…
The sun had climbed high enough that its light filtered weakly through the cloudy sky, painting the world outside in pale gray.
By now it was alittle past noon, and the air in the small inn carried the soft scent of burning oak and steeped tea. Dalia's father — a broad-shouldered man well into his sixties, moved around the wooden table with surprising strength and steadiness. His arms were thick, his hands scarred, veins bulged from a lifetime of labor. He set down three steaming cups before the travelers, each trembling slightly as it met the table's worn surface.
"You'll forgive the quiet,"
he rumbled, his voice deep and steady as an anchor.
"Fareth isn't kind to newcomers, especially ones who draw Pinkbeard's attention."
The inn itself was humble but sturdy. Thick beams crossed the ceiling; the walls were lined with tools, old portraits, and curious trinkets from another time. Yet one thing stood out — leaning against the far wall, beside a shuttered window, was a halberd.
Its polished shaft gleamed faintly, the head etched with familiar markings — intricate sigils reminiscent of Plugand's Inquisition, symbols both Zayn and Chauncey recognized but didn't dare mention aloud.
The old man noticed Zayn's glance but said nothing. He poured his own tea, eyes drifting toward the stranger with quiet calculation. There was something in Zayn's composure, that eerie calm that came not from peace but from experience — that unsettled him.
He couldn't place his finger on it, but his wisdom, earned through decades of hardship, whispered one truth: Zayn carried something dark. Something best left untouched.
Finally, the man spoke. "So… is it true?" His eyes flicked between them. "You three got into a tussle with Pinkbeard?"
Chauncey raised his hand immediately, shaking his head.
"Not us, sir. Just him." He jabbed a thumb at Zayn. "We were—"
Charolette cut in sharply. "—helping him after he got himself into trouble. But if Pinkbeard's crew saw us, then we're all part of it now, whether we like it or not."
The old man let out a low hum, setting his teacup down with a soft clink. His gaze hardened.
"You've stepped into a dangerous game, children," he warned. "Pinkbeard may be a spoiled fool, but don't mistake wealth for weakness. His riches alone don't command the fear he's earned."
Chauncey frowned. "What are you saying?"
The man leaned back, his voice grave. "That pirate is the descendant of a very particular bloodline — his great-great-grandfather, Bartholomew Rosemary, was the founder of an infamous fighting style: the Rosemary Fist. On top of that, he is said to hold the secrets to a True warrior's heart.
Chauncey's ears perked up.
Zayn's expression didn't change, but Charolette's did. Her eyes flicked toward the man sharply.
"So, he's a mage as well?"
"Nobody knows," the innkeeper replied. "No one's ever seen the ability he claims to possess — the one said to be connected to the True Warrior's Heart itself. Those who've mocked him for it have never lived long enough to tell what happened next."
The room fell quiet. The logs in the hearth cracked softly.
Zayn set his cup down, the faint sound of porcelain against wood cutting through the silence. Then, slowly, he rose to his feet.
"I'll find out tonight," he said coldly.
Charolette's head snapped up. "What? Have you lost it again?!"
Zayn didn't respond. His eyes were distant, fixed on something beyond the walls.
Chauncey crossed his arms, exhaling through his nose.
"He's not wrong."
Charolette stared at him, stunned. "You're siding with him?!"
Chauncey's gaze was steady. "People like Pinkbeard don't forget insults. If we don't find him first, he'll find us… and it won't be friendly."
Before Charolette could argue, the air shattered with a thunderous kick against the door.
The wood splintered.
"And you're absolutely right!"
Pinkbeard swaggered through the doorway, his jeweled coat gleaming in the light, that familiar smug grin curling across his face. His crew followed — a dozen men and women, blades and pistols drawn, filling the small room with tension thick enough to choke on.
"Evening, my guests!" Pinkbeard declared cheerfully, spreading his arms. "Hope you're settling in nicely."
Zayn was already standing in a fighting stance, his coat swaying slightly with the motion.
Chauncey's axe hand tightened.
Charolette's breath hitched, her hand hovering near her satchel.
The pirates fanned out, surrounding the five in a practiced motion. Dalia's father reached for his halberd — but before his fingers brushed the weapon's shaft, a cold knife pressed against his throat.
"Ah-ah,"
One of the pirates hissed behind him.
Dalia let out a strangled gasp, darting forward, but was caught by the arm — her captor twisting her wrist until she winced.
"Now, now,"
Pinkbeard chided mockingly, strolling deeper into the room.
