The Caribbean, mid-17th century. This is not the world you know from your history books. This is a world where sails, swollen by the wind, also carry the deadly songs of Sirens. Where governors in their fortified palaces plot wars over sugar and silver, while in the depths of the Whispering Woods, ancient spirits guard secrets older than the gold itself.
This is an era of steel and gunpowder, where the wealth of an empire is carried across the same seas that have become a grave for thousands of sailors in Davy Jones' Locker.
Three European crowns tear each other apart for every inch of land and every gold coin.
The Spanish Empire, pious yet cruel, holds sway over the Spanish Main. Their fortified cities like Cartagena and Havana are centers of military and religious power, tightly guarded by the navy and the mysterious Ordo de la Luz Verdadera. The air is heavy with the scent of incense and fear.
The Kingdom of England, pragmatic and greedy, dominates the Emerald Isles. Lush islands like Jamaica and Barbados are dedicated to sugar plantations and rum production. Their capital, Port Royal, is a den of vice where privateers are officially sanctioned to raid the Spanish, a blend of commercial greed and opportunistic patriotism.
The Kingdom of France, elegant and cunning, spreads its influence along the Azure Coast. Behind the lavish balls and sophisticated salons of Martinique lies the dark secret of a bloodthirsty Vampire faction.
But amidst the struggle of these three giants, a fourth power has risen from the ocean's foam. In pirate dens like Port Ashen and Tortuga, the black flag flies. It announces the birth of the Pirate Confederation—a nation of outcasts, rebels, and dreamers governed by one simple law: "No Prey, No Pay."
This sea is full of wonders as well as horrors. The untouched Whispering Woods are guarded by indigenous tribes, Dryads, and Werewolves. Meanwhile, a cursed sea region known as the Shattered Sea—a scar from a past magical catastrophe—is perpetually shrouded in eternal storms and thick fog, serving as a lair for the most legendary sea monsters like Sirens and Harpies.
This is a world balanced on the edge of a sword, a powder keg waiting for a spark to ignite. And upon the same waves, a young man named Thomas Vance is about to carve his own destiny, bringing echoes from another world into a reality far more brutal and magical than he could have ever imagined. His story is about to begin.
"Sail Ho!"
The cry from the lookout mast broke the monotonous boredom on the deck of the The Venture, an English Brigantine privateer ship. The calm, blue Caribbean Sea instantly felt tense. Thomas Vance, a seventeen-year-old with slightly messy black curly hair and eyes that held a dangerous glint of humor, stopped sharpening his cutlass. He squinted toward the horizon.
Captain Miles Croft, a man who looked more like a merchant than a pirate, climbed the poop deck ladder with a spyglass in hand. He was a decent captain, always treating prisoners politely before taking all their possessions, but he was far too cautious.
What a polite man, Thomas thought, a thin smile on his lips. In this sea, politeness will only get you killed with an empty stomach. I'm here for adventure and fortune, not for tea with the Governor.
The hope of a fat, slow Spanish merchant ship was soon dashed. Captain Croft's face went pale as he lowered his spyglass. "For God's sake… that's no merchant," he whispered, his voice trembling. "That's The Iron Price."
The name spread among the crew like a plague. The Iron Price. A heavily modified Brig, captained by Commander "Iron-Hand" Volkov, a cruel former military officer whose crew fought like a military unit. They didn't plunder with laughter and rum; they conquered with discipline and cold steel.
"Ready the cannons! To your posts, everyone!" Captain Croft commanded, his voice sounding more panicked than authoritative.
Thomas was already moving. He didn't wait for a second order. Slipping his cutlass away, he grabbed two flintlock pistols from his belt, checking the powder and shot. This was an opportunity. Volkov was a threat, but the bounty on his head was massive: 4,500 Gold Coins.
Volkov attacks with military tactics, Thomas thought. That means he's predictable. He'll try to disable our sails first, then close in for a melee fight.
Sure enough, the first boom came from The Iron Price's chase gun. The shot was precise, tearing through The Venture's main sail and making the ship list. The inexperienced English crew began to panic.
"Return fire! Aim for the hull!" Captain Croft shouted.
A mistake, Thomas thought. Volkov's ship is reinforced with iron plates. Firing at the hull is just a waste of powder.
