---Cape Bonavista---
The humid air of the jungle was thick and heavy, a huge contrast to the cool, salt-laced breeze Edward had grown accustomed to.
He stood perched on the thick, moss-covered branch of a massive tree, the wood solid and unyielding beneath the worn leather of his boots. The branch extended out over a chasm, a natural diving board at least forty meters above the roaring waterfall that crashed into a turquoise pool below. The sound was a constant, deafening roar, a symphony of raw, untamed nature.
He held the letter he'd taken from the dead Assassin's pocket, the parchment already damp from the spray. He didn't need to read it again as the words were seared into his mind.
'Senior Duncan Walpole,
I accept your most generous offer, and await your arrival with eagerness. If you truly possess the information we desire, we have the means to reward you handsomely.
Though I will not know your face by sight, I believe I can recognize the custom made infamous by your secret order. Therefore, come to Havana in haste and trust that you shall be welcomed as a brother.
Your most humble servant, Governor Laureano Torres y Ayala.'
Havana. A way out. A new identity. A new purpose.
'Governor Laureano Torress y Ayala,' He thought of the letter before sighing. 'So this is the governor that 'Laric wants me to eliminate.'
He closed his eyes, not to block out the world, but to see it more clearly.
The training he had undergone, the strange, tingling sensation of Alaric's power settling into his very being, had changed him. His senses, once sharp, were now something else entirely. He could feel the jungle around him, not just see it. He felt the flutter of a hummingbird's wings a hundred yards away, the low, guttural growl of a jaguar stalking through the undergrowth, the chattering of howler monkeys in the canopy.
He could feel the life, the energy, of everything within a vast, five-hundred meter radius. And within that vibrant tapestry of life, he felt the discordant, fearful energy of a man being held against his will, just a few hundred meters from the base of the waterfall. Templars. And a ship, waiting nearby.
"Finally, a way out," Edward murmured, a grim, determined smile touching his lips. He opened his eyes, the world snapping back into sharp, vibrant focus. And then, he leaped.
Thud!
It was not the graceful dive of an Assassin into water. It was a brutal, gravity-defying plummet onto hard, unforgiving ground. He landed in a crouch, the impact sending a shockwave through the earth, cracking the packed dirt beneath his boots. He felt the force of the forty-meter drop shudder through his bones, but nothing broke.
The strange, swirling tattoo Alaric had placed on his back, the one that hummed with a faint, almost imperceptible energy, absorbed the impact, leaving him completely unharmed.
'Whatever witchcraft Alaric did to me,' Edward thought, a familiar, almost giddy grin spreading across his face, 'I'll take it anytime.'
He rose from his crouch and melted into the jungle. The dense foliage, the shifting patterns of light and shadow, were his allies. The Templar soldiers, in their conspicuous uniforms, were clumsy and loud in this environment. Hiding from them was child's play. He moved through the bushes like a ghost, his steps silent, his presence a mere whisper on the wind.
He found the first one easily, a lone sentry leaning against a tree, his musket held loosely. Edward slipped up behind him, his hand clamping over the man's mouth, his other hand drawing a dagger across his throat in a single, swift, and silent motion. He lowered the body gently to the ground, the man's life extinguished before he even knew he was in danger.
He continued his silent purge, moving from one soldier to the next, a phantom of death in the vibrant jungle. They were focused on their prisoner, confident in their numbers, and they never saw him coming.
The final Templar stood over a man who was bound and kneeling on the ground, his back to the jungle. He was in the middle of a harsh interrogation, his voice a low, angry growl. He heard a faint rustle in the bushes behind him, a sound that could have been the wind, or a small animal.
"Hm? Who are-"
The question died in his throat, replaced by a wet, gurgling sound as Edward's dagger found its mark. The Templar's eyes widened in a final, fleeting moment of shock and surprise before he crumpled to the ground.
Edward stood over the last of the dead soldiers, a grim satisfaction settling over him. He looked down at the man who had been their prisoner. He was chubby, with well-groomed blonde hair and clothes that were far too fine for this rough, untamed part of the world. A merchant, most likely.
