The reaver flotilla was broken, but one ship — crippled, bleeding atmosphere — drifted into the Arcadia's grasp. Grapnels bit, boarding tubes hissed, and Harlock's men stormed the decks.
The fighting was savage in the darkened corridors. Steel screamed, men died, and the air stank of blood and ozone. Harlock pressed forward, cloak trailing, his power saber hissing with arcs of red lightning.
At the heart of the raider's throne-chamber, the champion awaited him.
A brute clad in scavenged plate, chain-axe in hand, teeth buzzing as the motor roared. His eyes were wide, bloodshot, eager for slaughter.
"You're the Ghost?" the raider sneered. "Then I'll wear your skull on my prow!"
Harlock ignited the field of his saber. Arcs snapped across its edge, growling like caged thunder. His single visible eye was calm. The other, hidden beneath the patch, burned.
The raider charged.
The chain-axe came down in a screaming arc, but Harlock was already gone. The crimson sight had shown him the strike before the man even swung. He sidestepped lazily, cloak brushing the teeth as they chewed air.
The saber lashed out — not to kill, not yet — but to test. Sparks sprayed as the blade scored the raider's pauldron, carving a deep groove. The brute bellowed, enraged.
Another strike, faster. Another miss. Harlock's body moved before thought, guided by visions crimson and cruel. His blade flickered again, slashing the man's thigh, cutting muscle without crippling it.
The brute howled, swung wild, and again Harlock slipped aside, tilting his head just enough for the axe to whisper past.
The crimson sight sharpened. Harlock saw the raider not as flesh, but as inevitabilities. Every twitch, every shift, every thought of violence unfolded before him a heartbeat early. He did not react — he anticipated.
And with each move, he tested the truth of it.
One strike to the arm — shallow. Another to the knee — disabling. Each wound placed with surgical cruelty, each dodge timed so narrowly it mocked the raider's fury.
The crew watching from the doorway murmured. To them, it was not a duel. It was their captain playing with death.
The raider's rage burned out into desperation. His swings grew frantic, clumsy, his armor slick with blood.
The crimson sight showed Harlock the end — a killing blow winding up, the axe raised high, the scream on the raider's lips.
This time, Harlock did not evade. He stepped inside the arc as though he had already lived this moment a hundred times.
The saber thrust forward, its edge alive with arcs. It plunged through the raider's chestplate, ripping through bone and heart. The brute froze mid-roar, his body convulsing as red lightning poured out of the wound, burning him from within.
When Harlock wrenched the blade free, the body collapsed in a smoking heap.
Silence claimed the chamber.
Harlock stood over the corpse, saber growling low, sparks snapping along its length. He lifted his hand to the patch, feeling the heat of the crimson glow beneath.
It had been too easy. Too certain. Too precise.
His crew whispered in awe. To them, their captain was untouchable — a phantom who toyed with death and mocked his foes before striking them down.
But Harlock said nothing. He only extinguished the blade, the scent of ozone still hanging in the air, and turned away.
For the truth haunted him: the crimson sight had shown him victory before the fight began.
And it frightened him more than losing ever could.