with a quiet hum and pointed it toward the crowd.
"You picked the wrong man to provoke."
A single, fluid slash.
Nothing seemed to happen.
Schiller sneered. "That's it? What a joke—"
Then the bodies began to fall.
One after another, Mad Knife Pirates collapsed. Dozens, felled silently. Each wound was clean, precise, and fatal. Gasps echoed through the tavern as blood pooled on the floor.
Mostima stared, stunned. "What kind of technique is that...? The control... the precision... I've never seen anything like it."
The tavern fell silent save for the sound of bodies hitting wood.
Only Schiller remained.
His knees buckled. Sweat poured down his face as he looked at the corpses of his men—his entire crew.
"Impossible... They're dead... all of them..."
His hands trembled. Tears welled up in his bloodshot eyes. "They were my comrades... my brothers..."
Teach raised a brow. "You, talking about comrades? That's rich."
Schiller's face twisted with pain and rage. "You took everything from me! Who'll share the thrill of plunder now? The cries, the wails of pain—no one else understands!"
Teach adjusted his turban, then placed his purple cowboy hat on his head. He stepped forward slowly.
"Sounds like you need help, Schiller. Let me fix that."
Schiller roared and lunged, blade raised high in a wild arc. His form was powerful, brutal—but wide open.
Teach didn't draw a weapon.
He simply punched.
The impact sent the machete flying. It clattered to the floor.
Before Schiller could recover, a hand clamped around his throat. He gasped, legs kicking.
"Stop dancing around like a fool," Teach muttered. He tightened his grip.
Then he caught Schiller's right arm and twisted. Bones cracked. Schiller's scream choked in his throat.
"You wanted to join your crew so badly... allow me to send you there."
And then, silence.
Teach released his grip.
Schiller's body crumpled to the floor, lifeless.
The mad dog of the New World—the butcher of countless innocents—lay broken, dead, without fanfare.
Everyone watched in stunned silence.
A new storm had begun to rise on the horizon, and its name... was Teach.