The desert around Augur had gone quiet in the strangest way.
It was muted, as if everyone had decided to step back and watch the end. Fires still crackled in the distance, some buildings still collapsed in the distance as they burned, but the space between him and Gerrard felt sealed off, wrapped tight in tension and blood and exhaustion.
Augur stood because he refused to fall.
His legs shook violently, muscles screaming with every attempt to keep balance. Blood dripped steadily from his side, soaking into the sand beneath his boots. His breathing was shallow and uneven, each inhale scraping like broken glass through his chest.
Senriku hung in his hands, heavier than it had ever felt. The rifle was cracked, the barrel warped, the mechanism whining in protest every time he shifted his grip.
Across from him, Gerrard advanced.
The vice-captain of the Carragher Pirates no longer walked with the calm precision he had shown earlier. He limped now, his left leg dragging slightly, a dark trail of blood slipping from the corner of his mouth and splattering onto the ground. His glasses were cracked, one lens fractured, but his eyes behind them were still sharp, cold, analytical, cruel.
"You're persistent," Gerrard said, voice low. "I'll give you that."
Augur didn't answer. He couldn't waste breath on words.
Observation stretched thin around him. He could see Gerrard's next step, but only barely. Holding that awareness felt like pressing his mind against a blade.
Gerrard tilted his head slightly, studying him. "You know," he continued, almost conversational, "men like you always think one perfect shot will change everything."
Augur's lips twitched into a bloody grin. "It usually does."
He planted his feet.
This was it.
There would be no dodging this time. No retreat. No clever angles or borrowed shields. Senriku trembled as Augur drew in what little strength he had left, fingers tightening around the grip until his knuckles went white.
His focused sharpened.
A narrow window.
A single instant.
"This one's called—" Augur rasped, blood spilling down his chin, "—Graveyard's Whisper."
He fired.
The recoil nearly tore the rifle from his hands. Pain exploded through his shoulder and chest as if his body were tearing itself apart. The shot ripped through the air, screaming as it went, cutting straight through smoke and dust toward Gerrard's center mass.
The impact hit.
Stone shattered behind Gerrard as he was driven backward several steps, his coat ripping, his body slamming hard into a broken wall. Dust and debris erupted, swallowing both men in a choking cloud.
Augur collapsed.
His knees gave out first, then his whole body followed, crashing onto his back with a hollow thud. Senriku slipped from his fingers and clattered beside him. His vision swam, the sky above him blurring into light and shadow.
He lay there, chest heaving, blood pooling beneath him.
For a moment, there was nothing.
Then footsteps.
Slow and uneven.
Gerrard emerged from the dust, limping heavily now. His katana dragged along the ground, leaving a shallow groove in the stone. Blood streamed freely from his mouth, and a dark stain spread across his coat, centered just above his stomach.
He stopped beside Augur and looked down at him.
"You're a bug," Gerrard said quietly. "A stubborn one, but still a bug."
Augur laughed weakly, the sound wet and broken. "Funny," he muttered. "Bugs usually don't put holes in people."
Gerrard's eyes flicked downward.
There it was.
A bullet wound, buried deep in his abdomen. Blood seeped through his fingers as he pressed a hand against it, his expression tightening for just a fraction of a second.
He straightened slowly. "That won't kill me."
He raised his katana.
Augur watched the blade rise, strangely calm. He had done what he could. Senriku lay beside him, ruined. His body was finished.
At least he'd damaged the man.
That would have to be enough.
The katana began to fall—
—and Gerrard's head exploded.
There was a deafening crack, wet and violent, like a melon smashed by a cannonball.
Blood and fragments sprayed outward in a horrifying arc. Gerrard's body froze mid-motion, katana slipping from nerveless fingers as the corpse toppled sideways and collapsed heavily beside Augur.
Augur flinched as warm gore splattered across his face and coat.
"…Disgusting," he muttered faintly.
His vision tilted upward.
Standing several paces away was Gibbs.
Smoke curled lazily from the barrel of a long firearm held in his steady hands. His coat was torn, his face bruised, but his stance was firm. He took a slow swig of rum, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and exhaled.
"Timing's still good," Gibbs said to no one in particular.
Augur let out a weak breath that might have been a laugh. "Took… your time."
Gibbs glanced at him. "You looked like you had it handled."
Augur managed to lift two fingers in a shaky gesture that might have been gratitude. "Thanks… old man."
His eyes fluttered shut.
Gibbs watched him for a moment, then turned as footsteps approached behind him.
A woman stood there—dark-skinned, dreadlocked, eyes dark. She wore layers of cloth and charms, her presence strange and heavy, as if she didn't quite belong to this era.
"I brought you here," she said calmly. "As promised."
Gibbs nodded. "Much obliged."
When he looked back, she was already gone, moving swiftly toward the city, urgency in her stride.
In Alubarna's ruined heart, the dust finally settled.
Carragher stood alone.
Blood poured freely from the massive gash in his chest, soaking his shirt, dripping onto the broken street below. His breathing was heavy, labored, but he remained upright, shoulders squared by sheer will.
Around him lay bodies—guards, pirates, civilians, shattered stone.
Carragher turned slowly toward the mound of rubble where Jack Sparrow had vanished.
He stared at it for several long seconds.
"…You were strong," he muttered, voice low, almost respectful.
He didn't know if Jack was alive beneath the debris.
He didn't care.
Victory was still his.
He began to move toward the palace.
Then the light changed.
A presence settled over the battlefield—lazy, oppressive, undeniable.
Carragher's instincts screamed.
He looked up.
A man stood above him, descending slowly from the sky as if gravity were merely a suggestion. He wore a Marine uniform, immaculate despite the chaos. His legs were unusually long, his posture relaxed, one hand tucked casually into his pocket. A cigarette smoldered between his lips.
Vice Admiral Borsalino.
Carragher's mouth went dry.
So the Marines had come.
Without a word, Carragher lunged, throwing everything he had left into a single, desperate punch.
Borsalino tilted his head.
Light flared.
Carragher felt nothing—then everything.
The blow hit him with overwhelming force, launching his massive body backward and slamming him into the ground hard enough to crack the stone beneath. He sank several feet into the earth, consciousness shattering on impact.
Borsalino looked down at the unconscious brute, unimpressed.
"…Only one hit," he mused. "How scary."
His attention shifted.
Across the rubble, the same strange woman from before—Tia Dalma—was pulling a young man free from broken stone. The man wore a white shirt soaked red with blood, his arms darkened unnaturally, his body limp.
Jack Sparrow.
Borsalino watched for a moment, considering.
The order had been clear.
Stop the invasion.
The invasion was over.
They didn't order him to capture any pirates. That was someone else's job.
He exhaled smoke and turned away, letting the woman carry the pirate off into the smoke and fire as dawn crept slowly over Alubarna.
The battle had ended.