Gareth ran.
His feet pounded against the blood-soaked deck, each step carrying him deeper into the heart of the navy vessel. Around him, the soldiers of the British fleet swarmed like ants hundreds of them, their blades raised, their faces twisted with fear and fury, their wills pressed against the weight of his killing intent.
He did not slow.
He did not stop.
He attacked.
His spear shot forward piercing a soldier's throat, retracting in a spray of blood, turning to meet the next enemy. The shaft spun in his hands, deflecting a blade, tripping a soldier, opening a path.
The first wave fell.
The second wave came.
They came from all directions front, back, left, right, above their blades flashing, their bodies pressing, their numbers overwhelming. They were like the waves of the Infinite Sea, relentless and unending.
Gareth moved through them like water through cracks in stone.
His body twisted dodging a thrust, countering with an elbow, shattering a jaw. His spear swung cutting across a chest, opening a belly, spilling intestines across the deck. His foot kicked sending a soldier flying into his comrades, scattering them like leaves.
He was not fighting.
He was flowing.
The malice that had filled him, the power that had transformed him, was guiding his movements, anticipating the enemy, denying them the chance to touch him.
He reached the center of the ship.
A captain stood there his sword raised, his eyes cold, his will unyielding. Behind him, a dozen elite soldiers formed a wall of steel, their faces hard, their resolve unshaken.
Gareth smiled.
"Move." His voice was calm, almost conversational. "Or die."
The captain's sword descended.
Gareth moved.
His spear shot forward piercing the captain's sword hand, shattering the bones, forcing him to drop his weapon. His body spun kicking the captain in the chest, sending him flying into his men.
The elite soldiers charged.
Gareth met them.
His spear stabbed piercing a throat, retracting, turning. His foot kicked shattering a knee, dropping a soldier. His elbow slammed cracking a skull, ending a life.
He moved through them like a ghost untouchable, unseen, unreal.
They fell.
All of them.
He stood among the bodies, his breath steady, his heart calm, his will absolute.
The second ship.
More soldiers hundreds of them, their blades raised, their faces twisted, their fear overwhelmed by the desperation of the moment.
Gareth charged.
His spear spun deflecting a blade, tripping a soldier, opening a path. His body twisted dodging a thrust, countering with an elbow, shattering a jaw.
He killed them.
All of them.
The bodies piled around him a mountain of flesh and bone, a monument to his will, a testament to the power that had been gifted to him.
He stood on the pile and looked at the remaining ships.
The navy fleet surrounded him ships as large as mountains, men as numerous as the waves, a force that should have been impossible to defeat.
But he was not fighting to defeat them.
He was fighting to survive.
To thrive.
To conquer.
The third ship.
More soldiers their blades raised, their faces twisted, their fear overwhelmed by the desperation of the moment.
Gareth charged.
His spear stabbed piercing a throat, retracting, turning. His body spun kicking a soldier, sending him flying into his comrades. His elbow slammed cracking a skull, ending a life.
He moved through them like a storm destroying everything in his path.
They fell.
All of them.
He stood among the bodies, his breath steady, his heart calm, his will absolute.
Darlington watched.
His eyes those observer's eyes tracked every movement, every breath, every choice.
He could not help but be entertained the spectacle of it all, the dance of violence, the will of a man who had been broken and remade.
This is fascinating, he thought, his inner voice quiet, almost reverent. He's using the malice as a source of energy, as a fuel for his will.
He leaned forward.
And he's not even tired.
He smiled.
Truly, this is the power of a devil.
Gareth reached the fourth ship.
The soldiers here were different their armor blackened, their blades curved, their eyes burning with a darkness that was not human. They were not soldiers they were monsters, created by the malice that saturated the Infinite Sea.
Gareth smiled.
"Finally." His voice was calm, almost eager. "Something worth fighting."
They charged.
He met them.
His spear stabbed piercing a throat, retracting, turning. His body spun kicking a monster, sending it flying into its comrades. His elbow slammed cracking a skull, ending a life.
But they were different from the soldiers.
They did not fall.
They rose.
Their wounds healed. Their bodies reformed. Their darkness consumed the damage that should have ended them.
Gareth's eyes narrowed.
"Interesting." He tightened his grip on the spear. "Let's try something else."
He released his killing intent.
Not the wave of terror he had used before something deeper. Something older. Something that had been sleeping in the depths of his soul.
The malice surged.
It flowed through his body, poured into his spear, filled the air around him with a darkness that swallowed everything in its path.
He attacked.
His spear cut through the monsters not wounding them, but destroying them. The darkness consumed their bodies, scattered their essence, ended their existence.
They did not rise again.
He stood among their remains, his breath steady, his heart calm, his will absolute.
Darlington watched.
His face was filled with absolute joy. He smiled as he drooled it was akin to a child who had been given a new toy, a spectator who had been gifted the greatest show.
This is it, he thought, his inner voice alive with excitement. This is the power of malice. The power of darkness. The power of a god.
He leaned forward.
And it's only going to get stronger.
in the space between the monster's destruction and the devil's ascension, between the malice that filled him and the battle that was about to begin.
Gareth stood on the fourth ship.
The navy fleet surrounded him.
And the sea roared.