Deep in the jungle quadrant of the inheritance island, Snake Man and his second in command Sacilia stepped silently across a carpet of steaming moss. Vines curled like lazy anacondas, and silver butterflies scattered at his scent. The five serpents coiled around his limbs—his living weapons—sensed the change before he did.
There was another presence here. From the trees emerged Rukka, his pale apprentice, bald and bare-chested, wearing only a black prayer sash around his eyes.
"Master," Rukka murmured. "The jungle is listening." "It always listens," Snake Man whispered, his body swaying as though moved by unseen currents. They stopped before a curved wall grown into the jungle itself, made from overlapping stone scales. At its center was a serpent shrine, a statue of a three-headed hydra twisted in agony, its mouths open in silent scream.
Each of Snake Man's five serpents hissed, recognizing something ancient and foul. He stepped forward—and the shrine came to life. Stone serpents erupted from the earth, lunging like striking king cobras. Rukka leapt aside, while Snake Man dropped into a perfect one-legged crouch, extending both arms—his limbs stretching unnaturally far as the serpents along them slithered forward and intercepted each stone strike.
Strike. Parry. Coil. Bend.
The serpents darted along his extended arms, countering with elemental bites—fire, poison, frost, sound, and wind. Each serpent moved in harmony with its master's chi. The jungle twisted. Suddenly, the world went still. Then—SSSSSSSHTK—a hidden door behind the shrine peeled open, revealing a dark chamber lit by soft violet flame.
Snake Man entered alone. Inside was no gold. Only a single scroll laid atop an altar made of coiled obsidian bones. He picked it up, his fingers reverent. Gold ink traced each word with meticulous calligraphy; the title burned into the vellum:
"The Thirteen Bends of the Broken Serpent."
Each technique inside was a killer's dream—deceptive rhythm, reversed momentum, chi-constricting strangulation, and fang-burst strikes that turned the user's own body into a series of coiling traps!
Snake Man chuckled, eyes wild and glittering. "A gift," he whispered. "From the Pirate Kings inheritance. All of the treasure he collected in his 900-year life here in the lower first coil." Behind him, his five snakes hissed in agreement. Rukka, and Sacilia waiting outside, bowed as Snake Man emerged—scroll now bound across his chest like a sacred scripture.
"Master...?"
Snake Man cracked his neck, stretching his arms until the joints popped in unnatural directions. "Come," he said. "We still have ten more heads to sever." At the edge of the island, cradled within a basin of black stone and lavender moss, stood a lone obsidian torii gate. Beyond it, silence reigned. Faeluxe hovered before it, blades drawn—razor-thin sabers with moonlight shimmer. Her gossamer wings beat once. Twice. Then stilled.
"I can feel it," she whispered. "A trial for those who live in the breath between moments." She stepped through. Inside was a circular courtyard ringed with black bamboo and lit by ethereal moonlight—though no sun or sky was visible above. A voice echoed in her mind: "Still the soul. Steady the breath. Cut not the leaf—cut the choice."
A single droplet of water fell from the air. Then another. Then hundreds.
The Trial of Falling Water had begun.
Faeluxe narrowed her eyes. Time slowed. Each droplet fell differently—some fast, some slow, all unpredictable. But each carried a thread of hostile chi, designed to sap her balance and disorient her flow. With barely a flick of her wrists, she moved.
Snick. Snick. Swish.
Each stroke of her blades intercepted a droplet not for contact—but for removal. She sliced the qi presence from the droplet without harming its body, like filleting reality. It was a dance—a pirouette in stillness. She passed. The droplets halted. Then the wind rose. Leaves fell from nowhere. Thousands of them.
Trial Two: The Falling Storm.
These were no ordinary leaves—they hummed with razor-edged intent, qi-bound to mimic blade auras, each bearing a random elemental tag: flame, frost, rot, or shock. Faeluxe exhaled slowly. Then disappeared. Her wings shimmered like glass, her sabers arced in blurred crescents. She dashed between leaf flurries, her chi weaving threads of mirror defense—a prism dancer among knives. She didn't slice the leaves.
She redirected their movement, bending wind and aura around her until every leaf slowed and fell harmlessly to the ground. Silence fell. The moonlight overhead pulsed.
A door of crystalline petals bloomed open, revealing her reward. Faeluxe stepped inside the treasure room—and gasped. On a levitating pedestal spun a single glimmering ribbon—woven from moon thread, basilisk silk, and dream root hair. It sparkled with a subtle aurora.
"The Ribbon of Ever pure." A mythical accessory said to nullify nearly all negative debuffs, status ailments, and soul poisons. Even certain curses. Her eyes went wide. She reached out, the ribbon leaping into her fingers as though it had waited centuries just for her. She tied it around her left wrist, and it instantly shifted into a subtle armband of glowing silver filament. "No more rot. No more slowness. Not even charm can twist me now." She smiled wickedly.
"Let the others struggle in sweat and pain. I'll glide to the throne."
We entered a long, shadow-choked chamber carved of sea stone and obsidian coral. The walls were covered in faded murals of serpents and tide-warped storms—but what drew our attention was the massive stone gate at the far end. It had no handle. No keyhole. Just two rectangular recesses on opposite ends of the chamber, each with gears and glass tubes glowing dimly with amethyst light.
"Looks like a dead end," Riggs muttered, squinting at the recesses.
"Wait," I said, closing my eyes I directed wisps of intent into the dream recall ability. My spirit man form rose inside me—casting forward like a second shadow. "Dream Recall," I whispered. A soft wind stirred the dust. The room shimmered—and suddenly I witnessed the past: two pirate silhouettes, ghost-like, struggling at either side of the chamber, calling to each other. They manipulated panels. Tubes filled with glowing liquid. A delayed signal. A failed attempt. Then, a perfect moment—they turned keys simultaneously—and the great door opened.
The memory faded.
"It's a twin mechanism," I said, eyes opening. "Both must be activated at the same time. One wrong move and it resets." Riggs cracked his knuckles. "Mechanisms? Finally, something civilized." He moved to the left recess and knelt beside it, his old engineer instincts kicking in as he examined the gearwork. "Pressure triggers, mirrored valve response… clever bastard." Felicity drifted over to the right-side console, her fingers already dancing across the brass knobs and glass rods. Her parasitic feelers twitched with excitement. "Ooh, this one's spicy," she purred. "There's a magnetic lock inside. I could do this blindfolded." She looked over her shoulder and gave me a wink.
Oria stood between them, tense. "What happens if they aren't in sync?" "Room floods," Riggs muttered, half-focused. "Or maybe it ignites. Depends on whether this symbol means 'salt' or 'fire.'" "Could be both," Felicity added, delighted. I took a breath. "Ready?" The two locked eyes across the chamber. Their fingers settled on the final levers.
"On my count," I said. "Three…" The glyphs on the walls pulsed. "Two…" The room's air grew heavy, soaked with old qi. "One."
CLACK.
Both levers turned. A vibration rocked the chamber. Then, silence. A low rumble echoed through the walls as the stone door groaned open, revealing a glowing stairway plunging down into the depths. Ancient voices whispered like bubbles rising from the deep. Riggs stood, brushing dust from his coat. "Told you. Civilized."
Felicity swished past him, patting his shoulder. "Not bad, old man." He scowled. "Don't touch my coat." We stepped forward onto the spiral stair case, one floor higher into the legacy of the Delta Pirate King.