Woodes Rodgers looked. He wanted to see the face of the Iron Lantern. He wanted to see what his reaction would be to having it all taken away his freedom, his choice, his control. He wanted him to feel despair. The same despair that he himself had felt in the world of the living, when he had killed the Iron Lantern with his own hands, when he had watched the light fade from his eyes and felt nothing but emptiness.
His eyes gleamed with joy and satisfaction. The satisfaction of a righteous man who does good. But does his good really mean what it means? Does the path of righteousness truly lead to righteousness, or is it simply another form of self-deception?
None of that mattered. The moment was what mattered. He wanted to see what it would be.
"HAHAHAHA! HAHAHAHA! HAHAHAHA!"
His laughter echoed across the deck bright, sharp, triumphant. He had waited for this moment. Had craved it. Had dreamed of it.
The Iron Lantern laughed.
A smile spread across his face wide, broken, free. His body was shaking, filled with pain, his wounds still pouring blood, his organs still threatening to escape. He clenched his fist tightly, the muscles in his arm bulging with the effort, and then coughed out thick, dark blood from his body.
He raised his head up.
In a smile.
"Oh, my friend..." His voice was weak, but it carried. "You're looking as good as ever."
He studied Rodgers the silver hair, the sharp features, the purity of his form.
"You were always more handsome than me." He laughed a short, wet, broken sound. "With that pure silver hair of yours... you would be akin to an angel descended from heaven to bring great joy to the earth."
He paused.
"But, contrast to that..." His voice hardened. "...you have no joy to give."
He looked at him directly in the eye.
"I knew that you would come." He smiled. "It would be an unfair death if my one and only rival was not here to witness my end."
He took a breath heavy, damp, painful. The air was thick with salt and blood and expectation.
"Now..." He raised his hands empty, weaponless, ready. "...let's do it. The long-awaited battle that never truly concluded in the living."
Rodgers looked at him.
He studied the Iron Lantern's form the weakness, the exhaustion, the certainty of death that hung on him like a shroud.
"A free man?" His voice was cold, mocking, absolute. "You don't look so free."
He gestured at the wounds covering the Iron Lantern's body.
"The chains of death are all around you." His voice dropped. "Pulling you into its embrace."
The Iron Lantern got up.
His body rose slowly, painfully, defiantly. He continued to shake, his muscles trembling, his bones groaning, his will pushing him beyond the limits of flesh.
He smiled.
"I am a free man." His voice was quiet, but it carried. "Chains are not a sign of captivity."
He spread his arms.
"Simply because one is bounded to something does not mean he has no will." He looked at Rodgers. "The most free man may even be one locked up from the world itself."
He lowered his arms.
"Now..." His voice hardened. "...enough talk. Let us do battle."
Rodgers looked at him.
His eyes cold, calculating, certain scanned the Iron Lantern's form. He saw the wounds. The blood. The absence of weapons.
"Fine." His voice was flat. "At least unlike in the living, where I did not defeat you in battle... here, I shall make it as crystal clear as day who is greater."
He drew his blade.
The steel sang as it left the scabbard gleaming in the storm-light, sharp, deadly, absolute.
"Between the two of us."
He pointed the blade at the Iron Lantern's heart.
"You don't even have a sword." He paused. "Or your guns."
His voice hardened.
"How do you expect to win this battle?"
The Iron Lantern laughed.
He put one leg forward planting his foot, grounding himself, preparing. He raised his arm in a position of defence his hands open, his fingers spread, his body coiled.
"Well then, my rival..." His voice was calm, almost reverent. "...let me show you my creation."
He smiled.
"Because of my ideal..." He took a breath. "...I created a martial art of freedom."
He shifted his weight.
"A martial art that has no defense." He moved his hand a slow, deliberate gesture. "A martial art that has no offense."
He looked at Rodgers at the man who had killed him, who had judged him, who had come to witness his end.
"Truly..." His voice dropped. "...this is my greatest creation."
He raised his hands.
"The peak of all human ability." His eyes burned. "Let me carve it into you."
The Iron Lantern stood, wounded and weaponless.
Woodes Rodgers raised his blade.
And the sea roared.