"Let's not get hasty. I only came to check on my island guests, that's all! How are we feeling?"
Chauncey's voice was low and venomous.
"You should leave."
Pinkbeard chuckled.
"And miss out on all the fun?"
He kicked over a stool as he walked, humming to himself, knocking small trinkets off tables as though they were nothing. Every gesture dripped arrogance.
He stopped in front of Dalia, his grin twisting cruelly as he gripped her face in one jeweled hand. She whimpered but refused to cry.
"You know,"
He started, turning his gaze toward Zayn, "A little birdy told me a rumor about you."
His tone grew almost playful.
"They say you're not what you appear to be."
Zayn's eyes narrowed.
Pinkbeard chuckled, letting Dalia's chin go before stepping closer to him.
"They're saying you're a vessel for someone infamous. Someone who's not supposed to exist anymore…"
The pirate's grin widened into a snarl.
"They're saying you're tied to him. The one who shan't be named."
The words hung heavy in the air. Even Dalia's father, bleeding at the neck, froze for a heartbeat.
Pinkbeard smirked. "I've always admired the stories about that monster. In a way, I see myself in him." He leaned closer. "But you? You're not his heir. Not after that pathetic little stunt at the restaurant."
He gestured sharply toward his men. The knife against Dalia's father pressed deeper.
"So here's how this goes,"
Pinkbeard said, his voice slick as oil. "You're gonna prove it. Or they die."
Charolette shot to her feet. "How the hell is he supposed to prove something like that?!"
Pinkbeard blinked once, then smiled.
"Simple. A rematch. You fight me — tonight. Five o'clock. The sandy shores below the ruins. You lose…"
his grin grew vicious,
"…then I take that little dinghy you call a ship — and everything you've got on it."
Chauncey's jaw clenched. Dinghy.
Zayn met Pinkbeard's gaze with calm steel.
"And if I win?"
Pinkbeard straightened, spreading his arms.
"Then me and my crew leave this island and never return."
His men jeered and howled in approval, slapping their swords together. The room seemed to vibrate with their mockery.
Pinkbeard turned toward the door, grinning over his shoulder.
"Five o'clock sharp, hero. Don't be late."
And with that, he and his pirates swaggered out, their laughter echoing down the street like a storm retreating on its own terms.
The instant the door shut, Dalia tore free from her captor's grasp and ran to her father, who had collapsed to his knees, clutching at his throat. She pressed a cloth to the wound, trembling. Her father wheezed between shallow breaths.
"Don't… don't fight him… you can't—"
Dalia shook her head fiercely, eyes burning with tears.
"You have to win,"
she whispered to Zayn.
"Not just for us… but for everyone on this island. He's destroyed enough lives already."
Zayn didn't answer. He didn't need to.
There was a fire behind his eyes now — quiet, unrelenting. A promise made without words.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low, controlled, and dangerous.
"Then I'll end his reign tonight."
————————————————————
WORLD INFO>>
"To understand the heart of a warrior, one must first understand the world that breaks them."
The Spectrum of Spiritual Forces: A person's spiritual resonance determines the type of energy they produce — called their Eminence.
There are no fixed "elements." Rather, Eminence is fluid, an outward reflection of an inward truth. Fervent Hearts (Driven by Passion or Wrath): Their Eminence burns. Fire, magma, combustion, even solar radiance. These warriors are driven by motion — their spirits constantly in turmoil. Serene Hearts (Guided by Calm and Understanding): They manifest water, mist, or even healing streams. Their power flows, adapting and shifting with intuition. Cold Hearts (Born of Trauma or Logic): They command ice, crystal, or metal — forces of rigidity and stillness. Their emotions are restrained, but focused to razor perfection.
Boundless Hearts (Fueled by Joy or Curiosity): Their energy bends light, sound, and gravity — embodying creation, change, and growth. Grieving Hearts (Tempered by Loss and Duty): Their Eminence often manifests as shadow, decay, or control over time's remnants — bittersweet forces that preserve what the world
Confiscated entry from the sealed archives of the Inquisitorial College of Plugand.
Date unknown. Author: High Seer Aelric Thornvale.
"It is not power that undoes a kingdom — it is the thought that one might wield power without permission."
>>BACK TO THE STORY
———————————————————-
…
EXHALE…
The clock struck 4:54.
The island's air had grown heavy — salt, smoke, and the weight of something ancient pressing against the horizon. Pinkbeard sat upon a great boulder, bare-chested, his skin gleaming with sweat and arrogance alike. A thick cigar smoldered between his fingers, its ember glowing against the evening light. He exhaled a long, steady plume of smoke, letting it curl through the air like a ghost before handing it back to one of his lackeys.
