Deck Brawls and Pirate Bloodlines
The Empire's admiral and the third prince. Bang!—the gunshot rang out the instant the match began. Lemon Hyacinth fired off mana-infused bullets from his pistols without a moment's hesitation, precisely targeting the two men. Bartholomew charged straight at the prince, shrugging off the incoming mana rounds with his bare scales. He planted his feet wide, gripped his harpoon with both hands, and thrust it forward with all his might.
The prince sneered at the incoming attack, still not even drawing his sword. He spread his wings to bat away Hyacinth's bullets, parried the harpoon with his scabbard, and drove a kick right into Bartholomew's gut. With a heavy thud, Bartholomew's feet lifted off the deck—only for his tail to whip around the prince's leg in an instant, yanking him off balance. Twisting his body midair like he was swimming through the sky, Bartholomew flipped and slammed a retaliatory kick straight into the prince's chest.
It was a flashy counterattack that anyone could appreciate. The prince coughed as he was sent tumbling backward. Arans were said to have light bodies for flight, but he was especially airy—hit by the wind, he slid back like a paper airplane, crashing onto the deck. Just before hitting the ground, he flared his wings, flipped his body in a dive, somersaulted through the air, and landed, finally placing a hand on his sword hilt as he glared at Bartholomew.
Shiiiing—"What?"
The sword slowly slid free, revealing a blade of pure white. The air around it froze solid, turning pale as a hazy mist began to gather around the prince. The blade was an extreme, blinding white, as if forged from the coldest ice imaginable, radiating a terrifying chill. Frost started creeping across the deck around the prince, and even his own body began to glaze over with white rime.
"Wait, he's freezing himself—can he even use that?" Hyacinth blurted out in disbelief from the sidelines, but Bartholomew shouted back with wide-eyed shock.
"That's one of the Eight Demon Swords, Famine Frost! They say it's the magic sword of absolute zero... Incredible! The air's actually freezing!"
As a treasure aficionado, Bartholomew instantly recognized the blade as one of the fabled Eight Demon Swords and his eyes sparkled in admiration. I whipped my head around to stare at the pristine white sword too. Was this one of the magic swords the hero Daegomgei had wielded? It was about the size of a standard longsword, but just holding it dropped the temperature below freezing, and the air itself grew bitterly cold, as if the climate was shifting. The prince gripping it was turning ghostly white as well.
"But they say everyone who wields that sword turns into an ice block and dies!"
"Isn't he dying right now?"
Hyacinth had lost all will to fight, eyeing the scene warily and wondering if one shot would shatter him. Bartholomew, on the other hand, bellowed that this was the kind of thing you needed to draw for a proper fight!! and leaped forward with enough force to crack the deck, thrusting his harpoon once more.
When sword met harpoon, a sharp clang echoed, scattering snowflakes in all directions. The two locked in place, neither yielding an inch as they swung wildly and savagely, clashing in brutal exchanges. Bartholomew's massive harpoon swings carried immense weight and power, staggering the prince with each hit he blocked—but the prince deftly deflected them while the sword's inherent chill slowly froze Bartholomew solid.
Considering Deynos were reptile-kin, a prolonged fight would favor the prince. But Bartholomew sucked in a deep breath and blasted the prince's face with a breath attack. The air cannon hit with a boom, crumpling the prince's expression as he reeled. The harpoon speared toward his chest—but with a flap of wings, the prince took to the air in an impossibly low-altitude flight, maneuvering swiftly to slash at Bartholomew from above.
No one could tell exactly how he flew, but each flap of those crow-like wings reflected sunlight off the blade in blinding flashes, carving frozen gashes into Bartholomew's body with every pass. The wounds discolored like frostbite, ice spreading across his skin from the cuts. It was a magic sword so dreadful you feared it might freeze the blood in his veins if it pierced deep enough.
But Bartholomew wasn't going down easy. He snatched the rum flask from his belt, swung it upside down to douse the blade—freezing the liquor onto it to add forced weight. The prince's flight wobbled midair; Bartholomew grabbed his ponytail, slammed him face-first into the deck, then—like a baseball player swinging for a home run with the harpoon's butt end—sent the startled prince flying into the opposite wall.
"G...uh. So... c-c-cold..."
Bartholomew chattered, teeth clacking, his earlier bravado gone as he dropped to one knee, shivering uncontrollably. The prince, eyes glazed, staggered to his feet, slipped on the deck, flailed to rise again—only to skid on the ice from his own sword and nose-plant into the floor.
"Hmph... looks like I win by default."
"Hyacinth wins."
"I don't accept that!!"
Wasn't the last one standing the victor? As the referee, I raised Hyacinth's hand, but the two men protested the biased judging and hauled themselves up. What a pointless pride contest... utterly pathetic. Hyacinth just shrugged at them: "Wanna go again?"
As they raised sword and harpoon, Hyacinth zapped them with electric sparks from his fingers, paralyzing them into submission. No guns needed—just raw mana discharge from his fingertips. It looked weak, but the electricity hit hard; both men convulsed.
"Grr... If my body wasn't frozen, I'd have dodged."
