The Perseverance groaned inside its trap of ropes and wood. As more vessels piled in the crowded mess, hulls squeezed to their embrace. Around them, hulls cracked to the pressure, masts shattered, and ropes tangled. Like a war of ants, foes boarded allied ships while friends boarded enemy ships. Fires erupted, threatening to engulf everything and everyone as a whole.

  Timo wiped blood from his temple and smirked at Riko’s bare hands. "I understand you're a man of your word, boss, but that's a little bordering on crazy, isn't it?" He laughed at his own words, breath ragged as he slashed his daggers at an upcoming enemy. "Did you forget we're in a war?"

  Riko said nothing as they surged forward through the chaos of screaming men. He moved with unnatural precision and inhuman speed. No strike felt wasted. Each move, a life-saving dodge; each blow, a precise strike to finish an opponent for good.

  A bullet hit his ear, a burning bite he ignored. He was used to pain, and if the damage wasn't too extensive, its ear would heal back as if nothing had happened. Blood trickled down his neck, hardening against skin already slick with sweat and seawater.

  "The men gave you the knuckles. At least use those!" Timo said over the din of clashing steel.

  "It doesn't matter, kid." Riko drove an elbow into an attacker's throat. "Either knuckles or blades, if a shot is aimed at me properly, I'm dead. I have no trouble accepting such fate."

  The sky thundered as a lone plane sliced through the haze, its iron wings cutting the smoke like blades. The machine plunged towards the Perseverance, then it turned upwards in a sudden move, leaving a shriek as its only mark of passing.

  Through the noise of battle, Riko heard the whistle of the plane's drop. Then, a further vessel, one of his navy's biggest ships of the line, blew up into pieces.

  The plane rose to join its flock above, all moving with slow purpose. Male would be their main target. Riko’s gaze lingered on the aircrafts: Too much for a man who should be careful not to be stabbed.

  Grinning his teeth, he returned to his fist fight in a battle of guns and blades. The men around him still fought with the delusion of purpose, the hope of victory. He knew better. He'd been up north and seen what Herard was capable of. There was no escape: Not for them, or for him. He knew it, and he accepted it. But like his men, he was going to fight until his last breath, and just because it was a futile endeavor, he wouldn't stop doing it.

  "Eyes on the battle, gentlemen!" he roared to awaken the men stunned by the swarm of airplanes.

  They obeyed before he'd finished speaking.

  His muscles, coiled with the memory of endless fights, kept moving. The brine of salted blood clung to skin like a second layer of flesh. The sting of the smoke of powder and fire burned behind the eyes. His men, seasoned and experienced like no other, began to hail the deck as their own. But it was a mirage.

  A fresh tide of enemies boiled over the forecastle, jumping and climbing from a big, old man-of-war. Their silhouettes, blurred by the fogged deck, arrived like a wave hitting shore.

  "Harpy's crew is entering the game, boss!" Timo said.

  Riko’s breath steadied, though his pulse thrummed. From the forecastle, the harpy’s twin sabres gleamed, their arcs sharp as crescent moons of blood. He reached for the pockets and loaded his fingers into the rings of the brass knuckles. The metal, tight inside a fist, felt strange. uncomfortable.

  After exchanging bursts of gunfire, the two groups clashed on the stairs. On the Starboard climb, the new Kraken's men broke through the barrier; on the Port, they gave way to the Harpy's push. Soon, both groups melted in a macabre dance of death.

  Riko and Timo raised the steps, surrounded by the best of their own, committed to cut the head of the Pirate's queen. But before he could close the distance, a figure emerged between them and their prey. A warrior clad in Han armor of plates and leather, too well-made and too pretty for the hell they were in. The man’s blade caught the light of the coming fires when his owner used it to point at them. “I suppose you are the one they call the Riko,” he said. "Unless more fools are fighting without weapons around here. which it could be, considering the stupidity of your people."

  "Leave this fancy imbecile for me," Riko whispered.

  Timo spun his knives. "So I can take the Harpy?"

  To Riko's hum, the quartermaster's grim widened. Then, he took his party aside and went on a rampage of slashes and stabs.

  Riko’s jaw tightened against the Han warrior's smirk, fists flexing over the knuckles as the blade readied to strike him. “You’ll face me,” the man spoke again as his stance coiled to attack. “It's your destiny to die by my hand.”

  Riko’s gaze flickered to the weapon’s glint, then to the man’s feet. This foe was no mere fighter. He was a true challenge. And to it, Riko grinned back. His stomach tightened with a feeling he hadn't felt for a long time: the thrill.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  He sidestepped the first swing, his foot finding purchase on a fractured plank. The sword arced high, not giving him a chance to recover his footing. Riko’s body twisted, his hips pivoting as he dropped into a crouch to let the blade carve a path past his shoulder instead of through his neck.

  Riko’s body answered with a set of jabs, aimed to pull him back in a moment when the weapon's reach had been compromised. Close to the space where arms move instead of swords. He did it not to hit him, but more to push him away. In that fight, distance was going to be more needed than breathing.

  The Han warrior didn't wait to take advantage of Riko's closeness. The next lunge was a crescent slash Riko deflected with a brass punch. The impact drew sparks from the knuckles. He checked his fist: metal twisted over a broken finger. One more stupid move and what'd fly would not be pieces of metal but fingers.

