!?!?!?!?
TING! SLASH!
They clashed.
Sparks burst into the air — the ring of steel deafening, primal, rhythmic. Each strike met another, momentum building like a storm ready to tear the world apart. Pinkbeard fought with reckless brutality, every swing a celebration of violence; Zayn countered with measured precision, each movement born of instinct and training.
Then — something shifted.
The air around Pinkbeard began to hum.
A faint vibration, like a pulse through the sand. His grin widened as his eyes flickered crimson-gold.
"Let's make this interesting, shall we?" he hissed.
His body exhaled a wave of shimmering heat — his spiritual force awakening. The air distorted around him like molten glass. Flames shimmered briefly, then vanished, replaced by something stranger — pressure.
The sand beneath him began to sink, compacting as invisible gravity pressed outward.
Pinkbeard's Eminence — the manifestation of his soul — had awakened. It wasn't pure fire, but something heavier, more dominant: Pressure Resonance — a force that manipulates air density itself, crushing or repelling at will.
He raised his free hand, flicked his wrist — the air cracked like thunder.
Zayn was thrown back several feet, boots carving trenches in the sand. The pirates gasped. None had seen their captain use this power before. Pinkbeard rolled his shoulders, smirk returning.
"Feels good to stretch that out again."
He swung his sword downward — not at Zayn, but at the ground. The sand exploded upward, a spiraling burst of compressed air forcing Zayn to dodge into the open. Pinkbeard moved through the haze like a predator, sword raised for another strike.
Despite Zayn's look of stoicism, the mere fact that he had been keeping up even now was a miracle. Not because of weakness, but because he was tired. Yet, swordsman didn't reveal that. Not even slightly.
He raised his head slowly — eyes calm, focused, a bead of sweat running down his cheek. There was no awe, no fear. Just… recognition.
Pinkbeard paused mid-step, frown deepening.
"You've seen this before, haven't you?"
Zayn shifted his stance, his katana gleaming. His voice was quiet, almost lost to the sea wind.
"…I've felt it before."
The beach held its breath.
Pinkbeard snarled. "Then feel it again!"
With that, he surged forward — spiritual pressure warping the air, the ground cracking under the weight of his wrath. The storm between them was just beginning.
Zayn's breathing came in ragged bursts, his body screaming in protest with every motion. The sand beneath his boots was slick with blood — his own. Pinkbeard's relentless assault had given him no room to think, no time to breathe. Each swing, each knee, each crushing blow chipped away at Zayn's endurance, and the air itself trembled under the pressure of the pirate's spiritual force.
Pinkbeard's swings were a blur — each slash laced with rippling shockwaves that distorted the very air around them. Zayn ducked beneath one attack, deflecting another with the flat of his katana, only for a brutal kick to crash into his ribs. He staggered back, gasping. The pain was excruciating — it felt like his insides were tearing.
"You're slowing down!"
Pinkbeard bellowed, grinning like a madman.
"C'mon, boy! Show me what makes you so damn special!"
Zayn barely managed to parry another crushing blow aimed at his head, sparks exploding between their weapons. The impact nearly shattered his wrists. His boots slid back across the sand, carving deep trenches as he tried to stay upright. His muscles burned, his vision blurred — and through the haze, a voice echoed softly in his mind.
??????
"You can't win like this."
Zayn froze for a half second — that voice again. Calm. Cold. Alluring.
"You're bleeding out. You'll die here. But if you'd just let me in—"
"Shut up…" Zayn hissed under his breath, deflecting another hit.
"—you'd crush him."
Pinkbeard's next attack came faster than lightning, a devastating upperslash glowing with condensed energy. Zayn barely leaned aside, the force grazing his chin before he retaliated with a downward slash. The strike connected — cutting across Pinkbeard's shoulder — but the man didn't even flinch. He grabbed the blade mid-swing, twisted it, and headbutted Zayn hard enough to make the world spin.
Zayn's knees almost hit the ground. The taste of iron filled his mouth. He could hear the pirates cheering in the background, muffled, distant — as though underwater.
"All that power…"
the voice whispered again, smoother now.
"It's yours by birthright. You're the only one who denies it."
Zayn clenched his teeth, trembling. "Not… now."
"Then die."
Pinkbeard lunged. The pirate's sword was like a cannon. Zayn raised his sword instinctively — and something inside him snapped.
The sand erupted in a pillar of flame so bright the sky itself seemed to recoil. The force of it sent nearby pirates tumbling backward, screaming. Zayn stood in the epicenter, surrounded by white fire — unnatural, divine, furious. His blade gleamed silver, and as he swung it, a crescent arc of molten energy sliced through the air, colliding into Pinkbeard's chest with an explosion that rattled the entire coast. Pinkbeard was thrown across the sand, skidding, smoking. He groaned, coughing blood, his grin half-gone.
"What… what the hell was that!?"
