On the sea. A violent sea, as dark as the sky. Every single wave was as large as a mountain, rising and crashing with a force that could swallow islands whole. The sea roared and battled with the sky above endless, ancient, hungry.
From the sky, lightning and storm continued to hit the water. Bolts of white-hot fire slammed into the waves, boiling the surface, illuminating the chaos below. From the sea, large monsters great as mountains fought against each other.
On one side, a great squid. Its body was covered with thousands of scars evidence of centuries of battle, of survival, of dominance. Horns protruded from its flesh, piercing its opponents, tearing through their defenses. It fought against a shark whose body was filled with spikes each one dripping with venom, each one sharp enough to tear through steel. Its mouth was filled with sharp teeth that poured out acid, dissolving everything they touched. Every breath it took breathed fire out of its nostrils scorching the air, melting the waves.
The shark came up and bit down on one of the squid's legs.
It tore it apart.
Blood dark, thick, endless poured into the sea, staining the waves, attracting more predators.
The squid's leg regenerated instantly. A new tentacle sprouted from the wound, replacing the lost limb, ready to fight again.
But it was not only them.
Another beast rose from the depths and swallowed half of the squid whole. It had the tail of a dolphin powerful, muscular, propelling it through the water with terrifying speed. Six tentacles extended from its torso, each with blades protruding from them curved, serrated, deadly. And it had two heads both of lions roaring as they bit into the squid's flesh.
These sea monsters were just a minute fraction of what filled the sea. An endless battle. Creatures beyond counting, beyond imagination, beyond reason.
This was the Infinite Sea.
A sea of infinite monsters and storm in the world of Valhalla.
As the battle raged on these waters, another battle also took place on these seas.
Ships the size of elephants thousands of wooden ships, each with sails unfurled, each with cannons blazing, each with men fighting and dying on their decks. They were divided into two.
About fifty thousand of the ships had white sails and a flag that bore the emblem of the British nation. These were the ships of the navy forces disciplined, organized, merciless.
Led by Woodes Rogers.
The remaining ships greater in number than the rest had black sails and a black flag with a skull embedded on it. And written below every flag was the name of their squadron:
The Black Tide Squadron.
And on the largest of the pirate ships a galleon so vast it seemed to breathe with the waves, so ancient it seemed to have sailed since the beginning of Valhalla itself stood a man.
Eight feet in height. His body mass was immense muscles layered upon muscles, scars layered upon scars. He wore a navy robe that had been torn on many sides, revealing the flesh beneath flesh that had been stabbed, cut, burned, and healed a thousand times. A red scarf was tied around his waist frayed, bloodstained, honored. A long red ribbon was tied around his head, trailing behind him in the wind like a banner of defiance.
He wore gloves of gold each finger gleaming, each knuckle polished, each hand ready to strike.
In his hands, he held two guns. Each was as long as his own arms massive, ornate, deadly. The barrels were carved with scenes of battle and death, the handles wrapped in leather worn smooth by years of use.
He smiled.
His teeth were rotten blackened, broken, feral. But the smile was genuine.
He broke up into a great laugh.
"HAHAHAHAHA!"
The sound echoed across the water over the cannons, over the screams, over the roaring of the sea monsters.
"Where are you, my rival?" His voice was a booming thunder. "Woodes Rogers!" He raised his guns to the sky. "I want to battle with you once more!"
The pirates and the navy were at a great battle. Pirates fought against navy men cutlasses against sabers, pistols against muskets, fury against discipline. Ships collided. Boards were thrown. Men fell into the water, only to be devoured by the monsters below.
He shouted out his name.
"I am the great pirate ALARIC VANE!"
His golden gloves gripped his guns tighter.
"I am the IRON LANTERN!"
On one of the vessels, bodies of pirates and navy men filled it up. The ship had been torn in-between, split nearly into two, almost sinking into the sea. Water poured through the cracks. Flames licked at the sails.
Standing amongst the dead bodies was Gareth.
He wore a long brown cloak tattered, weathered, stained with blood that was not his own. His body was tired and filled with scars the marks of the battle that had brought him here, the evidence of everything he had endured.
"Oh my." His voice was quiet, almost tired. "I wish it didn't go like this."
He looked at the bodies around him.
"Was there perhaps a mistake in my calculation?"
Lancelot was wrapped at his back strapped to him with ropes and cloth, unconscious, still. The transformed knight's body was heavy, but Gareth carried him without complaint. Without choice.
Gareth now held a staff in one hand wooden, simple, unadorned and a curved pirate sword in the other. The blade was serrated, wicked, freshly stained with blood.
He faced off against an opponent.
A navy man.
He wore an iron mask edged into his face, merged with his flesh, permanent. There were no eyeholes. No mouth hole. No holes at all. Yet he moved with the certainty of one who could see everything.
And each of his fingers was made of steel blade extending from his knuckles, curved like talons, sharp enough to cut through armor.
The navy man stepped forward.
Gareth sighed.
in the space between the pirate's laughter and the devil's weariness, between the chaos of the Infinite Sea and the quiet battle on a sinking ship.
Gareth raised his curved sword.
Lancelot slept on his back.
And the storm raged on.
THE INFINTE SEA SAGA HAS BEGUN