Gareth faced off with a new enemy.
The navy man with the iron mask edged into his face stood across the tilting deck, his steel-blade fingers gleaming in the storm-light. Gareth took a pause, feeling the ship shift beneath his feet the wood groaning, the water rushing, the imbalance of combat on the sea.
I really can't fight effectively here, he thought, his eyes fixed on the masked opponent. First and foremost, there is little to no room for movement. Or for making an attack.
He shifted Lancelot's weight on his back the unconscious knight still strapped to him, still dead weight, still vulnerable.
Plus, if I let my guard down for even a second...
His grip tightened on his curved pirate sword.
...it will be the end of me.
He looked around at the bodies of pirates and navy men scattered across the deck, at the flames licking at the sails, at the dark waters churning below.
I don't have any allies on this sea.
The opponent came forward.
He moved without sound his iron mask expressionless, his steel fingers extended, his body lunging. His hand stretched toward Gareth's throat.
SHLIK!
The blade-fingers scratched Gareth's neck shallow, but sharp, drawing blood, stinging with the promise of worse to come.
Gareth lost his balance.
The ship lurched beneath him or maybe it was his own body, his own exhaustion, his own wounds finally catching up. He fell toward the wooden deck, his feet sliding, his arms windmilling.
But he took it to his advantage.
His hand snapped out grabbing the leg of one of the dead navy men lying nearby. The corpse was still warm, still heavy, still useful. He threw it toward his opponent's face.
The iron mask smashed through the body.
The corpse exploded blood, flesh, and bone spraying across the deck. But the iron mask was indestructible. It did not crack. Did not chip. Did not even scratch.
Gareth smiled.
"Really." His voice was quiet, almost amused. "I didn't think I would meet you."
He pushed himself up slowly, carefully, his eyes never leaving the masked figure.
"I'm not one fascinated by people." He tilted his head. "But you..."
He pointed his curved sword at the opponent.
"Iron Mask Killer."
The ship groaned the tied that was about to capsize it strained, cracked, gave. The deck slanted beneath them, water pouring over the railing, bodies sliding toward the edge.
Gareth slid down the wooden floorboard.
He moved with the tilt of the ship using the chaos, using the momentum, using everything he had learned in centuries of battle. He slid directly under his opponent, passing between his legs, emerging behind him.
His staff swung.
CRACK!
The wooden weapon slammed into the back of the opponent's knee. The joint buckled. The navy man stumbled.
Gareth raised his curved sword.
And stabbed.
A clean, deep thrust aimed not at the heart, not at the throat, but at the manhood. The rusty blade cut through cloth, through flesh, through everything.
He cut off one of his balls.
The opponent did not flinch.
Did not scream.
Did not react.
Gareth looked at his opponent's muscles at the way they moved, flexed, responded without any sign of pain. The man was still fighting. Still advancing. Still unaffected.
What a waste-filled battle, Gareth thought, his inner voice frustrated. I should not really face this kind of opponent.
He stepped back.
A man that cannot feel pain.
He smiled a thin, tired expression.
"Well." He tightened his grip on his sword. "Better take my chances."
He grabbed a long rope that was on the floor thick as his arm, coiled, heavy. The rope was tied to the hull of the ship, secured to the wood, strong enough to hold.
He ran.
Across the deck leaping over bodies, sliding across blood, dodging the flames. His voice shouted through the chaos.
"Oi, Iron Face!" He laughed. "Try and catch me!"
The opponent moved.
He followed silent, relentless, unstoppable his steel fingers extended, his iron mask gleaming.
Gareth knew that he had already expended a large amount of energy in the battle before he met Iron Face. His body was tired. His wounds were many. His strength was draining.
So what do you think he will do in this situation?
Of course, it is natural to run. To flee from a situation that you cannot control. This is normal in battle.
But this was not near any normal battle. A battle on the sea filled with great monsters, with endless waves, with death waiting in every shadow. Where could you possibly run to for safety?
But...
Gareth reached the edge of the ship.
...if it had been any other warrior, this would have marked their death.
He looked down at the dark water at the churning waves, at the shadows moving beneath the surface.
But it was not.
He jumped.
For this was Gareth.
The devil.
He plunged into the sea.
The water was cold shockingly cold biting at his skin, stealing his breath. He sank beneath the waves, the weight of Lancelot on his back dragging him down, the darkness closing around him.
But he did not panic.
His hand moved his curved sword cutting across his own arm. A shallow cut. Just enough to draw blood. Just enough to attract.
The blood spread through the water thin, red, scented.
Something stirred in the depths.
A shadow moved larger than the ship, larger than anything Gareth had ever seen. It rose toward him, driven by the scent of blood, by the hunger that never died.
Gareth released his killing intent.
Not wildly. Not chaotically. He focused it like a beam, like a blade, like a command. He aimed it at the creature rising from the depths.
Finally, he thought. I will perfect this technique.
He spoke its name to himself.
"APEX PREDATOR."
The technique was simple in concept, but terrifying in execution. It used killing intent on a particular target taking control of their senses, dominating their perception, shaping everything they saw and felt.
Gareth was no longer fighting the monster.
He was controlling it.
The creature surged to the surface its massive body exploding from the water, shattering the remains of the ship, scattering debris across the waves. It was a beast with the head of a crocodile jaws filled with teeth, eyes burning with ancient hunger. Its body was that of a lion, muscular, powerful, covered in scars. But every one of its limbs was made out of fins webbed, flexible, propelling it through the water with terrifying speed.
It crushed the ship completely.
One of its massive fins slammed into the Iron Mask Killer tearing off one of his arms, sending it spinning into the sea.
Gareth sat on top of the great beast.
His body was soaked. His wounds were bleeding. His strength was nearly gone. But he was alive.
"Well." His voice was quiet, almost conversational. "That played out perfectly."
He looked at the monster beneath him at the power he now controlled.
"Not only that..." He smiled. "I have control over this weapon."
He looked at the navy man still standing on the wreckage of the ship, his iron mask still gleaming, his remaining hand still raised.
"Let's see how long you can last."
He commanded the beast.
"Attack."
"Crush his body completely."
The monster moved.
Its massive jaws closed around the navy man lifting him from the wreckage, swallowing him whole. The man disappeared into its throat and then, within the darkness of the beast's gullet, multiple arms appeared. They squeezed. They crushed. They reduced everything to paste.
The Iron Mask Killer was no more.
Gareth sat on the monster's body, a great and devious smile spreading across his face.
"Well then." His voice was calm, satisfied, hungry. "Let's break forward now."
The beast roared and surged across the waves.
Gareth rode the beast.
Lancelot slept on his back.
And the Infinite Sea churned