Chapter 15
Pirates were born for battle. Day or night, they had fought under countless conditions dictated by the sea's whims. Sometimes the deck beneath their feet grew slick with water. Even when massive waves crashed over the deck, flooding up to their ankles, they couldn't release their swords. Rigging would sometimes whip around, flinging men overboard. Sudden wind shifts could tilt the entire ship. They fought through it all. A pirate's battle never began on steady ground. It always started in a rocking world. That's why their balance was superb enough to hold position amid the ship's wild pitching from giant swells.
Sepir's swordsmanship diverged sharply from the norm. Each flashy, grand motion loaded all his weight without growing sluggish; that power simply spun back around. In essence, his movements never broke.
The cutlass carved a vast arc through the air. Whoosh—the tearing of air followed belatedly. In standard swordplay, such a wide swing would already expose a fatal gap. A weighted blade halts. A halted blade needs time to move again. But Sepir's sword didn't stop. It circled back upward like drawing a hoop. His foot shifted. His left followed half a beat later, thrusting his center higher. And again. Swoosh—the cutlass cleaved moonlight toward Philia's neck.
A strike that rang her sword. Clang—metal clashed, echoing across the peak. A brief collision. Yet Sepir's blade was already in motion once more. The instant it met hers, the force flowed seamlessly, spinning his body. Shoulder turned. Waist twisted. Feet slid in rotation. The cutlass surged upward from below. Natural as massive currents bending around a rock. No pauses. No interruptions. Sword spun. Body spun. Sword spun again.
His swordsmanship wasn't linear. It was circular. Clang—the second clash. Impact raced up Sepir's arm. But Philia's stance held firm. Her feet unmoving. Wind rustled the grass. Sepir's coat billowed wide. And again. The sword descended. This time from above downward. A strike heavy with weight. Air compressed. Ordinary swordplay would dismiss it as simple: block, evade, done. But Sepir permitted no such simplicity. As the blade fell, his feet moved. Body twisted, center dropping low. The sword grazed the ground, then rebounded skyward on its recoil. Like a crashing wave surging anew.
Philia's eyes flickered ever so slightly. Sepir was smiling. His breath ragged now, but his eyes still danced lightly. The sword returned. This time from the side. Swoosh—moonlight tore long along the blade. Philia's sword stirred. Clang—the third clash. This one packed real force. Sepir's arm muscles swelled. Shoulder locked solid, power channeled. That power surged through the blade.
"...Hah."
Sepir's cutlass had cleaved the air countless times. Drawn moonlight into scattering half-moons. Surged like waves, then receded. Yet...
"An impossible person. You too..."
Her sword didn't waver. Too steadfast to call a block. Too passive for a parry. It simply was there. As if eternally rooted in place.
"Truly, the one dubbed the Empire's Blade..."
Sepir's wrist, absorbing every shock, trembled faintly. His grip slackened a fraction, then clenched anew. Breath grew labored. Chest heaved rapidly. Sweat beaded on his brow, trickling down his temple. Still, he smiled. Smiling while he could—that was Sepir de Hwan's peculiar brand of stubbornness. But the smile had thinned.
So the end is death, after all.
A short exhale. Then an inhale. The cutlass whipped horizontally. Not at her neck, but the arm gripping her sword. Topple the arm, the neck follows. Clang—blocked again. More accurately, it was already waiting upon arrival. Philia didn't twist her blade. Didn't deflect. She simply stood it edge-up. Sepir's arc shattered against it. As if her sword pursued him.
Philia parted her lips, ever so slowly.
"Is the dance over, Sepir?"
Incredible, after dozens of clashes—her voice held not a tremor. Cold wind ghosted the peak. The crushed grass shivered once, violently. Sepir tightened his grip on the cutlass. His palm's inner side was slick. Sweat. Or blood, perhaps. He couldn't recall when he'd been cut. A short exhale.
"Ha... fuck..."
His chest heaved broadly. He tried to steady his breath, but it wouldn't align. Heart pounded wildly. A dull throb inside his ears. Thump. Thump. Thump. He smiled, slowly.
"More venomous than any rotgut."
Sepir said. His voice stayed light, but fatigue now laced it.
"Dance."
He gave the cutlass a light shake. The tip caught moonlight, flashing briefly.
