There was a saying: Ten thousand ghosts at sea, Captain Jack is responsible for half of them.
What Jack Sparrow had done was enough to inspire a limerick.
(See comments section.)
Morin didn't have many favorite movie characters.
Jack Sparrow was one of them.
Because of that, the core of Morin's plan was Jack Sparrow.
"Sir? What should we do?" one of the hired laborers asked.
"No rush." Morin looked at the group and activated [Eye of Justice], observing them quietly for a moment before pointing. "You. You. And you. You can leave."
The laborers exchanged glances.
They hadn't even started working yet.
And judging by the physiques of the people being driven away, strength clearly wasn't the standard.
"I don't like using people who've committed too much evil," Morin said when they didn't move.
"Who are you calling evil?!"
A burly man with a thick beard that nearly covered his face glared at him and cursed.
"Whoever answers," Morin raised an eyebrow. "That's who."
"%￥#@!"
The man-Yuris-cursed in a language Morin didn't recognize, probably some dialect, and strode toward him.
"What are you doing?" Morin looked at Turner.
"Just going to stand there and watch?"
"But..." Turner hesitated.
"Sir, you might be mistaken. He's been here a long time and never caused trouble..."
"I'm never wrong about people," Morin said.
"Just like I wasn't wrong about you."
"And a pub employee's duty," he continued calmly, "is that when anything inside the pub-including the owner-is about to be harmed, you protect it first. Whether you think you can or not. Understand?"
"Yuris!"
Turner couldn't argue and could only look at the man.
"I'm sorry, but please don't use violence..."
"Get out of the way, little blacksmith!" Yuris roared.
"Or I'll throw you into the sea with him!"
"I'm sorry."
Turner shook his head.
"But I can't let you touch him."
"F*ck you!"
Yuris ignored him and swung.
Straight at his face.
Turner snapped.
A man's face was sacred. He'd worked hard for this one.
Going straight for it meant only one thing-you were jealous.
Turner countered.
He blocked the punch and lifted his leg.
"Kachak!"
Critical hit.
Morin swore he heard the crisp sound of a cracked egg in the air.
"Hm..."
Morin's eye twitched.
Any man would react to that.
"Ugh-!"
Yuris' vital spot took the blow.
His eyes bulged. He groaned, collapsed, and rolled on the ground clutching himself.
"I don't usually fight," Turner said cautiously, glancing back at Morin, worried this might cost him the job.
"You mean you'll kill someone if you do," Morin muttered, waving his hand.
"It's fine. Being able to fight is a basic requirement for a pub employee."
Turner: "???"
Why did a pub employee need combat ability?
Was this even a legitimate pub?
"The wine here will be especially strong," Morin explained calmly.
"Drunks cause trouble. Someone has to stop them."
While explaining, he conveniently hyped the wine.
Two birds. One stone.
"And you," Morin said to the others who had been ready to fight but now hesitated.
"If you're not joining, go to the garrison."
"Don't worry. I'm fair and law-abiding."
"Yeah! Let's go to the garrison!" one of the expelled men suddenly shouted.
"At least make him pay us for our time!"
"Yes!"
"Yes!"
They left noisily.
Yuris remained on the ground, groaning.
A critical hit lasted days.
The one who delivered it was Turner-a hidden brute.
The fact Yuris wasn't half-dead meant only one thing.
Turner had held back.
No-held back his leg.
"Sir?" Turner looked confused.
If someone else had suggested calling the garrison, fine.
But why did you surrender first?
Your Majesty, we were ready to die. Why did you kneel first?
We have no ground to stand on now!
"Relax," Morin sighed.
"I told you. I'm good at judging people."
It seemed building employee trust would take time.
Turner stepped aside and stayed put.
He was the one who'd struck the blow.
"As for you," Morin turned to the remaining laborers.
"Do as I said. Renovate the pub. Understood?"
"It's not that we want to back out," one of them said carefully.
"It's just... if this isn't resolved..."
"One person. Two gold coins."
"Deal!"
No hesitation.
Two gold coins for renovation work.
Short of piracy, where else could they earn that fast?
"Then..."
Morin bent down and picked up a palm-sized stone.
Everyone watched.
Morin held it with both hands.
And snapped it in half.
Cleanly.
Eyes widened.
He tossed one half aside and rubbed the other.
Stone powder spilled into his palm.
He walked to the pub wall and drew shapes with it-squares, squares with semicircles.
Some powder fell.
Some scattered in the wind.
Silence.
Someone picked up the discarded stone half and tried to break it.
Nothing.
Others tried.
Still nothing.
It was real stone.
Morin had crushed it barehanded.
Turner stared, having witnessed everything-including the sound.
Do I even need to protect someone like this?
The answer came immediately.
He's not holding back because he can't win.
He's holding back because he's afraid of killing someone.
"Alright," Morin said.
The crowd snapped back.
"Tear down the walls where I marked," he ordered.
"And a few of you, cut trees and bring back lumber."
"Oh-and take this."
He tossed a small bag of gold coins.
"One coin each. Advance payment. I remember your faces. Don't take the money and run."
He didn't finish.
He didn't need to.
Everyone filled in the rest themselves.
Heads crushed.
Flesh pulped.
Devil.
Rumors resurfaced.
But gold coins gleamed in their hands.
Money was courage.
Turner felt his heart ache.
Twenty or thirty gold coins-gone with a wave.
Some years, he didn't earn that much.
Weatherby had paid him ten for a ceremonial sword.
This wasn't how money was spent.
He stayed quiet.
"It's him!"
A shout came from afar.
The six expelled men returned-with the garrison-pointing at Morin and yelling accusations.
The laborers looked on with pity.
You really don't know who you provoked.
Morin's gaze swept over them.
"How long are you going to watch?" he asked.
"I've been very clear."
They scattered instantly and got to work.
Morin looked at the approaching officer.
Then at Turner.
A strange smile appeared.
Watching a face-slapping drama unfold was always enjoyable.
And the man walking toward him fit perfectly.
James Norrington.
Commodore of the Royal Navy.
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