The river groaned beneath the hull.
Not loudly—but enough.
Wood against current. Weight against water. A vessel too large for the narrow spine it forced its way through.
—
"Hah—!" Ser Marco laughed, leaning against the railing as if the cold meant nothing to him. "I can take a hundred sellswords alone. Easy."
Captain Hack spat over the side, one hand steady on the wheel, the other scratching beneath his beard.
"A hundred?" he barked, voice thick with that lakesideborn drawl. "Boy, I sunk a hundred ships in my prime—men screamin', wood crackin', whole damn sea chokin' on it!"
He glanced sideways, grinning wide.
"You're still green, hah!"
Marco smirked.
"Ships don't swing back, Captain."
Hack barked a laugh.
"Neither do corpses if you do it right!"
The two of them carried on—boasts stacking on boasts, each more ridiculous than the last.
"A hundred men—"
"I've drowned a hundred twice over—"
"I've fought three at once—"
"I've drank three at once—!"
—
On the main deck—
Order.
Steel.
Discipline.
"Hold formation," a voice cut cleanly through the wind.
Ms. Alessia Kinley stood at the center of it all.
Red hair drawn into a long side ponytail, soft waves falling over her shoulder, thicker strands framing her face—freckles faint but present beneath the cold.
Her armor—
Immovable.
Burnished steel and gold, flawless in every seam. Plates layered with precision, the engraved impaled dragon upon her chestplate catching the dim light as she breathed. A crimson surcoat fell heavy at her waist, shifting with her steps, while her greaves and sabatons struck the deck with controlled authority.
Every movement—
Measured.
Every order—
Exact.
"Knights, maintain spacing. No clustering. we're boarded, you hold the center. Do not break formation unless commanded."
"Yes, Ms. Kinley."
The Ekkehard knights stood ready—silver plate gleaming, black wolf sigils etched proudly across their chests. Their armor balanced strength and movement, designed not for show—but for war.
She nodded once.
Satisfied.
Then turned—
And ascended toward the steering deck.
—
"…Hah, that's nothing—" Marco was mid-sentence when she reached the top step.
"Bullshit," Captain Hack cut in, grinning. "You claim a hundred men? I'll believe it when you bed a hundred women in one night!"
Marco snorted.
"That's just inefficient."
Hack leaned closer, lowering his voice just enough to make it worse.
"I'd believe it faster if you could bed that lady knight there—"
He jerked his chin—
Behind him.
—
Silence.
—
Marco followed the gesture.
His grin froze.
"…Heh," he said, too quickly. "Why would I bed an ugly bear—"
He stopped.
Too late.
Alessia stood there.
Still.
Watching.
—
The air changed.
No shout.
No movement.
Just—
Pressure.
Even Captain Hack felt it.
He did not turn around.
He did not breathe too loudly.
He simply… existed more carefully.
—
"How long," Alessia said, her voice perfectly even, "until we reach the City of Spine Edge?"
Hack swallowed.
"Ah—about… two days, Lady. Maybe less if the current behaves."
"Mm."
A step forward.
Metal boots scraping softly against wood.
Then—
"Ser Marco."
He straightened immediately.
"Yes?"
"If you have something to say about a colleague," she said, her tone sharpening just slightly, "you will say it to her face."
A pause.
Her hand shifted.
Just enough to rest near the hilt of her sword.
"Do you understand?"
Marco scratched his cheek, forcing a grin.
"…Yes. Absolutely. Crystal clear."
"Good."
She smiled.
Cold.
Controlled.
Not friendly.
—
Then—
CRASH.
—
The deck shuddered.
Wood split.
Not cleanly—
But violently.
A greatsword punched through from above, driving into the deck with enough force to crack the planks and tilt the balance of the ship.
Men stumbled.
Ropes strained.
The entire vessel lurched sideways before correcting itself.
—
A figure dropped with it.
Boots landing heavy.
Sword still embedded.
—
He wrenched it free with a sharp pull.
Wood splintered further.
—
"I AM ZILAN!" the man roared.
Six feet tall, broad, blue hair wild against the wind, grin stretched too wide across his face.
"The Bandit King!"
He raised his blade.
"We are raiding this ship! Surrender—and I might let you live!"
—
Silence.
—
The knights stared.
The crew stared.
Even Marco blinked once.
—
"…Did he just announce it?" one sailor muttered.
"…I think he did," another replied.
—
Steel rang.
The Ekkehard knights drew as one—clean, disciplined.
The two Royal Guards followed instantly.
Captain Hack pulled a curved blade from his side with a low grunt.