"Damn... fishing for the fisherman's win...!"
"What now, bro? 2-on-2?"
"No need...? I can handle 'em solo."
Outraged, the two men—surprisingly calmly after a brief rest—sprang up. Bartholomew's shallow cuts had regenerated thanks to Deynos vitality; the prince had planned to fly from the start, wings spread. I told Hyacinth to hang back, then drew my spirit sword from my chest pocket.
"What... a sword hilt?"
In front of the puzzled prince, the white blade erupted forth. His face twisted in envy: Damn, that's cool...! Even Bartholomew smirked, mumbling that it looked awesome every time.
Hyacinth plugged one ear and fired into the sky as the signal. The two charged. My sword, empowered by
Invisible Touch
flew on its own toward Bartholomew.
Bartholomew panicked at the autonomous sword and swung his harpoon to fend it off. "Flying sword?! Sword Master?!"
The moment his eyes locked on it, I snagged the prince's hand with
Friend☆ship
.
Our eyes met as his magic sword clattered away and he tried to process what happened. He quickly assessed, elbowing my chest—but
Metal Skin
turned it into a metallic clang. He winced, arm numb and trembling. I yanked his seized arm, headbutted his forehead, spun my waist, and suplexed him into the deck.
Boom!
"Coward!! Fight fair—without the sword!!"
"
Hydro Pump
"
I summoned an ethanol faucet, blasting him with precise water pressure. The water cannon nailed Bartholomew, sending him screaming into the deck. Even then, I followed up with a flat-of-the-blade smack to his crown; his neck turtle-shelled inward as he flopped pathetically. Soaked in ethanol, he gasped his last: "It's not water... it's booze..." before passing out.
"Radamu bro wins."
"Pirate King and Grand Swordmaster? Overhyped."
"Tch... And what are you, some hero?"
Prince Castella grumbled at me while rubbing his head. Hyacinth chuckled, muttering "logical, spot-on judgment" with a eyebrow twitch.
With the pecking order settled, time to clean up—only for Bartholomew to lunge at the prince with his harpoon, yelling it wasn't over yet.
"Men are really like this? Who cares who's stronger?"
Riko emerged, arms crossed and lips pursed, blaming the noisy deck fight and telling me to stop them. If I could, I would have ages ago. Eventually, the two collapsed in exhaustion, weaponless, reduced to bickering on the ground.
"I landed more hits... Think I went easy? Royal mercy."
"I held back on the harpoon swings...? Deynos regrow limbs—you're just too frail."
"Don't make me laugh... My magic sword cuts anything...!"
"Sword-cocky punk... Real man fights sword-to-sword..."
"Bro, these guys are lower-level than Leona despite their age."
"Leona's stacking achievements, studying hard—hit B-grade already."
"We're below Leona-level, huh."
Suddenly, everyone felt down. Two months at sea. Leona had hit B-grade, even sending photos. Larirure had laid down the law—no moves till I did first—so Riko wasn't pestering lately. Po'runga hit B-grade too, begging to return and show off; her letter even had lipstick marks. Nox, meanwhile, brought unwanted news: she'd bought hero portraits and figures from Default Kingdom for the base. The other party members back home were fine and healthy.
Anyway, the two idiots grumbled on the deck, pride-clashing. Their chat done, Admiral Shark and Captain Zan burst laughing at the pitiful sight—like brothers. The admiral laughed so hard he choked; the captain massaged her brow, sighed, and shook her head.
"Truly, he takes after his grandsire. Thought he was a ghost at first... even the personality matches. That 'manly' talk—genetic tic?"
"Grandfather...?"
Bartholomew looked up at Shark, stunned by "grandsire." He seemed clueless about his grandpa. Shark glanced at the captain, coughed awkwardly—maybe he shouldn't have said it. But Zan shrugged: out at sea anyway, he'd learn eventually; nothing grand.
"No way, granny. Grandpa a pirate? News to me."
"You never asked."
"Wha... So this hat from grandma was his?!"
"Yup."
"What're you hiding it for! Why not tell me?!"
"Wanted you fishing, not pirating. Your dad's a fisherman—stick to family trade, not buccaneering. Tsk tsk."
"Haha! Right! But skip the navy too—pushed out by power games, treated worse than elves, hahaha!"
No one laughed at Shark's unfunny joke. Prince Castella griped if pirate blood made him so prickly, rubbing his forehead with mana-ice. Bartholomew stared at the captain, utterly shocked. Nex chimed in late: "I was shocked too at first—uncanny resemblance."
"...Come to think, never heard why the crew disbanded. Tell us, Zan. Fifty years I've wondered. Why kill a captain of ten years?"
Shark pressed seriously; if spilling, include that. Zan glared—that's why you're here?—nailing him. He coughed, looked away, lit a cigarette.
"Fine, I'll tell. Listen up, kid. If you're pirating, it'll take 50-60 years rough. Nesil Geitor was spry then."
"Hey now, Captain..."
──It was the tale of betraying her captain of ten years. The greediest reason any pirate faces, she recalled with a reminisce.