The Arcadia trembled as the Inquisitor's boarding cutter dug into her flanks. The corridors filled with steel and fire — zealots chanting litanies, stormtroopers carving paths of blood. The crew fought like wolves cornered, their loyalty to Harlock carrying them through the slaughter.
But the true battle came when Francis Harlock himself stepped from the bridge, cloak trailing, cutlass gleaming. He would not allow another to decide his fate.
The Inquisitor strode through the shattered observation deck, clad in script-covered plate, a faceless angel of judgment. His power saber hissed with stormlight, its edge unraveling the air.
"Francis Harlock," he thundered. "Your soul is weighed and found wanting. By the Emperor's will, I strike your name from His light."
Harlock's cutlass came free of its scabbard, the blade catching starlight from the broken glass around them. "I kneel to no throne but Arcadia's grave."
They clashed.
The first strike nearly ended it. When saber met cutlass, sparks screamed across the deck — the cutlass's edge scorched, the disruption field hungrily biting. Harlock twisted away just before the weapon could cleave through completely. He understood: his steel was mortal, the Inquisitor's was not.
He changed his stance. No longer did he parry head-on. He became a duelist of shadows — dodging, weaving, cloak snapping like a phantom's wing. His cutlass flickered in only at openings: a joint in armor, a momentary lapse in guard.
The Inquisitor pressed him with hammering strikes, each one meant to kill outright. The air itself sizzled with the saber's fury. To the crew watching, it seemed as if their captain fought lightning itself.
Then came the fatal instant.
The saber's edge caught him as he turned — a searing arc of light. Harlock screamed as the blade raked across his face. His right eye was gone, the world plunged into half-darkness. Blood poured down, blinding him further.
The Inquisitor raised his saber for the final blow.
But Harlock did not fall.
Through agony, he moved with savage precision. His cutlass feinted low, drawing the saber down. In that heartbeat of overreach, he surged forward, seizing the Inquisitor's sword-arm with his free hand. His cutlass drove into a gap at the gorget, biting deep into flesh and metal.
The Inquisitor roared, his grip faltering. The power saber slipped from his hand, clattering to the deck.
Harlock kicked him back and snatched the weapon up in a single fluid motion. The storm hissed to life in his grip, answering his fury.
Harlock kicked him back and snatched the weapon up in a single fluid motion. The storm hissed to life in his grip, answering his fury.
One good eye blazing with cold fire, Francis Harlock brought the saber down. The angel-mask split, the voice of judgment silenced.
The Inquisitor lay still.
The crew stood in stunned silence as Harlock staggered back to the helm. His right eye was a ruin, but his stance unbroken, his will unbent. At his belt hung the old cutlass, scorched but intact. In his hand, a new weapon crackled: a power saber, torn from the hand of the Emperor's own judge.
The skull prow turned. The Arcadia roared into the void once more, dragging her mist behind her like the veil of death.
And from that day, the galaxy gave Francis Harlock a new name.
The One-Eyed Ghost.