"Aye…" he muttered. "Now it gets interestin'…"
—
Alessia did not move immediately.
Her eyes remained on Zilan.
Measuring.
Then—
"…Positions," she said quietly.
The knights shifted.
Not rushed.
Not panicked.
Ready.
—
Behind them—
Unseen.
Hooks bit into the rear of the ship.
Ropes pulled tight.
Figures climbed.
One.
Then two.
Then ten.
Boots silent against the hull.
Weapons clenched.
—
The real attack—
Had just begun.
—
A minute ago —
"I go first," Zilan said, already stepping forward. "You lot climb from the rear. Quietly."
A pause.
"…Quietly," he repeated.
—
He exhaled once.
Deep.
Centered.
Beneath the rough layers of his clothing, faint lines stirred—runes etched long ago, hidden beneath cloth and scar. They did not glow brightly. They tightened. Like something waking.
His legs tensed.
Then—
He moved.
A burst.
Snow scattered where he pushed off, his body cutting through the air with violent precision. Fifteen meters across the river's width—upward, over the ship's height—
And then—
CRASH.
He came down onto the main deck like a falling hammer. Wood cracked beneath his boots, the entire vessel shuddering under the impact.
—
Back at the treeline—
"…Tha—That's really high…" Brakk muttered, blinking.
Durgan's jaw dropped.
"Brakk… I didn't know boss-man could fly…"
"Obviously not, Durgan," Gollum snapped, squinting harder as if that helped. "He's clearly a god."
A pause.
The three of them nodded.
"…Yeah."
"…God."
"…Storm god."
They turned—
"GOD! STORM—!"
"SHUT UP!" someone hissed—but it was already too late.
—
On deck—
"Ain't that flashy, eh?" Captain Hack barked, laughing from the helm.
Zilan straightened slowly, rolling his shoulder as if he had merely stepped down a stair.
"You should atleast see the storm coming,that will claim your heads," he said aloud, voice arrogant—
—but his thoughts ran sharper beneath it.
Make it loud. Keep them looking at me. Buy the fools time.
—
Steel answered him.
Alessia moved first.
Her blade left its sheath in one clean motion, settling into a grounded stance—precise, unyielding.
Ser Marco followed, rapier drawn, posture relaxed—almost casual, if not for the way his eyes locked onto Zilan.
Around them, the Ekkehard knights formed up, each taking their preferred stance. No wasted motion. No panic.
Then—
They moved.
A forward surge—controlled, unified. Several knights came in with vertical slashes, aimed to break his guard and force him into defense.
Zilan twisted.
Not back—
through.
His body turned with the momentum, blade following in a wide half-circle. Steel rang as his strike forced space, catching multiple angles at once—not to kill, but to disrupt.
Marco was already there.
Fast.
Too fast for a bandit.
His rapier drove forward in a clean thrust toward Zilan's head.
Zilan leaned—barely. The tip passed by his cheek—
—and Alessia was already descending.
A vertical strike.
Clean.
Heavy.
Zilan raised his sword into a high guard, catching the blow with a sharp crack of steel. The impact traveled through his arms—
—and in that heartbeat—
Marco struck again.
A second thrust.
Closer.
Tighter.
Zilan shifted—too slow this time.
The blade scraped across his side, cutting through cloth, biting shallow into flesh.
He stepped back, breath tightening.
They're good.
No—
They're trained.
And they did not stop.
Pressure came again—Alessia, Marco, and the knights closing in, forcing him backward step by step.
Zilan's jaw clenched.
Enough.
He pivoted and drove a full horizontal slash outward—wide, forceful, meant to create distance with the hope to kill.
Steel met steel—several knights forced to step back, formation breaking just enough—
Space.
A breath.
—
Then—
"WE BOARDED, BOSS-MAN—!!!"
Three voices.
Loud.
Proud.
Completely unnecessary.
—
Everything stopped.
—
"…What?" one sailor muttered.
"…They announced it," another said.
—
Captain Hack barked out a laugh first.
Then Marco.
Then the crew.
Even some of the knights couldn't hold it—
A ripple of laughter spread across the deck, sharp and sudden, cutting through the tension like a crack in ice.
Alessia—
paused.
A hand still on her sword.
A breath held—
Then, just slightly—
She exhaled through her nose.
Almost a chuckle.
Almost.
—
Zilan stood there.
Still.
Sword in hand.
Blood faintly seeping at his side.
His jaw slowly opened.
Just a little.
—
…Unbelievable.
—
Even now—
Even after all this time—
They still managed to surprise him.
Not with brilliance.
Not with skill.
But with sheer comedic stupidity