The Iron Price was closing fast, their disciplined cannon fire raining splinters of wood and death down on The Venture's deck. Thomas moved nimbly, using his instincts to take cover behind masts and rope drums, his breath ragged with adrenaline.
In the midst of the chaos, a cannonball struck the poop deck. The deafening explosion of wood threw several men into the sea. When the smoke cleared slightly, Thomas saw Captain Croft lying on the deck, his leg pinned under a shattered piece of the helm, blood gushing profusely.
Leadership on the ship vanished in an instant. The crew began to run aimlessly.
"We're going to die!" shouted a young sailor.
"Every man for himself!"
That's when Thomas took charge. He leaped onto a wooden crate, his voice booming to cut through the panic. "Belay that! Do you want to die like dogs or fight like lions?"
The terrified eyes of the crew turned to him.
"Listen! Helmsman, bring the ship hard to port! Present our starboard side! Gunners, forget the damn hull! Target their cannons! Blind them!" Thomas commanded. His voice was filled with a confidence that was strangely contagious. "The rest of you, prepare the grappling hooks! When they get close, we'll be the ones to board them!"
The orders were simple, daring, and a little crazy. But in desperation, madness is hope. The crew, starved for direction, began to move in unison. They turned the ship, ignoring The Iron Price's thick hull and focusing on destroying its cannons.
Volkov, accustomed to standard tactics, seemed surprised by the sudden change in strategy. As his ship closed in for a boarding assault, several of his cannons were already destroyed, significantly reducing his firepower.
A close-quarters battle was inevitable. The decks of the two ships touched. Thomas was the first to leap, landing on The Iron Price's deck with a cutlass in one hand and a pistol in the other. He shot a pirate officer in the chest, then parried a sword slash from another in a single motion. The battle turned into a brutal meat grinder.
They were outnumbered and out-disciplined, but under Thomas's command, The Venture's crew fought with a ferocity. They managed to create enough chaos and damage that Volkov, unwilling to risk losing his valuable ship for a troublesome prey, sounded the retreat trumpet. The Iron Price slowly pulled away, leaving The Venture battered but alive.
An awkward silence settled over the deck, which was wet with blood and seawater. The remaining crew members stared at Thomas with a mix of awe and disbelief. Their captain was lying there dying, and a seventeen-year-old youth had just saved all their lives.
An old, gray-bearded sailor, Arthur, who served as the first mate, approached Thomas. His arm was wounded, but his eyes were clear. He looked Thomas up and down, then at the rest of the waiting crew.
"This ship needs a captain," Arthur said, his voice hoarse. "And you're the man."
Thomas looked into Arthur's eyes, then extended his hand. "I'll take it."
As their hands met, Thomas felt something strange. A brief but real warmth flowed from his palm, an invisible connection forged between himself and Arthur. The bond felt solid and unshakable.
Arthur smiled, the first genuine smile Thomas had ever seen from him. He turned to the crew. "Raise your cups to Captain Vance!"
A cheer erupted, replacing the groans of the wounded. One by one, the surviving crew members came forward, shook Thomas's hand, and each handshake strengthened that strange bond until it felt like an anchor in his soul.
Thomas Vance stood tall amidst the destruction. He was the captain.
First step, he thought, his humorous smile returning. Fix this damn ship. Second step, find a pretty girl in Port Royal to celebrate my promotion.
He turned to face the makeshift helm. "Arthur!" he called out, his voice now firm and full of authority. "Set a course for Port Royal. We've got work to do."
Three days. For three long days, the wounded The Venture crawled across the sea like a beaten dog. Makeshift masts were erected, torn sails were patched as best as they could be, and the deck that had once been stained with blood was now clean, though the faint smell of iron and death still lingered beneath the salty sea air. Thomas spent every hour on deck, moving from one crew member to another, patting their shoulders, cracking light jokes, or simply nodding in understanding.
He felt the peculiarity of the magical contract that bound them. He could feel their unbreakable loyalty, a solid certainty in his chest. However, he knew that magical loyalty meant nothing without genuine respect. And respect had to be earned.
"Report, Arthur," Thomas said on the morning of the fourth day. They stood on the shattered poop deck, gazing at the eastern horizon that was beginning to glow red.