Pitying the man, Edward sighed and extended a hand, pulling him to his feet. 'Poor fella.'
"By God's Grace, sir, you saved me," the man said, his voice a mixture of relief and gratitude. He looked around at the dead bodies, a slight shiver running through him, but he quickly composed himself, a polite, almost formal smile returning to his face. "A profusion of thanks!"
'His wording's a little formal for these parts, a merchant indeed,' Edward thought, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. He glanced towards the nearby coastline, where a handsome schooner was anchored just offshore. "Is that yours?"
"It is my vessel, yes. But, ah..." the merchant's face fell, a look of embarrassment crossing his features. "Here lies its poor captain," he said, gesturing to another body Edward hadn't noticed before. "And I have no art for sailing."
"I can pilot her myself. No mind," Edward said, his gaze already sweeping over the area, searching the nearby crates for any valuables the Templars might have left behind.
"Y-You don't mean to abscond with my ship, do you?" the merchant asked, a note of panic entering his voice.
Edward paused his search, turning to face the man. He held the man's gaze for a moment, a dozen possible lies and threats running through his mind. Then, he simply smiled, an easy, disarming grin. "I'm Duncan. What's your name, friend?" He extended his hand.
The merchant, clearly thrown off by the sudden shift in tone, hesitated for only a second before taking the offered hand. "Stede. Stede Bonnet," he replied, his voice still a little shaky.
"Well, Mister Bonnet, let this stay 'twixt us," Edward said, his voice dropping to a low, serious tone, "but I am on a secret errand for His Majesty the King, God save him. And I must get to Havana with speed."
"Ah... that is a relief, sir," Stede Bonnet's face beamed with hope. "Havana is also my destination. Our ways lie together!"
"Natural allies, then," Edward nodded, turning back to a locked crate. He gripped the lid and, with a grunt of effort, tore it open with his bare hands, the wood splintering under his enhanced strength.
"Oh, you put me at ease, sir," Stede said, a relieved sigh escaping him. "To think I took you for a pirate when you first appeared."
"Did you?" Edward asked, not looking at him as he rummaged through the crate.
"Yes! You have an... uncommon way of handling yourself," Stede replied, turning his back to Edward as if suddenly finding the sand fascinating. "Quick and easy, if I may say. Gave me quite a fright!"
Finding nothing of value, Edward sighed and started walking towards the water.
"But all things considered," Stede continued, his voice a little too cheerful as he tried to keep the conversation going, "I think it's turned out to be a rather fortuitous day, hasn't it?"
Edward glanced back at the bumbling merchant, a flicker of something almost like pity in his eyes, before turning back to the sea and wading into the waves, swimming towards the schooner.
Stede watched him go, a cringe of self-recrimination on his face. He looked down at his fine, now mud-stained, clothes, then back at the retreating form of "Duncan." With a sigh, he followed, wading into the water after the strange, dangerous man who was his only hope of reaching Havana.
---Somewhere south of Philadelphia---
William Penn and Kassandra were, simultaneously, having the time of their lives and fearing for their lives.
They were moving at a speed that defied all known laws of nature, a velocity they had never before experienced. The ground below was a blurry, streaking tapestry of green and brown. And most terrifyingly of all… they were flying.
"I cannot believe this!" Penn shouted, his voice instantly snatched away by the roaring wind. His usual Quaker composure was completely gone, replaced by a wide-eyed, almost childlike terror and wonder. "I really cannot believe this!!!"
Kassandra, on the other hand, was grinning, a wild, exhilarating light in her ancient amber eyes. This was her first time truly flying, and while she was no stranger to death-defying leaps, this was something else entirely. The feeling of soaring through the air, untethered, was a freedom unlike any she had ever known. "Hahahahaha! This is amazing!"
Alaric, flying effortlessly between them, just smiled, enjoying their reactions.
A few minutes later, after passing over the settlements of Delaware and Maryland, the vast, shimmering expanse of the Chesapeake Bay came into view. And with it, the enemy.