The heat lingered in the air, burning everything it touched. The flames that had come from Zayn were too bright — almost holy — yet they carried an undertone of shadow, a whisper of something older, darker, and far more terrifying.
Pinkbeard stared at his hands. Even from that distance, his skin tingled, scorched from the residual heat.
"That… wasn't just fire…"
Zayn stood still, his sword trembling in his grasp. The murmurs of the crowd faded. The cheers were gone. He could only hear the voice again, curling like smoke around his mind.
"Beautiful, isn't it?"
Kelios purred, soft and low.
"That fire isn't just yours. It's ours. Imagine what more you could do if you let me steer your hand."
Zayn's heart pounded, torn between exhaustion and temptation. His vision flickered, his thoughts scattered.
"Just… a little more…"
"That's right."
Pinkbeard's manic laughter broke the silence.
"Oh, you're just a bag full of tricks, huh!?"
His voice cracked into a roar as he slammed his palms together, summoning a spiraling wave of spiritual force.
"Let's see you handle this!"
He thrust his hands forward — and the air ruptured. A shockwave tore through the ground, ripping up sand and rock, its destructive pulse slamming into Zayn's body like a tidal wave.
Zayn flew backward, crashing through a boulder that shattered on impact. The echo rolled through the shore like thunder. Dust and debris filled the air.
Pinkbeard panted, lowering his arms slowly. His grin was tired, strained.
"I think we're done here,"
He muttered, spitting blood and turning toward his men.
But before he could take another step —
A hand shot out from the rubble.
Pale. Trembling. Wrong.
The crew froze.
From beneath the crumbled stone, a figure emerged — Zayn's body… but changed. His skin was drained of color, cold and lifeless. His hair, once dark, was bleeding into shades of ghostly white. His eyes — crimson and shimmering with hunger — were no longer human.
"...You never cease to amaze me," Pinkbeard muttered, surprised, seemingly readying himself for another brutal confrontation.
Keliosstepped forward, his bare feet igniting small fires where they touched the sand. The air grew heavier, denser. Every breath Pinkbeard took felt like it was scraping against smoke.
Pinkbeard's grin returned, shaky but excited.
"You finally show yourself…"
He tightened his wraps and spat into the sand.
"Let's see what you really are!"
He rushed forward, roaring. His slashes became blurs, his strikes bending the air itself. But Kelios barely moved — he weaved through every attack with inhuman grace, the sand untouched beneath his feet.
Pinkbeard swung his sword with frustration and wildness. Kelios caught it with two fingers.
A kick. Blocked.
A slash. Redirected.
Kelios finally moved — slamming his palm into Pinkbeard's chest with such force that the man's ribs groaned. The pirate stumbled back, gasping, before Kelios appeared behind him, whispering into his ear.
"Slow."
The next second, Pinkbeard was on his knees, blood pouring from his mouth, sand caving around him from the sheer pressure of Kelios' aura.
From nowhere, four swords appeared — glowing, floating, spinning in orbit around him like angels of death. Fire, frost, wind, and stone sang in harmony, each one humming with impossible power.
Kelios raised his hand, and the fiery sword ignited, its light consuming the horizon.
"This world belongs to those who take," he said softly, stepping toward the trembling Pinkbeard.
"And you—"
A flicker.
The flames dimmed. Kelios' expression faltered. Zayn's voice broke through, trembling.
"Stop."
Kelios growled, the light fading from his eyes as Zayn's consciousness began clawing its way back to the surface.
"Don't you dare—"
"I said stop!"
The fiery sword froze mid-swing, inches from Pinkbeard's neck. The pirate fell backward, scrambling in disbelief. Zayn's body shook violently as Kelios fought to keep control, but the boy's will — battered, bloodied, but unbroken — forced him back.
The glow faded. The hair darkened. The eyes softened.
Zayn fell to one knee, panting, smoke rising from his body.
Pinkbeard stared at him in shock — terrified, yet alive. He opened his mouth to speak, but Zayn simply muttered, voice hoarse and cold,
"Leave. Now."
For once, Pinkbeard didn't argue. He scrambled to his feet, limping away with what remained of his pride, his crew following without a word.
As the sound of footsteps faded, Zayn collapsed forward, hand clutching his chest. The sand hissed beneath him as dying embers faded out.
And somewhere deep inside his soul, Kelios' laughter echoed, dark and amused.
"You'll beg for me again, boy. You always do."
….
"Cheers!"
The tavern A Seafarer's Rest was alive that night — glowing lanterns swinging from ceiling beams, laughter thick as the scent of spiced rum and roasted pork. The air rippled with warmth, the clinking of mugs, the rhythmic stomps of boots to the drunken beat of some half-forgotten sailor's shanty. Men and women leaned over splintered tables, cheeks flushed and eyes glazed with joy, all in celebration of one thing — Pinkbeard was gone.
