The roar was not a sound. It was a physical force. It slammed into the Sullen Harpy like a tidal wave of pure pressure, shaking the ship to its very keel. The planks beneath Ben's feet bucked violently, and the cacophony of battle—the clashing steel, the screams, the mad laughter of WolfLozi—was utterly obliterated, swallowed by this primeval scream of the world itself.
For a moment, there was only the roar. It vibrated in Ben's teeth, filled his lungs, and threatened to rupture his eardrums. The thick, concealing fog swirled as if in a giant's fist, torn into tattered veils.
On the deck, the fight froze. Pirate and madman alike staggered, hands clapped to their ears, their faces masks of primal fear. WolfLozi, his wrist-blades still extended, snapped his head toward the sound, his manic grin replaced by a look of sharp, animal alertness. The brilliant madness in his eyes flickered with something else: recognition.
"The Laughing Throat…" he whispered, the words barely audible beneath the fading echo of the roar. "It's not a legend."
Mr. Rookiepasta, shoving a wounded attacker aside, bellowed an order that was more felt than heard. "Cut the grapples! Now! Everyone to their stations!"
The urgency in his voice broke the spell. The crews of the Harpy and the Ravenous disengaged without a second thought, the personal feud forgotten in the face of a greater, more immediate threat. WolfLozi gave Ben one last, lingering look—a look that promised this was not over—before leaping back onto his own ship with the agility of a spider. The grappling lines were severed, and the two vessels drifted apart, swallowed again by the oppressive fog, now charged with a new, terrifying presence.
The roar did not come again. Instead, a deep, rhythmic thrumming began, a vibration that traveled through the water and up into the hull of the ship. Lub-dub. Lub-dub. It was the sound of a colossal heartbeat.
"What was that?" Ben gasped, untangling himself from the safety line. His own heart was trying to match the frantic pace of the unseen thing.
His father's face was pale, his knuckles white on the wheel. "The guardian of the pass," he said, his voice low and tight. "The stories say the Serpent's Teeth are not just rocks. They are the remains of a leviathan so vast its corpse became the archipelago. The Laughing Throat is where its heart once beat. Some say a echo of it remains. A phantom heartbeat that can drive men mad… or awaken things that should never wake."
The thrumming grew louder. The water around the ship began to churn, not from waves, but from massive, swirling currents. The fog glowed with a sickly green phosphorescence from the depths.
"There! Port side!" a lookout screamed, his voice cracking with terror.
A shape moved in the water. It was not a worm this time. It was a limb, a vast, undulating tentacle thicker than the mainmast, covered in moss-slick scales and studded with barnacles the size of shields. It rose silently from the depths, water cascading from it in sheets, and hovered for a moment before slamming down onto the surface with a crash that sent a wall of water over the deck.
It was followed by another. And another. They were not attacking the ship. Not yet. They were moving with a terrible, deliberate purpose, weaving between the half-seen rocks, churning the water into a boiling cauldron.
"It's herding us," Mr. Rookiepasta said, his jaw clenched. "It's forcing us onto a specific course. Deeper into the Throat."
He fought the wheel, the muscles in his arms corded with strain. The ship groaned in protest, but the currents were too strong. They were being pulled, helpless, into the heart of the maelstrom.
Through a sudden rift in the fog, Ben saw a nightmare tableau. Another ship, a massive Viking longship, was locked in the same struggle. It was Goyo Eminex's Frost-Reaver. One of the colossal tentacles had wrapped itself around the vessel's stern. Ice magic flared, bolts of freezing energy shooting from the hands of Eminex's shamans, encasing the scales in a shell of frost. The tentacle shuddered and retracted, but another rose immediately to take its place. The air was filled with the deep-throated chants of the northmen and the bestial roars of the creature.
Then, a flash of clean, white light. A precise beam of energy, like concentrated moonlight, lanced from the fog and struck the tentacle holding the Frost-Reaver. It was a Guardian energy cannon. The Sea Dart, Yūe Cleoda's ship, emerged from the mist, its hull gleaming like a shard of ice. It moved with impossible agility, weaving through the tentacles, its cannons firing with surgical accuracy. It was not trying to destroy the creature; it was trying to free the pirate ship.