Hundreds of ships. A forest of masts and sails, the proud flags of the Royal Navy snapping in the wind. They were positioned just outside the mouth of the bay, a formidable, waiting wall of wood and cannon.
"Wait... are they hesitating?" Penn's brows furrowed as they came to a stop, hovering high above the coast. "They're not attacking the bay immediately?"
"...Because they're confused why there are no ships protecting the bay," Kassandra surmised, her strategic mind instantly analyzing the situation. "They're worried they could be flanked. That's why they're positioned near enough to blockade, but not inside the bay where they could be trapped."
Alaric nodded in silent agreement. 'Well… not like they're gonna get flanked or what… bad decision, they made it easier for me.'
"…'Laric, lad, I'll ask you for the last time," Penn said, his voice tight with a mixture of awe and profound anxiety as he looked from the massive fleet to Alaric. "Are you sure about this? All of them?"
Without a moment's hesitation, Alaric smiled and nodded.
"I'll let you both see how amazing chakra is."
He floated forward, a lone figure moving steadily towards the hundreds of ships, maintaining his altitude. Penn and Kassandra remained where they were, silent, breathless spectators with the best, and most terrifying, view of the impending battle.
"Hear ye, all you people," Alaric's voice, amplified by his chakra, boomed across the water, a low, cold, and utterly bored sound that seemed to come from the very sky itself. "You've trespassed on the seas that belong to the Holy Commonwealth of Pennmere."
The announcement sent a ripple of confusion through the British fleet. Sailors looked around, searching for the source of the disembodied voice.
"Look!"
"Heavens!"
"Look up!"
---
Admiral George Byng was from a family of Kentish gentry, a well-established and influential family though not of the very highest aristocracy at the time of his birth. His success and strategic acumen in naval affairs had, however, made him a prominent figure in England. He had distinguished himself throughout a long and illustrious career, participating in numerous naval engagements, including the capture of Gibraltar and the Battle of Málaga. His bravery and skill earned him a baronetcy within this year.
He was appointed the Admiral of this massive fleet not merely for his rank but for his proven loyalty and his reputation as one of the finest sailors and strategists the Royal Navy possessed. This was the largest expeditionary force Britain had ever dispatched, a testament to the King's determination to crush the rebellion, and Byng, a firm and shrewd commander, was seen as the only man capable of wielding such power.
"Hm?" Admiral George Byng, a man whose name was synonymous with victory and strategy in the Royal Navy, squinted up at the sky, his hand shielding his eyes from the sun's glare. His first mate handed him a spyglass. He raised it, focusing on the small, dark speck his men were pointing at. His eyes widened. "What the hell is that!?"
It wasn't a bird. It was a man. Floating.
"Wait, that's..."
"That's Alaric Jonathan Kenway!"
"The Crimson Coat!"
The name, the description from the bounty posters, spread through the fleet like wildfire, a murmur of disbelief and dawning horror.
---Alaric's POV---
Alaric, hovering calmly above the fleet, took a long, slow breath. He unsealed his Kusanagi from the tattoo on his shoulder, the simple, deadly blade appearing in his hand. He poured a massive amount of lightning chakra into the steel, more than half of his considerable chakra reserves, until the blade crackled and hummed with an almost unbearable power, arcs of white-hot lightning dancing along its length.
He unsheathed it.
With a single, fluid motion, he slashed the air before him, once down and to the right, once down and to the left, forming a perfect, silent 'X' of pure, condensed lightning. Then, he sheathed the blade.
---Kassandra and Penn's POV---
From their vantage point, they saw Alaric perform the strange, almost ritualistic motion. Nothing happened.
"What... is he doing?" Penn murmured, utterly bewildered. "Is it some kind of ritual before he starts fighting them?"
"..." Kassandra remained silent, but her enhanced vision, her demigod senses, saw what Penn could not. She saw the air itself seem to tear, to ripple along the lines Alaric had drawn. She felt a power so immense, so absolute, that it made the Staff of Hermes feel like a child's toy. "No... this is..!"
And then, it happened.
BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM
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