  His rival pressed onward, his blade sliding in a set of well-crafted moves. He lifted it in a tempest of motion, a dance of annihilation aimed to split Riko’s skull from his spine. Riko dodged, jumped, and shielded himself with the bodies of other enemies. The Han soldier cared little for his fellows, and his blade slashed through them as easily as it slashed through the air. With each attack, there was less chance, less space.

  Riko's own dance to stay alive came to a halt when the deck's railing hit his back. The Han man smiled. In this first clash, brief and intense, he'd managed to graze Riko's arm and leg. While enjoying his little victories, one of his subordinates charged at Riko, but he was put to death as he passed by him.

  "No one touches the great Liew's prize!" the Han man said, engulfed in rage. "He's mine!"

  laughter erupted, jagged and wild, a noise only allowed to those who had lost their minds. Liew's enjoyment rose louder as the corpse of his own man collapsed like discarded cloth. He stood hunched, chest heaving with delight and shoulders shaking with his chuckle. His blade coiled in his grip, a predator poised to strike, ready to kill again.

  “You cannot outrun your end, Riko,” His taunt, broken by madness, came gasped.

  Boots dragged forward, smearing through the blood already pooling across the deck. Each step, a deliberate, short advance, heavy enough to promise inevitability. At each move, Liew savored the distance dwindling between them.

  But Riko’s breath did not falter. His chest rose and fell heavily, but not to the exertion of battle. “I was not running from you,” he said.

  The Liew’s grin split his face like a wound. Teeth flashed, white and perfect like his armour. “Seemed otherwise,” he muttered.

  Riko’s boot pressed subtly against the blade of a fallen sabre. Right in the perfect place, the balance point. The tip, resting on the steel, waited for the order to give the weapon a new purpose. Eyes did not flicker toward it; his opponent would see through his intent too early.

  When Liew tensed to strike, Riko's feet reacted, and the fallen sabre flew. The push, gentle yet perfectly aimed.

  Liew pivoted slightly to the side, and his sword flashed to the opposite, cutting the air with a hiss. Metal met metal in a ringing clash that sent the launched sword aside. Exactly as Riko wanted. Againts anyone else, Liew would have just done that: Repel the sword, and finish the job. But he was facing a man with unnatural speed.

  Liew gasped as Riko closed.

  A hand lashed out like a striking hawk, fingers finding the leather of the Han man’s vest. Riko seized it, yanking his enemy closer. Liew acted swiftly, yet late. The hilt of the blade rammed into Riko’s ribs instead of its sharp blade. Riko caught Liew's arm with his own, ensuring no more steel could hurt him anymore. between the forearm and ribs, the sword hilt moved and twisted to free, to no avail. Riko pulled him into a vicious grapple. Their bodies slammed together enough to smell their sweat.

  Forearm pressed hard on the side of the chest, and the Han man's bone yielded beneath Riko’s force. The snap echoed like brittle wood. The scream tore from Liew, raw and guttural.

  With a spin, Riko pushed Liew against the railing.

  The sword fell. Steeless and with no more laughter to share, Liew let himself be carried away, still stunned by what had happened.

  Riko clenched a fist and released it towards a grimace of disbelief. The blow landed muffled. Jaw snapped. nose shattered beneath a second strike, the cartilage crushed in a wet crack. The man’s head snapped sideways. His limbs went limp, his face turned a mess. Blood bathed the brass on Riko's hand. Then, a few more punches joined for the sake of pleasure.

  Before consciousness faded on Liew, Riko halted. He grabbed him harder and pulled him over the railing, holding his weight with pure sheer will. There was no defiance left in Liew. No mocking grin. No mad laughter.

  For a long breath, Riko remained still, listening to the yells of victory roaring around him. Voices he knew well. He drew another breath. Their fight was over and victorious. His own, too. And in being so before the end of all, felt great.

  “Do you know what is also very… very stupid?” Riko said. "To wear heavy armor to sea fight."

  Liew gurgled some unintelligible words before Riko hurled him over the side. He felt screaming like a child. He surfaced, though, but the struggle to stay afloat took toll straight away. Soon enough, he slipped beneath the waves to never be seen again.

  Behind him, the Harpy’s scream pierced through the smoke. , a screech it was. Her sabres darted in waves of nonsense, hitting nothing. Around them, Riko's men piled, waiting for a moment to strike: a distraction or perhaps exhaustion. Yet she pressed on, her fury coiled like a serpent beneath her skin, waving her blades around her with the wildness of a creature cornered.

  It was Timo who, not wanting to wait any longer, darted forward and deepened his dagger on the Queen's neck. She let out a gargle instead of her last words and fell on the quartermaster's feet.

  “Victory!”

  Riko pulled his lips into a contented smile. Ahead, a small portion of the planes had changed course in formation. The buzzing of their engines was already reaching his ears.

  The whole deck erupted in a cheer, but felt quiet at the sound of the incoming planes. Men wasted no time preparing. shots flew, although nothing would reach or pierce such machines.

  Then, as whisteling bombs began to fall, the navy around them began a symphony of chaos and fire.