The stars had shifted above The Devil's Wake. The wind now held a salty chill—colder, more biting—as the vessel carved its path through the dark waters of the Black Sea. Lanterns swung gently, casting flickers of gold across the deck and the waves below.
After the hearty meal, Captain Bartolomeu leaned back in his creaking chair and lit his pipe again.
"Before you get too comfortable," he said with a grunt, "you should know— your first and last stop is Varna. From there, you'll be on your own."
Azazel wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his coat and nodded.
"I figured as much."
The old man gave a knowing smirk.
"But since fate's clearly taken an interest in you, I might as well introduce you to someone."
He stood and barked toward the door:
"Get in here, you lazy barracuda!"
A moment later, the door creaked open, and in stepped a young man around Azazel's age—tall, with olive skin, a sea-worn tan, long dark hair tied at the back, and a quiet fire in his sea-blue eyes. He had the stance of a fighter and the calm confidence of someone who had survived real storms.
"This is Juan Barbosa," Bartolomeu announced. "My apprentice. Been training him since he was knee-high to a crab."
Juan offered a small nod.
"Captain? Azazel."
Azazel returned the nod at a familiar face. He already knew his peer as he often talked and discussed Johann Weyer's past with Juan.
"Then I guess we're both aiming for the same prize."
"The initiation," Azazel said flatly.
Juan raised an eyebrow. "Didn't think I'd meet one of my rivals this soon."
Azazel's expression didn't change, but something inside him stirred.
"Then how about we stop pretending and see where we stand?"
Bartolomeu burst into laughter.
"Gods, I love this generation. Straight to the fists!"
He slapped his thigh and herded both of them toward the main deck, where a few curious sailors had already begun to gather, sensing something fun was about to happen.
The moonlit deck creaked beneath their boots as Azazel shrugged off his coat and cracked his knuckles. Juan did the same, rolling his shoulders and stepping barefoot onto the wooden planks.
"No weapons," Azazel said. "Fists only."
"Wouldn't dream of it," Juan replied, smirking. "Hope your bones aren't too soft, book boy."
Azazel didn't answer, taking off his coat.
Chills ran down his spine because of cool sea winds.
Then, like lightning, they clashed.
Juan moved like the sea—crashing, unpredictable, explosive. His blows were short bursts of energy, meant to overwhelm and disorient. Clearly, he was used to fighting in water. Azazel, on the other hand, embodied his signature style—total domination. He didn't dance, he didn't wait. He struck to end.
For a moment—just a heartbeat—Azazel took control. A flurry of fists, a knee to the ribs, a twist that sent Juan stumbling.
But the sea is never calm for long.
With a sharp, spinning strike, Juan knocked Azazel back, twisting his arm and slamming him onto the deck with a satisfying thud. The sailors roared, some cheering, some wincing.
Azazel coughed, his back aching, but he didn't look away. He sat up, breathing hard, then smirked.
"Not bad."
Juan extended a hand, helping him up.
Bartolomeu crossed his arms from the side, his grin wide.
"You two are gonna kill each other before we reach Varna."
Azazel wiped the sweat from his brow.
"Good. Then maybe I'll be ready."
He turned to Juan, eyes sharp.
"Until we reach shore—I want to spar. Every day."
Juan raised an eyebrow.
"Fine by me. But don't blame me when your ribs snap like driftwood."
Azazel grinned.
"You'll snap first."