Noticing the opening—
Zilan moved.
No warning.
No feint.
He dropped his stance low, weight coiling into his rear leg, then released it in a single violent motion—his greatsword carving a full horizontal arc meant to break everything in its path.
Alessia saw it.
Not the swing—
The intent.
Her body shifted instantly into a close left guard, blade angled inward, shoulders tight, center lowered. A defensive posture meant to absorb—not deflect.
Zilan's runes answered.
Beneath cloth and scar, they surged—lines tightening along his forward leg and arm, pulsing like a second heartbeat. The air around him seemed to compress as he stepped in.
The strike landed.
Not with a clang—
But with a crack.
Force.
Raw, overwhelming force.
Alessia dropped lower, boots grinding against the deck, structure reinforced through posture alone—but the moment steel met steel, the difference became absolute.
Her arms trembled.
Her stance broke.
And she was thrown—
Lifted off her feet and hurled across the deck, her body skidding, rolling, slamming toward the bow.
A grunt tore from her throat as she hit.
—
For a fraction of a second—
Everything slowed.
Knights watched as their commander flew past them, red hair trailing, armor ringing against wood.
Then—
Ser Marco moved.
No hesitation.
He lunged—rapier driving forward with surgical precision, aimed straight for Zilan's centerline.
Zilan twisted—
Not enough.
The blade kissed his side again, opening shallow flesh.
He grunted.
And answered.
A downward strike—fast, brutal, immediate.
The greatsword came down like a falling beam.
CRASH.
The deck split open beneath the impact, wood exploding outward, a jagged hole tearing through the planks.
Marco slipped aside at the last instant, boots sliding, body angled just enough to let death pass him by.
"Rookie mistake," he muttered—more to himself than anyone—as he stepped in, blade already rising for a counter toward Zilan's neck—
SHWOSH—
Steel met something else.
Not another sword.
Something smaller.
Thrown.
—
"I took the big burly one!" Brakk roared somewhere above.
"I'll help you!" Durgan bellowed.
"I help boss-man!" Gollum shrieked, already moving.
—
Gollum cut through the deck like a storm of blades.
Two machetes flashed in tight arcs, fast, erratic—but not uncontrolled. A sailor stepped in—
Too slow.
Gollum's left blade hooked the man's guard aside while the right drove in, then out, motion never stopping. Another came—he pivoted, low, slicing across legs before finishing the motion upward.
Blood hit the deck in sharp bursts.
He saw it—
The opening.
Zilan's strike.
Marco's counter.
And without thinking—
He threw.
The kukuri spun once—twice—
CLANG.
It struck Marco's rapier mid-thrust, knocking it just off-line.
Enough.
Zilan stepped back, breath heavy, regrouping beside him.
"Deal with that one," Zilan said, voice low, controlled despite the strain. "I'll take the knights."
Gollum grinned, too wide.
"He got sword for girlie," he said, nodding toward Marco.
"That's the spirit."
They set.
Zilan in a rear stance—weight back, blade ready to drive forward.
Gollum—looser, one blade forward, the other drawn back in a curved, coiled position. Unorthodox.
Dangerous.
—
"Knights—encircle," Marco ordered, stepping forward into a tierce, blade extended, body angled.
Steel shifted.
A half-circle formed.
Tight.
Disciplined.
—
At the bow—
Alessia stirred.
Her red hair had come loose, strands clinging to her face. Blood traced a shallow line across her cheek. Her sword—
Broken.
Snapped near the middle.
Only the base remained in her grip.
"…The Kinley family…" she murmured.
"A family of swordsmen, tracing its birth to the first King of the Plains—like most noble houses. Whether they were once truly powerful… or if it was all just a falsehood carried by my ancestors."
Her breath steadied.
Pain acknowledged.
Set aside.
"One thing sure…We are Corelords."
Her eyes sharpened.
Mana gathered.
