The rasping voice did not speak again. The only sound was the frantic beating of Ben's own heart and the drip of water echoing in the oppressive silence. The pulsating green light of the vein-lined tunnel cast long, dancing shadows that seemed to reach for him. He was alone, but the presence of the tomb felt more alive than ever.
He had to keep moving. Behind him, the sounds of conflict—distant shouts, the muffled roar of a cannon, the sharp crack of energy weapons—told him the fragile truce had shattered. They were coming for him. His father, the pirates, the Guardians. The key.
The passage sloped downward, the air growing heavier, saturated with the scent of salt and time. The walls began to change. The smooth, fused rock gave way to rougher, worked stone. He was no longer in a natural throat; he was entering a constructed space. The tunnel opened into a vast, circular chamber, so wide the far walls were lost in gloom. The floor was a mosaic of incredible complexity, depicting sea monsters, ancient ships, and constellations he didn't recognize, all crafted from colored stone and mother-of-pearl that gleamed in the dim light.
In the center of the chamber rose a dais, and on it sat a throne carved from a single, massive piece of black coral. But the chamber was in ruins. Pillars had toppled, the mosaic was cracked and scarred, and the throne was chipped and broken. This was not a sacred tomb; it was a fallen hall. A memory of a kingdom.
Ben's eyes were drawn to the far wall, where a massive fresco, though faded and damaged, remained largely intact. It depicted a city of spires and bridges, built into the sides of a colossal sea canyon, its streets teeming with life. Above it, inlaid in gold leaf that still held a flicker of luminescence, was a name: Pirate Cove.
And below the city, a figure stood on the deck of a ship, one foot resting on a sea serpent's head. He was clad in ornate armor, a crown of shells and twisted metal on his head. His face was proud, fierce, and etched with a profound arrogance. Inscribed beneath him were words, their letters carved deep and filled with a tarnished silver that seemed to bleed into the stone.
A voice, not a whisper from the walls but a clear, powerful echo from the past, seemed to resonate in the chamber, speaking the words as Ben read them:
"They said the open sea was a lawless void, that no banner could fly forever over the waves. They said the Merchant Kings in their marble towers were untouchable, their wealth unassailable. They said the Guardian Order was the final word, that their justice was as immutable as the tides."
The voice was commanding, laced with a conqueror's iron will. It was the voice of the man on the fresco. The voice of Emperor Jean Benitez.
"I have many enemies. My equals are none. They waited for my star to fade, for the storm of my ambition to break upon the rocks of their complacency. They whispered that Pirate Cove was a folly, a dream that would die with me."
Ben felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cold. He could almost see the emperor standing on the dais, addressing a host of loyal, ruthless captains.
"But they were wrong. They are silent now. They fear me not as a man, but as a principle—the unyielding force of the deep, the master of the final current. They know that my death will not be an end. It will be a beginning. My death will be the last word you ever hear… and it will be the end of their world. It will be the end of Pirate Cove as they knew it, and the dawn of an empire that never sets."
The echo faded. The chamber was silent once more. Ben understood. This was not just the Leviathan's Tomb. This was the throne room of Jean Benitez, the legendary emperor who had unified the pirates and built a nation from plunder. The Heart of the Ocean wasn't just a gem; it was his legacy. The source of his power. And he had hidden it here, in the belly of a dead god, as his final revenge on the world that thought it had defeated him.
A new sound pulled Ben from his reverie: the splash of oars and the crunch of boots on stone. From the tunnel he had entered, figures emerged. Not his father, or Vincinzo. These were Goyo Eminex's northmen, their faces grim under their helmets, their axes and swords drawn. They fanned out, their eyes scanning the chamber until they landed on him.
"The key is still here," one of them grunted. "The boy."
"Take him," ordered their leader, a massive man with a braided red beard. "The Jarl wants him alive."
Ben backed away, his heart pounding. There were too many. The wind's favor still hummed within him, but he was exhausted, cornered. He glanced around desperately. The chamber had other exits, dark archways leading into deeper darkness. But they were too far.
As the northmen advanced, a section of the mosaic floor near the dais suddenly gave way with a grinding roar. A hidden pit, triggered by their weight or the passage of time. Two of the warriors vanished with startled shouts, their cries cut short by a splash far below. The others halted, wary now.
In that moment of distraction, a figure dropped from the shadows of the high ceiling, landing between Ben and the northmen with silent grace. It was Yūe Cleoda. Her Guardian uniform was smudged with dirt, but her posture was ramrod straight, her expression calm. In her hand, she held not a sword, but a slender, glowing rod—a energy baton.
"Stand down," she commanded the Vikings, her voice echoing in the hall. "This is a protected historical site. The boy is under the guardianship of the Order."
The northmen laughed, a harsh, mocking sound. "Your order has no power here, girl. This is a place of kings and conquerors. Not scribes."
Their leader stepped forward, hefting a massive axe. "We will take the key, and you will not stop us."
Yūe Cleoda didn't flinch. "I am not here to stop you. I am here to preserve knowledge. And he," she glanced back at Ben, her eyes for the first time showing something other than clinical detachment—a spark of intense curiosity, "is the most significant historical find in a century."
The two forces charged each other. It was not a battle of chaos, like the pirate fights Ben knew. The northmen fought with brute strength and ferocity, their attacks wide and powerful. Yūe Cleoda moved like water, her baton a blur, deflecting blows with precise, economical movements, striking pressure points and joints with devastating efficiency. She was outnumbered, but she was a master of her art.
Ben saw his chance. While they were engaged, he turned and ran for the nearest dark archway. As he passed the broken throne, his foot kicked against something metallic. He looked down. It was a circlet, half-buried in rubble—a smaller, simpler version of the crown in the fresco. Without thinking, he scooped it up and shoved it into his pocket.
He plunged into the new tunnel, leaving the sounds of battle behind. This passage was different—narrower, steeper, and lined not with glowing veins, but with alcoves. In each alcove stood a skeleton, clad in the rusted remnants of ancient armor, each holding a weapon, standing in silent, eternal vigil. The Emperor's personal guard, buried with him.
The passage ended at a sheer wall, a dead end. But carved into the wall was a single, large glyph. It was the same symbol that had glowed on the bone gate. The lock.
Ben stood before it, panting. He could hear footsteps approaching from behind—whether friend or foe, he didn't know. He had nowhere else to go. He placed his hand on the cold stone of the glyph.
The hollow ache in his chest flared into a warm, resonant hum. The power within him reached out, and the glyph responded, glowing with the same soft blue light. The wall did not open. Instead, the skeletons in the alcoves began to move. Their bones creaked, their rusted armor grinding as they turned their skulls toward him. Empty eye sockets fixed on the boy who had awakened them.
This was not a lock to be opened. It was a lock to be worthy of. And the trial was not over.
The first skeleton stepped from its alcove, raising a notched and ancient sword. The echo of Jean Benitez seemed to fill the corridor once more, a final, mocking challenge:
"The Heart awaits, little key. But can you pay the price to claim it?"