Around him, his men formed a jagged half-circle. The ground beneath them was nothing but sand and ruin — the old stones of a broken temple scattered across the shoreline. Pinkbeard cracked his neck, his torso wrapped with worn fighting wraps, knuckles bound with the same frayed cloth that had seen countless brawls. Every scar told a story; every grin promised another.
"He's here!"
A crew member shouted.
All eyes turned toward the cliff path. Three figures approached — the glint of steel and the slow, steady rhythm of boots on sand.
Zayn led them, eyes fixed forward, his steps deliberate. Behind him, Charolette and Chauncey followed, shadows of concern painted across their faces. Pinkbeard rose from the boulder, grin widening like a wolf catching scent of prey.
"Ohoho? You're early! Looks like you know how to follow instructions after all!"
Zayn said nothing. His coat slipped from his shoulders, fluttering down to the sand. The muscles along his arms and chest tensed — not out of fear, but focus. His face carried that same eerie stillness, like a storm about to break.
Pinkbeard clapped his hands once, mock applause echoing through the surf.
"For a moment there, I thought you'd tuck tail and sail off. Guess I was wrong about you."
Zayn drew his katana in one clean motion. The metal caught the dying sun — orange and pink reflected along its edge like fire frozen in time.
"Draw your sword."
His tone was calm, nearly quiet.
A crewmate began to toss Pinkbeard's weapon to him, but Pinkbeard lifted a hand, palm outward.
"Nah,"
He said, voice low and sharp.
"A sword would be an unfair advantage. Trust me."
Laughter erupted from the crew. Zayn didn't flinch.
Chauncey muttered under his breath.
"He's insane…"
Charolette's hand gripped his arm tight, knuckles white. "Please… don't let him do something stupid."
The laughter died when Pinkbeard raised his arm and gave a casual flick of his wrist — a signal. His men spread out, forming a wide circle around the two combatants. The ring was drawn. The rules were unspoken.
Then silence. Only the rush of waves, the low hiss of wind, and the rhythmic pulse of two hearts ready to collide.
Zayn moved first.
In a flash of sand and steel, he closed the gap — a burst of movement that split the air. His blade danced through the evening light, a flurry of slashes so fast they blurred together.
Pinkbeard dodged them all. Effortlessly.
Each sidestep was punctuated by a mocking hum, each near-miss followed by a chuckle.
When Zayn's final upward slash came, Pinkbeard spun to the side and drove his boot into Zayn's ribs.
The sound cracked through the beach like thunder.
Zayn staggered, boots sliding through the sand before planting his blade to steady himself.
The crowd howled, roaring in approval of their captain. Pinkbeard spread his arms wide, basking in it.
"C'mon! Don't tell me that's all the 'vessel' has got!"
Zayn's breathing steadied. His eyes. sharpened.
Pinkbeard's grin faltered. "My turn."
He lunged forward. The ground exploded beneath him, sand bursting upward as he closed the distance in a blur of motion. His fists came alive — a storm of jabs, elbows, and brutal knees.
Zayn blocked what he could, deflected others with his blade, sparks screaming against metal as he turned each strike aside by fractions.
Pinkbeard finished the combo with a vicious roundhouse.
Zayn raised his katana, the steel catching the kick — the impact sent a shockwave rippling across the sand, pushing both men apart.
Before Zayn could regain footing, Pinkbeard was already airborne. He came down like an avalanche, a fist raised high.
Zayn sidestepped, pivoted, yet before he could counter; A flurry of attacks burst through the air.
…
SWOOSH! SLASH!
Zayn's blade blurred, arcs of silver cutting through the salty air. His movements were lean, efficient — no wasted motion, no sound but the whisper of steel and the crash of waves. Pinkbeard weaved through the attacks with maddening grace, laughter spilling from his lips as easily as breath.
"Too slow, lad!"
He jeered, ducking beneath a swing so close it sheared a lock of his chestnut hair.
"You'll never touch me fightin' like that!"
Each time Zayn closed in, Pinkbeard danced back — not retreating, but toying, as if gauging the rhythm of Zayn's spirit. His steps left deep prints in the sand, his body flowing like a serpent through every opening.
Zayn pivoted, aiming a thrust for his ribs. Pinkbeard twisted aside, grabbing the blade mid-strike with his wrapped hand. The edge bit into the cloth, drawing blood.