Not wildly—but with intent. It flowed inward, condensed, then formed—a core igniting deep within, pulsing outward through her body.
She stood.
Staggering once—
Then steady.
The broken blade lifted.
Mana extended from it—thin at first, then solidifying into a translucent edge, shaping the missing steel.
A mana sword—
Reforged by will.
She stepped forward.
"Reinforce the rear," she ordered the knights without raising her voice. "Aid the crew. Hold the line."
They moved.
Immediately.
—
Gollum glanced sideways.
"This serious now," Zilan muttered.
"Ai, boss-man."
—
Alessia reached Marco.
"Take the thin one."
Marco smirked lightly.
"Gladly, ma'am."
—
Then—
They vanished.
Zilan and Alessia collided mid-air—runes blazing against mana, steel meeting energy in a clash that cracked the air itself. The shock rippled outward, wind pushing against men nearby.
—
Back on the deck—
Marco rolled his wrist, settling his grip.
"Well then," he said lightly, eyes on Gollum. "Guess we do this the normal way."
Gollum tilted his head.
"…Normal?"
"Try not to die," Marco added.
Gollum grinned.
"No promises."
—
Above—
At the steering deck—
Captain Hack Swallows spat to the side, stepping forward with his curved blade resting against his shoulder.
"Ain't the two o' you a piece o' work," he drawled.
Brakk raised his axe, shield lifting with it.
"We kill fat man. Then help others."
Durgan cracked his neck, hammer shifting in both hands.
"Yeah… butcher the pig."
Hack laughed.
Low.
Wide.
"Boy…" he said, voice thick with amusement, "you ain't killin' this man. Not today."
He stepped forward.
And something changed.
A red aura bled into the air around him—not wild, not explosive—but heavy. Pressing. Like heat before a storm.
His grip tightened.
"How's now?" he asked.
Brakk squinted.
"…Still pig."
Durgan nodded.
"Smell worse now."
—
They moved.
Together.
Brakk first—shield raised, axe coming down in a heavy diagonal meant to split through guard and bone alike.
Durgan followed half a step behind—hammer already rising, timing the follow-up to crush whatever remained.
Coordinated.
Simple.
Effective.
—
Hack didn't retreat.
He stepped into it.
His blade rose—not to meet the axe directly—but angled, catching it just off-center. Steel slid, redirecting force rather than stopping it.
Brakk's strike missed its mark by inches.
And Hack's shoulder slammed into his shield.
Hard.
Brakk staggered.
Durgan's hammer came down—
Hack twisted.
The blow struck deck instead—wood splintering as the impact rang out.
Hack's sword moved.
Fast.
A clean upward cut that traced along Durgan's side—through cloth, through skin—not deep enough to end it, but enough to open him.
Durgan roared, swinging wide in response.
Wild.
Angry.
Hack ducked under it, stepping inside his reach.
Too close for the hammer.
Perfect for the blade.
He drove his elbow into Durgan's ribs—felt something give—then cut across his thigh, forcing him down to one knee.
Brakk recovered, shield-first, slamming forward.
Hack stepped back this time, letting the force pass, then kicked the shield's edge just enough to tilt it—
Opening a line.
His sword flicked in.
Not a heavy strike.
A precise one.
Across the forearm.
Brakk's grip faltered.
Axe dipped—
Durgan surged up again, swinging horizontal now, aiming to take Hack's head off in one brutal arc.
Hack leaned back.
The hammer passed inches from his face.
He smiled.
Then stepped in again.
Closer.
Always closer.
His blade moved in short, efficient cuts—shoulder, side, thigh—never overcommitting, never giving them space to use their full strength.
They hit harder.
He hit better.
Blood marked them both now—small wounds stacking, slowing them, dulling their swings.
Durgan roared again, bringing the hammer down with everything he had—
Hack pivoted.
The hammer struck Brakk's shield instead with a deafening crack.
Brakk cursed.
Hack didn't.