"Why are they helping Eminex?" Ben yelled over the din.
"They're not helping him, you fool!" his father snarled. "They're preserving the balance! Google wants all the players in the game until the Heart is found. He doesn't want Eminex taken off the board by a monster!"
The logic was cold and political. It was not about mercy; it was about strategy. Ben's idealized vision of the Guardians fractured a little more.
The Sullen Harpy was now caught in the main current, spinning slowly toward a narrow gap between two towering, tooth-like rocks. The water there was a furious whirlpool. This was the Laughing Throat, and it was preparing to swallow them.
"Brace for impact!" Mr. Rookiepasta roared.
The ship was sucked into the gap. The world became a vertigo of spinning fog, spray, and the deafening roar of water. The tentacles lashed around them, missing by yards, striking the rocks with earth-shattering force. They were in the belly of the beast.
And then, as suddenly as it began, it stopped.
The Harpy shot out into a place of unnatural calm. The fog was gone. The roaring was gone. The thrumming heartbeat faded to a distant, almost imperceptible pulse. They were in a circular lagoon, perhaps a mile wide, the water as flat and dark as polished obsidian. All around them, the jagged peaks of the Serpent's Teeth rose like the walls of a prison, shrouded in mist. The sky above was a narrow circle of clear, cold blue.
They had passed through the Throat. They were in the Calm.
But they were not alone.
Drifting in the center of the lagoon were the other ships. The Frost-Reaver, battered and scarred with burns and ice, its crew warily watching the others. The Sea Dart, seemingly untouched, its crew standing at orderly stations, Yūe Cleoda visible on the bridge, her face unreadable. And there, on the far side, was a fleet of three ships, larger and more menacing than the others. Their sails were black, emblazoned with a bloody handprint. At the prow of the lead ship, a massive dreadnought called the Iron Scripture, stood a tall, lean figure in a dark, elegant coat. Even from this distance, his aura of absolute authority was palpable. His face was sharp and cruel, and his eyes scanned the new arrivals with the dispassionate interest of a collector.
Vallaha Vincinzo. The main antagonist. He had arrived first.
But there was a fifth ship. It was smaller, tucked near the rocky wall of the lagoon. It was an odd, ancient-looking vessel, with a hull of dark, oily wood and sails patched with a hundred different colors. It looked derelict, harmless. But something about it made the back of Ben's neck prickle.
No one moved. No one fired. A tense, silent standoff had begun in the heart of the Serpent's Teeth. The hunt for the Heart of the Ocean had reached its first peak.
It was Vincinzo who broke the silence. His voice, amplified by some unseen mechanism, carried clearly across the still water. It was a cultured voice, smooth as silk and sharp as a razor.
"Mr. Rookiepasta. Goyo Eminex. And the delightful Miss Cleoda, standing in for the good Admiral. How kind of you to join me." He gave a slight, mocking bow. "I trust the journey was… educational."
"Where is it, Vincinzo?" Eminex's voice boomed back, raw and powerful. "The Heart! Do not play games!"
"The Heart is not a trinket to be found lying on the sand, you northern brute," Vincinzo replied dismissively. "It is protected. The Calm is but the antechamber. The true trial lies within." He gestured toward the far wall of the lagoon, where a vast, dark cave mouth yawned open, half-submerged in the black water. "The Leviathan's Tomb. The stories say only a worthy captain may enter. A captain with… a certain quality."
His eyes swept across the other ships, and for a fleeting moment, they rested on Ben. A cold smile touched Vincinzo's lips. "Or perhaps, someone new."
Ben felt a chill. What did he mean?
It was then that a hatch on the deck of the strange, fifth ship opened. A figure climbed out. He was a man of average height, dressed in simple, practical clothes that were neither pirate flash nor Guardian uniform. He had a calm, unremarkable face, the kind you would forget moments after seeing it. But his eyes were different. They were ancient, intelligent, and held a depth of knowledge that was profoundly unsettling.