"Ah,"
He chuckled, tightening his grip,
"Now that's got some bite."
Zayn's eyes narrowed. With a sharp pull, he freed his sword and spun into a low sweep. The sand burst around his feet as Pinkbeard leapt over the strike, flipping once before landing lightly on his heels. The crowd of pirates howled their approval, jeering, stomping, chanting their captain's name.
"PINK-BEARD! PINK-BEARD!"
Charolette's heart hammered in her chest.
"Come on, Zayn," she whispered under her breath, unable to look away.
Zayn steadied his breathing. Calm.
He forced his heartbeat to slow, tuning out the laughter, the crowd, the world. His senses sharpened until he could feel the tremor of each wave, hear the crackle of Pinkbeard's burning cigar ember far across the sand.
Then — movement.
Pinkbeard lunged.
Zayn's blade rose just in time. The impact was like thunder; sparks flared as metal screamed against hardened wraps. Pinkbeard pressed in, his face inches from Zayn's. His grin widened as he pushed the younger man back with sheer brute strength.
"You've got the look,"
He hissed.
"but not the rage. Where's your fire, boy?"
Zayn twisted his blade, sliding out from under the pressure before pivoting sharply and slashing for Pinkbeard's shoulder. The pirate captain barely tilted his head aside — the blade cutting a clean line through his long hair.
A gasp ran through the crew.
Pinkbeard's smile flickered. Then it returned — colder, darker.
"Ohoho… There it is."
He exploded forward. The sand erupted beneath him as he launched a barrage of strikes — open palms, elbows, knees — his movements wild yet deliberate, as though his body followed a rhythm Zayn couldn't hear. Zayn blocked and parried, his sword flashing like lightning, the sound of each impact echoing across the shore.
Chauncey clenched his fists from the sidelines.
"He's fighting like a madman!"
"He's not mad," Charolette said, her eyes locked on the duel. "He's testing him."
Pinkbeard pivoted, sweeping Zayn's legs. Zayn caught himself with a hand in the sand, flipping back to his feet just as a spinning kick came for his head. He ducked, driving the tip of his katana upward to force distance.
"Not bad!"
Pinkbeard barked, laughing through labored breath. "Looks like you might actually be worth killing after all!"
Zayn didn't answer.
His eyes gleamed — sharp, unyielding, and faintly golden under the evening light.
Pinkbeard came in again, roaring, fists blazing through the air. Each blow rattled Zayn's bones, every strike a thunderclap. Zayn blocked one, two, three punches — but the fourth slammed into his side, forcing him to stumble. Pain rippled through his ribs, but his grip on the katana never faltered.
He exhaled sharply.
Then — he moved.
The tempo changed.
Zayn's movements grew smoother, lighter. He stopped meeting Pinkbeard's strikes head-on and began sliding through them, like water between stones. His sword shifted from aggression to rhythm — parries melting into counters, dodges into redirections.
Pinkbeard blinked, his smile wavering for the first time.
"What—?"
Zayn's voice came low.
"You talk too much."
He stepped in close. The blade spun through the air, grazing Pinkbeard's wrap. Another step — the flat of the blade slammed against his forearm, knocking it aside. The motion was fluid, practiced, and beautiful in its precision.
Pinkbeard swung his fist in retaliation, a wild haymaker meant to take Zayn's head clean off — but Zayn ducked beneath it, turned, and in one seamless motion…
The world seemed to still.
Wind rushed past. A flash of silver.
The slash came — upward, clean and fast.
Pinkbeard staggered back, breath catching as the cloth around his torso tore open. For a heartbeat, he didn't move — just looked down at the shallow line of blood forming across his chest.
The crew fell silent. Even the waves seemed to hush.
Then the band around his waist unraveled and fell to the sand.
Pinkbeard looked up slowly. The grin returned, but the warmth was gone. His eyes were sharp, the gleam of bloodlust unmistakable.
"…My weapon," he said, his tone low and venomous.
A crewman threw the curved sword. Pinkbeard caught it effortlessly, unsheathing it with a rasp that echoed across the shore. The blade gleamed like liquid fire under the pink-orange sky.
"You're gonna regret that."
Zayn tightened his grip on his katana, feet sliding slightly apart.
The sea breeze tugged at their hair. The sunlight dimmed behind the clouds.
Then, once again — silence.
Two predators facing each other across the fading light, one bleeding and burning with fury, the other calm as a drawn blade.
The true fight was about to begin.