His sword flashed.
Once—
Twice—
Three times—
Each cut deliberate, placed where armor failed, where muscle carried weight.
Brakk dropped to one knee.
Durgan stumbled back, breath ragged.
—
Hack exhaled slowly.
"Now…" he muttered, rolling his wrist, red aura still curling faintly around him, "you boys finally startin' to understand…"
He stepped forward again.
"…or do I need to carve it deeper?"
—
Back on the main deck—
Steel met motion.
Alessia moved first.
A clean, efficient side slash—no wasted flourish, no unnecessary windup. Her half-broken blade, extended by shimmering mana, carved through the cold air with precision.
Zilan reacted instantly.
He shifted into a middle guard, stepping back just enough to let the strike glance past, his greatsword rising to intercept—not fully meeting it, but redirecting its path. The impact still rang through his arms.
Too clean, he thought.
He answered immediately.
A horizontal upward slash—fast, aggressive, meant to catch her recovery.
Alessia stepped back.
Not hurried.
Measured.
The blade passed just beneath her guard, missing by inches.
She reset.
A base stance.
Stable.
Grounded.
And then—
Her mana blade flickered.
Collapsed.
The glow along the broken edge vanished, leaving only steel—shortened, incomplete.
Zilan didn't move.
He didn't press.
Instead, he let his greatsword rest against his shoulder, angled just enough to defend if needed. Steam curled faintly from his body—runes fading, muscles screaming beneath the strain.
He breathed.
Once.
Twice.
"…I didn't expect," he said between breaths, "a mana core user."
His eyes narrowed slightly.
"There's, what—twenty of you? Maybe less… in all of Westeria?"
Alessia did not answer immediately.
She, too, was breathing harder now—controlled, but real.
"Mostly among noble lines," she replied at last, voice steady despite the strain. "Those who are called Corelords."
Zilan gave a short, breathless laugh.
"Ah… one of the continent's favorite mysteries."
He shifted his grip slightly, testing his arms.
"Rune of the North… Aura of the Riverdale and Windy Hills… Transcription of the Lightningsmeet… Mana Core of the Plains…"
A pause.
"…and Spirit Arts of Serena."
Alessia's gaze sharpened.
"Rune overwhelms Spirit Arts," she said calmly. "Spirit Arts exhaust Aura. Aura resists Transcription. Transcription disrupts Mana…"
A faint smirk.
"And Mana outlasts Rune."
Her stance tightened again.
"And you—are running out."
Zilan clicked his tongue.
"…Took you long enough to say it."
Then—
His body surged.
What little remained of his rune ignited—faint, unstable, but enough.
Electricity crawled along his blade.
"I happen to have a Transcription blade," he said, voice low. "Only first-class… hurts like hell to use…"
He raised it—
"…but it'll do."
Then he swung.
A brutal overhead smash.
The blade didn't just cut—it discharged. A crackling stream of electricity burst outward, tearing across the deck in a jagged line, splintering wood and sending shards upward.
Alessia moved.
A sharp sidestep—barely enough.
The current passed beside her, scorching the planks.
Her mana surged again.
The blade reformed—light extending from broken steel.
Zilan saw it.
"…Damn it."
One more, he thought.
Just one.
He shifted—
Right-slanted vertical strike.
Fast.
Desperate.
It met her blade.
CLANG—
The impact rang across the deck, sharp and final, echoing over the icy river as the ship groaned against drifting slabs of frost.
But this time—
Alessia's sword slipped from her gauntleted hand, spinning wildly before skidding across the blood-slick planks and vanishing beneath the chaos of battle.
Zilan's greatsword followed, crashing down with a heavy thud that seemed to drain the last of his strength.
"My arms…" he thought, breath catching in ragged bursts. "Done… I can't wield the great sword."
The runes carved across his torso flickered weakly, their pale glow sputtering like dying embers before fading into nothing.
Gone.
For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to silence.
Then—movement.