Every leader on the lagoon recognized him instantly. A ripple of shock, even fear, went through them.
"Oukoto Beaketr," Mr. Rookiepasta breathed, his voice full of loathing and something like awe. "The traitor."
Oukoto Beaketr, the former lead member of Google, who had turned pirate to "steal and destroy information." He stood on his deck, not looking at any of them, but gazing intently at the dark cave entrance. He held a strange, brass device in his hand, which he seemed to be consulting.
"Beaketr," Vincinzo called, his smooth voice now edged with tension. "This is beyond even you. Whatever you think you know…"
Oukoto Beaketr ignored him completely. He looked up from his device, not at the powerful warlords, but directly at Ben. His expression was one of pure, clinical curiosity.
"The variable," he said, his voice quiet yet carrying an unnatural weight. "The equation is incomplete without you."
Before anyone could react, a tremor ran through the lagoon. The water in the center of the Calm began to bubble and swirl. Something was rising from the depths. Not a monster. A platform of ancient, carved stone, covered in strange glyphs. And in the center of the platform sat a simple, wooden chest.
The air crackled with energy. The Heart of the Ocean was here. And the trial for it was about to begin.
Ben stood on the deck of his father's ship, a boy surrounded by legends and monsters. He felt the weight of Oukoto Beaketr's gaze, the hunger in Vincinzo's eyes, the resolve in Yūe Cleoda's stance, and the brutal expectation of his father. The key in his chest, the wind's favor, hummed with a sudden, urgent power.
The choice was no longer between butcher and cattle. The choice was about what he would become in the face of the tomb.
The silence in the Calm was heavier than the storm's roar. The stone platform, now fully emerged, glistened with water and ancient moss. The wooden chest upon it was unadorned, bound with rusted iron, yet it seemed to pull all light and sound toward it, a vortex of silent potential. The Heart of the Ocean. It was real.
For a long moment, no one moved. The sheer audacity of the chest's appearance, so simple and yet so monumental, held them all in thrall. The only sound was the gentle lap of water against the ships' hulls and the distant, ever-present pulse of the phantom heartbeat.
Vallaha Vincinzo was the first to break the spell. "A worthy captain," he murmured, repeating the legend. His eyes, sharp and calculating, scanned the other ships. He was assessing, not the chest, but the reactions of his rivals. He saw the raw greed in Goyo Eminex's stance, the cold determination in Yūe Cleoda's, the desperate ambition in Mr. Rookiepasta's. His gaze lingered once more on Ben, a flicker of interest in their cold depths, before settling on Oukoto Beaketr. The traitor was the true wild card.
"Worthiness is not claimed," Oukoto Beaketr said, his voice still carrying that unnatural, quiet weight. He did not look at Vincinzo, but continued to watch the cave entrance. "It is tested. The tomb does not seek a conqueror. It seeks a key."
As if on cue, the glyphs on the stone platform began to glow with a soft, blue light. The light pulsed in time with the hidden heartbeat, and the water around the platform swirled, forming intricate, fleeting patterns before dissolving back into darkness.
"Enough of this mysticism!" boomed Goyo Eminex. "I did not sail through hell to watch lights dance!" He gestured to one of his longboats. "I will take what is mine!"
A team of burly northmen began to lower the boat into the water. But as soon as the wooden hull touched the obsidian surface of the lagoon, the gentle pulses from the platform sharpened into a violent flare. The water around the longboat erupted, not in a geyser, but in a swarm of razor-sharp, crystalline shards that shot up from the depths. They moved like living things, honing in on the boat, shredding the wood and the men inside with terrifying, silent efficiency. In seconds, there was nothing left but floating splinters and a spreading stain of red on the dark water.
The blue light from the glyphs faded back to a soft pulse. The message was clear: brute force would not work here.
A grim satisfaction showed on Yūe Cleoda's face. "The old world has its protections, Eminex. Your axe is useless here." She turned to address her own crew, her voice crisp and clear. "Scan for energy signatures. Harmonic frequencies. The Guardian archives speak of resonant keys. Find it."