The terror of Isle Fareth had fled, his ship leaving nothing but the faint scent of smoke and salt in its wake. And the hero who made it happen — Zayn — sat in the corner, silent, unmoving, eyes half hidden beneath his dark hair as the festivities carried on without him.
Laughter erupted nearby.
"—And then, he came at me with that fancy curved blade, right? But ol' Chauncey wasn't born yesterday!"
Chauncey slammed a mug onto the table, ale spilling over the rim as two women by his side leaned in eagerly. His grin was wide, confident — his eyes glassy.
"I swung my axe right into that bastard's face— he dodged, of course, but he felt the breeze, I tell ya! He felt it!"
The women giggled, one whispering, "You're so brave!" while the other refilled his cup with more rum than sense. Chauncey threw his head back, laughing thunderously.
"Brave? Ha! Bravery's got my middle name written all over it!"
Across from them, Charolette rolled her eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn't get stuck. She sipped from her cup quietly, half-smiling despite herself. She'd heard this story five times already — and every telling, Chauncey's role got bigger and Zayn's smaller. But she couldn't bring herself to ruin his fun. He'd earned his moment of pride.
Still, her gaze drifted toward the corner where Zayn sat.
He hadn't touched his drink. Hadn't touched his food. His sword leaned against the wall beside him, its sheath still faintly scorched from earlier. The golden light from the tavern's hearth flickered across his face — but his expression remained hollow, distant.
Charolette set down her cup and made her way toward him, her boots creaking against the tavern floorboards. She slid onto the seat beside him, leaning in close enough to speak without shouting.
"Hey," she said softly, her voice cutting through the chaos like a note of calm in the storm.
"What's wrong? Everyone's here in your name. You drove enemy number one off the island."
Zayn's fingers tightened around the mug in front of him. For a long moment, he said nothing — then, quietly,
"I didn't do it alone."
Charolette tilted her head. "What do you mean?"
Zayn's eyes lowered, the candlelight catching the faint red glint still buried deep within them.
"I had help. From… him."
His tone was barely above a whisper, like he was afraid the very tavern might turn on him if anyone else heard.
"I let him take control. I couldn't stop it. People could've been hurt."
He turned his head then, looking at her — but his gaze seemed to drift beyond her, as if seeing something else entirely.
"You and Chauncey… could've been hurt."
Charolette's heart sank. She could see the exhaustion behind his eyes — not just physical, but spiritual. The weight of something he didn't fully understand pressing down on him like a curse. She rested a hand gently on his shoulder.
"Listen,"
she said, smiling faintly despite the worry behind her voice,
"who cares how you won? The point is — you did.And no one got hurt. You saved a whole island, Zayn."
She squeezed his shoulder lightly.
"We've got a long day tomorrow. We leave at dawn. For one night, just… celebrate. Blow off some steam."
He didn't look at her. Didn't even flinch. His gaze was fixed on the flickering hearth, the flames twisting and curling in strange patterns — familiar patterns. He could almost hear the man's laughter in the crackle of the wood, low and knowing.
No.
Zayn pushed the mug away from him. The crowd's cheers, the laughter, the songs — they all faded into background noise, meaningless echoes against the thunder of his own thoughts.
He shouldn't be celebrating.
That fire earlier — the one he unleashed — it wasn't his. Not truly. It was borrowed. And every time Kelios' voice whispered through his mind, it became clearer. The power he wielded came at a price.
He remembered Pinkbeard's terrified expression — how close he'd come to killing him, how easy it would've been. That look of helplessness haunted him more than the fight itself.
He'd seen Kelios' power firsthand — the dark perfection of it. The cold control. The godlike cruelty. And he knew now, more than ever, that if he didn't get stronger on his own… he wouldn't ask next time. He'd simply take.
Chauncey's booming laughter echoed across the tavern again, drawing a few cheers from nearby sailors. Charolette joined in weakly, throwing Zayn one last glance — but she could tell he was already somewhere else entirely.
Zayn stood, pushing away from the table. His chair scraped against the floorboards, but few noticed. Only Charolette turned, brow furrowed.
"Zayn? Where are you—"
"Air," he said simply, already walking toward the tavern doors.
As the night swallowed him, the music and laughter grew faint behind him. Outside, the sea wind bit cold against his face, but the horizon was calm — moonlight glimmering across the waves like glass.
He stood there for a long while, watching the stars, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword.
I can't let him win.
Not again.
If he ever wanted to be free of Kelios' influence — if he ever wanted to protect Chauncey, Charolette, and anyone else who would follow him — he had to be stronger. Strong enough that even Kelios would bow before him.
He had to understand True Warrior's Heart. He had to be just as invested and obsessed as Chauncey was in learning. He had to get to Valdyr.
He closed his eyes, letting the sound of the waves guide his thoughts.
Tomorrow, they would set sail — and his search for mastery would begin. But tonight, under the moonlit hush of Isle Fareth, Zayn stood alone — a hero to the island, but a prisoner within his own soul.