He stepped forward anyway.
Fist raised.
No weapon.
No rune.
Just instinct.
Alessia didn't hesitate.
She closed the distance—fast.
Her crimson hair lashed behind her, unbound and wild against the storm, her full plate armor clattering with controlled precision. Without a helm, her expression was laid bare: focused, unwavering, resolute.
Zilan met her charge with a feral snarl.
Their fists collided mid-stride with a dull, bone-jarring crack. The force reverberated up their arms, but neither yielded. Zilan twisted his body with serpentine flexibility, driving a savage hook toward her jaw. The blow connected, snapping her head to the side and drawing the first line of blood from the corner of her lip.
She answered instantly.
A gauntleted fist hammered into his ribs, the reinforced steel crushing leather and chainmail against bone. The impact forced the air from his lungs in a harsh gasp. Zilan staggered but retaliated with brutal momentum, slamming his shoulder into her chest and driving her backward across the frost-slick deck.
He followed with a vicious headbutt. The collision split the skin along Alessia's brow, sending warm blood streaming down her face. She did not cry out. Instead, her eyes sharpened, burning with fierce determination.
"You're stronger than you look," Zilan rasped, spitting a mouthful of blood onto the planks.
Alessia wiped the crimson from her brow with the back of her gauntlet, her breathing steady despite the pain.
"The mana core," she replied, voice calm and controlled. "It allows me to match your raw strength… and surpass it."
A feral grin spread across Zilan's bruised face. "Good," he growled. "Wouldn't want this to be easy."
He lunged again, unleashing a relentless barrage of strikes—hooks, elbows, and savage swings driven by pure survival. His flexibility allowed him to weave around her defenses, slipping beneath her guard to drive a brutal punch into the seam of her armor. The impact forced a sharp exhale from her lips.
But Alessia's discipline held firm.
She caught his wrist with iron precision, pivoted smoothly, and drove her armored knee into his abdomen. As he doubled forward, she slammed her forehead into his nose. A sickening crack followed, and blood burst forth as Zilan reeled backward, momentarily stunned.
Refusing to fall, he retaliated with primal fury. Spinning low, he swept her legs. Alessia staggered but planted a gauntleted hand against the deck, using the momentum to roll back to her feet. Zilan seized the moment, tackling her with a roar. The two crashed against the mast, splintering wood as they grappled for dominance.
Zilan's hands found purchase at the joints of her armor, attempting to wrench her balance away. He drove repeated punches into her side, each impact echoing dully against the steel. Alessia responded with calculated brutality, slamming her elbow into his temple and following with a crushing gauntleted strike to his jaw. Blood sprayed across the deck as his head snapped sideways.
They broke apart, both breathing heavily, faces smeared with crimson.
Zilan charged once more, desperation lending speed to his movements. He twisted around her guard and delivered a savage uppercut that rattled her, forcing her back toward the wooden door leading to the lower deck.
But structure triumphed over chaos.
Alessia steadied her stance, boots anchoring firmly despite the slick surface. As Zilan lunged again, she sidestepped with practiced grace, seizing his arm and using his own momentum against him. A crushing punch to his sternum halted his advance, the force reverberating through his frame.
Before he could recover, she pivoted on her heel.
Her armored boot drove forward with devastating precision, striking his midsection with the full weight of her body and the enhanced strength granted by the mana core.
The impact lifted Zilan from his feet.
He was hurled backward into the wooden door.
CRASH!
The door exploded into splinters as his body tore through it, fragments of timber scattering in all directions. He tumbled down the narrow stairwell to the lower deck, striking the steps before landing heavily amidst broken debris.
Silence followed, broken only by the distant clash of steel and the restless groan of the ship against the frozen river.
Above, Alessia stood framed in the shattered doorway, her armor dented and smeared with blood. Snowflakes drifted through the opening, settling upon her crimson hair and the streaks of red that marked her face. Her chest rose and fell with controlled breaths, but her posture remained unbroken—disciplined, resolute.
