The lookout of the New Ghis fleet let out a hoarse scream, his voice breaking with terror.
"Pirates! Those damned bastards from the Basilisk Islands!"
On the deck of the flagship, Admiral Groz of New Ghis shoved aside the slave beside him and snatched the monocular. In the distance, a sea of dark sails surged out from the mist, spreading across the horizon like a swarm of sharks scenting blood. Their numbers far exceeded any pirate group he had ever known.
"Damn it! How did these pirates form such a large fleet?" Groz's forehead glistened with sweat. He lowered the telescope and barked, "Turn around! Full sails! Get us away from them—now!"
Twenty New Ghis warships scrambled to change direction, their decks thrown into chaos. Sailors, whipped furiously by their officers, hauled on ropes with trembling hands, desperate to catch the wind and flee this ominous sea.
---
On Damian Thorne's flagship, he lounged lazily in a chair, fingers tapping rhythmically on the armrest. The sea breeze lifted strands of his dark hair, but his expression remained calm—almost bored.
"Why so slow?" he murmured, irritation edging into his tone.
The old blind man bowed deeply, his back bent in habitual reverence. "Your Majesty, the enemy has spotted us and is attempting to flee."
"They can't escape." Damian snapped his fingers.
The sound was soft, but it carried the weight of command—an unseen power answering his will.
A sudden gust of wind surged across the ocean, filling the sails of the undead fleet. The ships groaned under the strain, planks creaking, before surging forward with unnatural speed, cutting through the waves like beasts scenting prey.
---
The cabin door creaked open. Alan emerged, followed by a massive figure whose heavy footsteps made the boards tremble.
The towering shape straightened fully—it was none other than the pirate warlord, Qichuan Luo. A faint, deathly light flickered in his murky eyes. His enormous body nearly brushed the cabin ceiling.
Alan's lips curled into a grin of satisfaction as he admired his creation.
"Go," he said. "Put on your armor and take up your greataxe."
Qichuan Luo obeyed stiffly, turning toward a pile of captured equipment in the corner. The armor groaned as he forced it onto his bulk, metal straining and cracking at the joints.
"Forget it," Alan muttered, shaking his head. "Go to the deck. Let the others help you fasten it."
Peeling off his bloodstained apron, Alan washed his hands clean and followed Qichuan Luo to the upper deck. The creature's massive shadow loomed ahead of him, an omen of what was to come.
---
On deck, several pirate sailors hurriedly helped Qichuan Luo tighten the ill-fitting armor. Under the bright sun, his resurrected body looked almost bronze, the muscles unnaturally taut beneath the metal plates.
Damian Thorne regarded him with interest. "Does it still have the memories and wisdom of its former life?"
"Some, Your Majesty," Alan replied, bowing low. His eyes gleamed with fanatic light. "But it acts mainly on command. Whatever it once was, it no longer interferes with its loyalty."
The strong wind carried the fleet closer and closer to the panicked New Ghis ships. Despair spread through the enemy ranks as they watched the dark sails draw near with terrifying speed.
"Fire!" Groz shouted.
Ballista bolts and arrows flew through the air, whistling toward the undead fleet. But the pirate ships pressed on undeterred. Their crews, no longer human, ignored the shafts that pierced their bodies and kept rowing, kept advancing.
Driven by Damian's summoned wind, the gap closed rapidly. The New Ghis sailors realized escape was impossible.
Groz gritted his teeth. "Prepare for collision! Prepare for boarding!"
---
Damian rose slowly from his seat and stretched, as though waking from a nap. His voice was almost amused. "Let's begin, then."
With a casual wave of his hand, the strong wind vanished.
The undead fleet, propelled by its own unstoppable momentum, crashed into the enemy line.
The thunderous sound of splintering wood echoed across the sea. Pirate rams tore through New Ghis hulls, and water foamed crimson as men screamed and ships broke apart.
The pirates roared with glee.
"You cowards from Ghis! Your wives will warm my bed tonight!"
"Come on, boys! Grandpa's blade is thirsty!"
Insults and laughter filled the air as grappling hooks flew. The sea boiled with curses and blood.