"Must look that way in your eyes."
He rolled his shoulders faintly. Shook out his arms. His wrist still quivered minutely. He made no effort to hide it. No point.
"But listen."
Sepir said.
"This isn't some dance..."
He stomped once. Dirt sprayed lightly.
"It's thrashing to survive."
Before the words ended, he moved. No rotation this time. Body low. Straight thrust. Swoosh. The cutlass stabbed for Philia's chest. The first thrust from Sepir's blade. His style was circles. Swing, spin, flow, connect. Not stabbing. The pinnacle of his art. A thrust bearing the weight of every circle drawn, every flourish.
Baci di dama.
Sepir's body pitched deep forward. Left foot lunged wide, right braced from behind. Shoulder thrust ahead, waist sank low. All that mass funneled to the cutlass tip. Dozens of spins. Dozens of steps. Dozens of clashes. The journey's end.
Screeeeech! It tore the wind. Charging like a prow cleaving all before it, his sword...
Crunch!
"...Hah."
It advanced no further.
"This ends it."
Philia's hand gripped the blade. Five fingers clamped the cutlass edge bare. The sword halted in her palm. Beneath moonlight, steel kissed flesh. No blood welled. Her hand didn't twitch. The blade twisted in her grasp. Crunch. Metal groaned once more. A sound to shatter will, and not wrongly so.
"This."
He muttered.
"Truly impossible."
"You just saw it. Reality."
No fight lingered in his eyes. Slowly, he raised both hands. Empty. And spoke.
"Lady."
His voice remained quiet. But.
No smile now.
"Did I hold out enough?"
"Slightly above average for devil contractors."
You're human, though. Philia swallowed the words. The sun would rise soon. Best minimize needless emotion.
"Haha!"
He said.
"High praise, eh?"
Philia offered no reply. Her gaze slid past his face, to something farther. The river. Crimson river. Moonlight shattered long upon it. And beyond. Faintly. The horizon paling. Sun not yet risen. Yet light bloomed. As stars slipped away slyly, the Triangular Whale's lantern swayed still. Tiny. Distant. Sepir eyed that glow briefly.
"Then... now..."
Ding.Whoosh—faint smoke scattered into cold air. Wind shredded it gone. Sepir, cigar clenched and lit, smiled no more.
"Time, is it."
Philia spoke.
"Change your last words?"
Sepir's eyes shifted faintly. She pressed on.
"The previous ones went unfulfilled, after all."
...A moment's silence.
"Lady?"
"...Yes."
"You're right."
He said.
"Last words."
The cigar tip glowed small again.
"Better once more."
He plucked the cigar from his lips, held it in hand. And briefly. Gazed the distant river. Crimson flow. And atop it, the Triangular Whale. His ship. His crew. And beyond. The sea. Unknown realms. Sepir drank in the vista, then spoke.
"This time, a touch longer."
"...Understood."
Philia startled at her own indulgence. The sea stirred emotions oddly.
"No. Cancel! Short and punchy suits better."
"Yes. Understood."
Ahem.
"My last words aren't much changed... but distilled cooler."
"Yes. I'll hear them."
Philia drove her sword into the earth, faced him. Sepir's grin looked relieved.
"All I possess, sacrificed if need be."
His voice quavered.
"For every soul my hand can touch!"
Done. Philia's foot stirred faintly. One step. Half more. Raising her sword—not slow. Nor rushed. That instant.
Click!
A short, dry metallic snap rent the night. Philia's sword halted. A hair's pause. Her pupils shifted. Sepir's hand. His right plunged behind his waist. And in it, a gun. Short pistol. Unlike the single-shot blunderbusses some pirates favored.
Sepir raised it slow, pressed to his temple.
"...Sepir?"
"You hate killing humans, don't you? Lady."
"You. What in the..."
He murmured, tiny.
"...Lady."
Philia's hand twitched faintly. Sword dipped. Sepir spoke.
"This."
He pressed the barrel deeper. Cold steel dimpled skin.
"Is for you."
Moment's hush. Then.
Very softly.
He said.
"You..."
Wind lashed the grass. Eastern sky brightened.
"...haven't killed a human yet."
Philia's eyes froze. Sepir's trigger finger tightened. Calmly, he said.
"That first..."
He smirked.
"Needn't be me."
Bang!