Arthur, his gray-bearded first mate, held a small slate. "Seven dead, captain. Fifteen wounded, three of them severe. 'Doc' Bones is doing his best, but he needs more bandages and clean rum for sterilization. Our water supplies are running low, and we only have ship biscuits and a little salted meat left."
Thomas sighed. This was the reality behind the glory of battle. Victory was measured by how many of your friends you didn't have to bury at sea. "And the ship?"
"The main sail is destroyed. This makeshift helm won't last long in a storm. There are at least a dozen holes in the port side hull. We're lucky we didn't sink," Arthur replied. He paused for a moment, then added, "You did the right thing, Captain. Taking command. We all owe you our lives."
Thomas simply nodded. "Debts are paid with gold, Arthur. And right now, our pockets are emptier than a Spanish governor's head."
As dawn broke, the silhouette they had been longing for finally appeared: Port Royal, Jamaica.
The city was a striking paradox. On one hand, sturdy fortresses like Fort Charles and Royal Navy warships moored neatly showed England's military might. On the other hand, countless rows of taverns, gambling houses, and brothels spilled out to the docks, promising all sorts of sins for entertainment-starved sailors. They were right to call it "the Sodom of the New World."
When the tattered The Venture entered Kingston Harbour, they attracted a lot of attention. Harbour Master Thomas Phips, a plump man with a sour face, greeted them at the main dock.
"By Neptune's beard, what happened to this ship?" he asked, his eyes scrutinizing the damage with a professional's gaze. "And where's Captain Croft?"
"Captain Croft has taken a permanent leave," Thomas replied calmly. "I'm Captain Vance, the new commander of The Venture."
Phips looked Thomas up and down, his eyebrows raised at the youth's age. "A boy as captain? The world has gone mad." He snorted. "Docking fees are five Silver Coins a day. Repairs will cost you a fortune. Good luck, Captain."
Thomas ignored his sarcastic tone. He left Arthur to take care of the ship and crew, then walked into the heart of Port Royal. His goal was just one: the rowdiest and most crowded tavern in the Caribbean, The Tipsy Privateer.
The smell of rum, sweat, and wet wood greeted him like a rough hug. Thomas took a table in the corner, ordered a glass of cheap rum, and began to listen. Taverns were the primary information network in this world, faster and more honest than any newspaper.
Governor Finch is in a bad mood, Thomas thought, catching a conversation from the next table. The Spanish Silver Fleet escaped again last month, and sugar merchants are complaining about new pirates on the trade routes.
His daughter, Eleanor, reportedly just beat a naval officer in a fencing duel. Brave, and supposedly very beautiful.
Thomas gave a small smile. Interesting.
His eyes then fell on the bulletin board full of wanted posters. Most were small names, with bounties not worth the risk. "One-Eyed" Jack, 350 Gold. The Flynn Twins, 600 Gold. Not enough to fix even half of The Venture's damage.
He tipped the bartender, a large man with scars on his face. "I hear the Governor is issuing new 'Letters of Marque'," Thomas said casually.
The bartender chuckled. "Aye, he's desperate. The Spanish are getting cocky. But only captains with a decent ship and a reputation will be considered. Looking at your ship," he said, glancing out the window, "you're more likely to get a job cleaning his stables."
Thomas finished his rum in one gulp, the warm sensation burning his throat. He had gotten everything he needed. He stood up and walked back to his ship.
He gathered the remaining healthy crew on the deck. "Listen!" he called out, his voice cutting through the dock's noise. "Our situation is bad. This ship needs a full overhaul, and we don't have a single coin. We could hunt for small-time pirates and hope to eat for the next week."
He paused, letting his words sink in. "Or," he continued, his eyes gleaming with a defiant challenge, "we could aim for a real prize. Governor Finch wants to strike the Spanish. He needs an attack dog. He needs a privateer."
Arthur stepped forward, doubt visible on his face. "Captain, with all due respect, our ship won't pass inspection. And they won't give a letter of marque to... to us."
Thomas smiled broadly, a smile full of charm and a touch of madness. "That's why we're not going to ask. We're going to impress him."
He pointed toward the governor's magnificent mansion on the hill. "Arthur, get our best officer's uniforms ready. We're going to pay the Governor a visit."
"For what?" Arthur asked, confused.
"To offer our services," Thomas replied. "If he wants a dog to hunt, he'll be hiring a wolf soon enough."