The New Ghis sailors fired another desperate volley. Arrows struck the undead pirates—yet they did not fall. A man with three arrows jutting from his chest simply yanked them out, black, foul-smelling ichor dripping down his armor. The sight shattered the courage of the living.
The distance between ships vanished. Dozens of hooked planks slammed down, forming crude bridges of wood and chain.
The boarding had begun.
---
The old blind man swung across on a rope, landing with the grace of a cat. The moment his feet touched the enemy deck, he ducked a sword slash and drove his rapier through his attacker's throat. Blood sprayed across his face, and he laughed hoarsely.
Hooked boards thudded against the hull as more pirates stormed across, roaring.
Then came Qichuan Luo.
The massive undead warrior stepped onto the plank, greataxe in hand. His shadow fell over the enemy crew like a storm cloud.
With a single, wordless roar, he charged.
The first swing of his axe split a man—and his shield—in two. The second sent three more flying, limbs scattering like broken dolls. Every swing painted the deck red.
The sailors of New Ghis screamed and fell back, but there was nowhere left to run.
Elsewhere, the blind old man fought like a man possessed. His rapier flashed in the sun, piercing throats and hearts with blinding speed.
"Hah!" he laughed wildly. "Once, I was the fastest swordsman in Yuhai! What chance do you whelps have against me?"
He spun and cut, moving like a shadow among the chaos. Bodies fell wherever his blade passed. Watching from afar, Alan murmured, almost to himself, "Didn't expect that old man to be such a monster…"
The battle had become a massacre.
---
The New Ghis soldiers broke completely. The undead pirates, impervious to pain or fatigue, were like demons risen from the abyss.
Screams turned to begging, and begging to silence.
Finally, one ship's survivors threw down their weapons and knelt, hands raised in surrender. The sight spread like wildfire—panic took hold, and more ships began to yield one after another.
Only one vessel still fought—the flagship.
Damian's gaze drifted toward it, his expression unreadable. "Hmm. Still resisting?"
On that ship, Admiral Groz and his son, Zora, were making their final stand. Zora, wielding a greatsword, cut down one pirate after another, but their black blood and hollow eyes made them seem unkillable.
He drove his blade through one man's chest—only for the pirate to grin and swing his machete even as he died. The foul, corpse-like stench filled the air.
Zora's arms grew heavy, his grip trembling. Around him, his guards fell—bitten, hacked apart, or dragged screaming into the sea.
Behind him, Groz stood pale-faced, gripping a useless dagger.
"Son," he said hoarsely, resting a trembling hand on Zora's shoulder. "We can't get out."
Zora turned to him. For a heartbeat, their eyes met. Then, with a hollow clatter, the greatsword slipped from his hands and hit the deck.
Both men sank to their knees amid the blood and smoke.
---
On Damian Thorne's deck, a pirate approached and knelt.
"Your Majesty, the New Ghis flagship has fallen."
Damian didn't look up. "Tell the blind man to bring the father and son to me."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
As the man hurried off, Damian turned toward the cabin once more. Alan was already there, crouched beside the piles of corpses, his eyes glittering with hunger. He barked orders, directing the undead sailors to drag bodies into a heap, his mind already turning over which ones might make suitable "materials."
---
Meanwhile, far across the sea, in Meereen—
Inside a Dothraki command tent, the air shimmered with the heat of the desert. Xidara Naqian and Soren sat across from each other at a low wooden table. Between them stood an obsidian glass candle, dark and unlit.
Xidara exhaled slowly, her face drawn with unease.
"The people of the Temple of Holy Grace are becoming more restless," she said. "We must report this to His Majesty."
Soren nodded, the rare look of caution in his fierce Dothraki eyes. "Yes. His Majesty must be informed—and we must await his command."
Xidara extended her trembling hand toward the candle. It was icy to the touch. Closing her eyes, she began to chant softly, invoking the secret words Damian Thorne had taught her—the Supreme Name.
Moments passed. Then, without warning, a pale blue flame flickered to life at the tip of the black candle.
Both of them froze as a calm, powerful voice echoed directly into their minds, carrying across the sea.
"Xidara. Soren. What's going on?"
---
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