Her crew, a model of efficiency, sprang into action. Strange instruments were brought on deck, emitting low hums and casting scanning beams of light across the stone platform.
Ben watched, fascinated. This was the Guardians' way: knowledge, technology, order. It was a stark contrast to the pirates' methods. But was it the right way? He looked at the dark cave mouth—the Leviathan's Tomb. It felt ancient, wild, and deeply unnatural. Would it respond to a scanner?
His father had a different approach. "Goyle," Mr. Rookiepasta said, his voice low. "The map. The one we took from the Whispering Maw. Look at the corner. Those symbols."
Goyle produced a tattered scroll from inside his oilskin coat. On its edge, almost as an afterthought, were markings that vaguely resembled the glowing glyphs on the platform.
"It's a tide chart," Mr. Rookiepasta said, a spark of understanding in his eyes. "But not for water. For light. The pulse… it's not random. It's a rhythm. A code."
While the Guardians scanned and the pirates plotted, Oukoto Beaketr simply waited. He had put away his brass device and now stood with his arms crossed, observing everything with the detached air of a scientist watching an experiment unfold.
Vincinzo, however, grew impatient. "Codes. Rhythms. A waste of time." He signaled to his own ship. A different kind of longboat was lowered, this one shielded with dark, metallic plates. At its prow stood a figure clad in articulated armor, his face hidden by a helmet shaped like a wolf's head. WolfLozi. The mad dog, now leashed by a more powerful master.
"The unworthy are cleansed," Vincinzo said, his voice dripping with contempt for the failed attempt. "But perhaps… immunity can be purchased." WolfLozi's boat began to row toward the platform, its shielded hull slicing through the water.
As it entered the zone where Eminex's boat was destroyed, the glyphs flared again. The crystalline shards shot up once more, but this time, they ricocheted harmlessly off the armored plates with a sound like ringing bells. WolfLozi threw his head back and let out a screeching laugh.
"He's going to make it," Ben whispered, a knot of dread tightening in his stomach.
But Oukoto Beaketr finally moved. He raised a hand, not in a dramatic gesture, but a simple, almost casual one. He wasn't looking at WolfLozi's boat; he was looking at the glyphs on the platform. He murmured a single, guttural word that seemed to warp the air around it.
The blue light of the glyphs flickered, stuttered, and then changed. The pulse shifted, becoming erratic, chaotic. The crystalline shards, instead of attacking, simply dissolved back into the water. The protective field was down.
WolfLozi's boat reached the platform unmolested. The mad pirate leaped onto the stone, his clawed hands reaching for the chest.
And then the Laughing Throat laughed again.
This was not a roar of rage. It was a sound of deep, cosmic mockery that seemed to come from the very air and rock. The stone platform trembled. The lid of the chest did not open. Instead, the entire chest, and the section of the platform it sat on, collapsed inwards, vanishing into a sudden pit that opened beneath it. WolfLozi barely scrambled back in time, falling onto his shielded boat as the pit snapped shut, leaving the platform seemingly whole again, but now devoid of its prize.
The chest was gone. The trial had begun in earnest.
Oukoto Beaketr lowered his hand. "The key is not a shield," he said, to no one in particular. "It is a tune. And the lock has many layers."
All eyes turned to the dark, submerged cave mouth—the Leviathan's Tomb. The real Heart of the Ocean was clearly not here on this platform. This had been a decoy, a test to weed out the unprepared. The true path lay within the tomb.
Vincinzo's face was a mask of cold fury. He had been played, first by the tomb's defenses, then by Beaketr's interference. Eminex let out a thunderous laugh at his rival's failure. Yūe Cleoda's scanners were now pointed toward the cave, their readings going wild.
Mr. Rookiepasta looked from the cave to the strange, fifth ship, and then to his son. The variable. The equation. The wind's favor.
"Ben," he said, his voice low and intense. "It's time to stop watching. It's time to see what you're made of."
The standoff was over. The race was now into the darkness of the tomb.