The streets beyond the wall were immaculate.
That was the first thing Jack noticed, even before the smell.
No mud. No broken stone. No cracks where weeds fought their way upward. The road beneath their boots was pale and polished, the stone scrubbed so clean it reflected torchlight like shallow water. Buildings rose on either side in perfect alignment—tall, orderly, trimmed in gold. Even the air felt cleaner here, thinner somehow, as though dust itself had been taxed into extinction.
Jack Sparrow walked straight down the center of the street.
His steps were unhurried, deliberate, boots clicking softly against stone. Gibbs followed half a step behind, flintlock loose in his grip, eyes sharp and calculating. Pintel brought up the rear, craning his neck at everything, feeling distinctly underdressed for a place that looked like it charged people just for existing.
Jack spread his arms slightly as they walked, as if presenting the street.
"This road," he said, voice calm, almost conversational, "is paved with blood."
Gibbs shot him a sideways look. "You're drunk."
Jack nodded. "Yes."
Then, after a beat, "Still true."
Pintel glanced down at the stone beneath his feet. It was flawless. Too flawless. He swallowed. "Blood… from who?"
"Farmers," Jack said. "Laborers. Fishermen. People who worked land and sea and believed effort would be rewarded."
He tilted his head, considering the buildings. "Instead, their work fed gold. And gold fed him."
Pintel frowned. "So… what are we here to do?"
Jack smiled faintly. "Give it back. So we can get to Van Augur and get the remaining money from Beech."
"It's Bege" Pentil corrected.
Gibbs sighed, "You are trying to overthrow the monarchy because you want to chase a bounty of a man who is in no way related to monarchy?"
"He is in there though. So they would have to get through King Roam anyway."
"Roma"
"Same thing"
They were not alone.
A handful of well-dressed civilians still lingered in the streets—merchants, minor nobles, servants running errands. They stared openly, eyes crawling over the three men as if trying to decide whether they were dangerous or simply ridiculous.
"How did they get inside?" one muttered loudly.
"The guards must be asleep," another scoffed. "Or bribed."
One royal guard noticed them and sighed.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, wearing polished armor that gleamed under the torchlight. He rolled his neck once, like a man annoyed at having to stand up from a chair.
"Unbelievable," he muttered, striding toward them. "Those idiots at the gate must've taken bribes again."
He cracked his knuckles and stopped a few paces away, eyeing Jack with open contempt. "I'll deal with you myself."
Jack stopped walking.
The guard stepped closer, grin widening. "After I take my cut."
Jack kicked him.
There was no warning.
The guard flew backward as if struck by a cannonball, crashing through a vendor's stall and disappearing in a spray of shattered wood and spilled goods.
Silence.
For half a second, everyone held their breath.
Then panic exploded.
People screamed. Nobles turned and ran, tripping over their own robes. Servants dropped baskets and fled. Someone shouted "Pirates!" and the word spread like fire.
Pintel stared, heart pounding. "…Oh."
Jack resumed walking.
Gibbs exhaled slowly and followed, raising his flintlock.
"So that's plundering," Pintel muttered, jogging to keep up. "I always thought it involved… stealing. But it's just killing the tyrant kings and beating the corrupt guards."
No one corrected him.
More guards poured in from side streets, spears raised, armor clanking. They looked nervous—too nervous. Gibbs fired once. A guard fell with a scream.
Pintel launched himself at two more, tackling them into the stone with a wild yell.
Jack cut another down without breaking stride.
"They're weak," Pintel panted, kicking a fallen spear away.
"Bribes dull reflexes," Jack said. "And fear dulls courage."
The palace loomed ahead—vast, obscene, drowning in gold. Banners hung from its walls like trophies. The main gates stood tall and closed, carved with symbols of wealth and power.
Jack did not slow.
He kicked the gates open.
The throne room was worse.
Gold everywhere. Columns. Floors. The throne itself—massive, grotesque—was carved entirely from it, piled high with cushions like the king feared hard surfaces as much as rebellion.
King Roma sat upon it, enormous, sweating, fingers heavy with rings that dug into his flesh.
He had seen a dream. A bad dream.
Peasants were revolting. They even cut off his head and played with it. So scary!
That's why he had ordered increasing the fees and whipping and killing those who refused or couldn't pay. His father had told him one thing before dying- 'Oppress the peasants so much that they can't even think about fighting back for their freedom.'
That line had become the motto for his rule.
But that dream scared him, so much so he even finished under five seconds! His highest record was 12 seconds. But the girls always praised him.
Anyway, when he heard about a famous marksman being in the outskirts of his kingdom, he had to get him here and ask about being his personal bodyguard.
Hence, before him stood Van Augur.
He was impossibly tall, nearly brushing the upper arches of the room. His frame was thin, almost skeletal, draped in dark clothing and a long cape. His rifle rested against his shoulder, casual, as if it were part of him. His expression was calm—always calm—eyes distant behind mismatched lenses.
Roma's voice trembled. "Well? Can you do it or not?"
Augur shook his head once. "I decline."
Roma's face flushed red. "I can pay more!"
"I have a reputation to maintain in the Underworld" Augur said evenly. "I've accepted another contract."
"Then leave it! I can pay you more than what they can even dream of!"
"It's not about the money...."
Roma slammed his fist down. "Kill him!"
The guards hesitated.
That was when the doors exploded inward.
Jack Sparrow stepped into the throne room.
Sword in one hand. Rum in the other. Hat tilted just right.
He looked around, impressed. "Very shiny."
Roma squeaked. "Pirates! Guards! Kill him!"
The guards looked at Jack.
They remembered the streets.
They remembered the man flying.
Slowly, spears lowered. Some dropped them. Some turned them—not toward Jack, but toward the throne.
Jack smiled.
"Good choice," he said. "Now then."
He looked at Roma. "Are you King… Maro?"
Roma sputtered. "R–Roma!"
Then he squeaked, "Guards, kill him!"
The guards looked at Jack.
They remembered the man flying through the air.
Slowly, spears lowered. Some turned. Some dropped them entirely.
Jack smiled.
"Thought so."