She looked down into the dimness below where Zilan lay, battered yet alive, the echoes of their brutal clash lingering in the cold air.
A breath.
The heat of the moment made Alessia forget that the shattered doorway leading to the lower deck was also the path to the princess's chamber. The realization struck her with chilling clarity. If Zilan still drew breath, the danger had merely descended, not ended.
Forcing herself forward, she stepped through the splintered frame and began her descent into the dimness below, leaving the clash of steel above to resolve without her.
—
Gollum moved.
With a guttural snarl, he surged forward, both machetes flashing. His lead blade descended in a slanted vertical strike, the motion sharp and committed, aimed to split Ser Marco from shoulder to hip.
Marco leaned back just enough to let the blade whistle past his chest. His boots slid lightly across the blood-slick deck as he disengaged, then re-engaged in the same breath. His rapier darted forward in a precise lunge, the point slipping past Gollum's guard to kiss his shoulder.
A thin line of crimson appeared.
They separated for a heartbeat.
"Seventh one," Marco remarked lightly, voice laced with amusement. "Aren't you getting tired of this, my gremlin?"
Gollum's lips peeled back in a feral grin despite the sting. "Heh… only get me stronger!"
"Oh, really?" Marco replied, arching a brow.
With deliberate calm, he drew a short sword with his left hand. The additional blade transformed his stance, his body angling slightly, rapier extended while the short sword hovered near his centerline, ready to bind or strike.
Gollum gulped.
Ser Marco smirked.
Then they engaged again.
Gollum closed the distance aggressively, unleashing a rapid sequence of alternating forehand and backhand strikes. Marco shifted with effortless grace, his rapier redirecting the first blow with a subtle parry while his short sword intercepted the second. In the same motion, the rapier flicked forward in a riposte, scoring the eighth cut along Gollum's upper arm.
Gollum retaliated instantly, spinning low and attempting to hook Marco's wrist while the second machete thrust toward his abdomen. Marco pivoted with a smooth turn of the hips, evading both blades. His rapier traced a shallow line across Gollum's ribs—the ninth cut—followed by a swift slash from the short sword that opened the tenth along his thigh.
Snarling, Gollum pressed the attack, his machetes weaving in a relentless pattern meant to overwhelm through rhythm and unpredictability. Steel flashed in rapid succession. Marco seemed to dance within the storm, disrupting each strike with precise beats of his rapier. A quick disengagement beneath Gollum's guard allowed him to thrust forward, landing the eleventh cut near the collarbone. Without pause, the short sword followed with the twelfth along the opposite forearm.
Blood now marked Gollum's movements, yet his ferocity only intensified. He lunged, attempting to trap Marco's weapons between his blades. Marco anticipated the maneuver, stepping offline with a passing step. His rapier flicked outward, carving the thirteenth cut across Gollum's cheek, before the short sword reversed direction to score the fourteenth along the calf.
"Such enthusiasm," Marco quipped, voice still maddeningly calm. "But enthusiasm without precision is merely noise."
Gollum roared and charged, abandoning finesse for brute force. One machete descended in a brutal overhead chop while the other thrust toward Marco's midsection. Marco raised his short sword to bind the descending strike, sliding it aside, while his rapier disengaged around the thrust and delivered the fifteenth cut beneath Gollum's ribs.
A swift pivot brought Marco behind him. The rapier tip traced a clean line across Gollum's back—the sixteenth cut—followed by a reverse slash from the short sword that opened the seventeenth along the hamstring, forcing Gollum to stumble.
Still, the bandit refused to fall. With a desperate snarl, he swung wildly, attempting to batter through Marco's guard. Marco retreated a single step, then advanced with renewed elegance. A feint high drew Gollum's guard upward; the true attack came low, the rapier slicing the eighteenth cut across the abdomen.
"Still standing," Marco mused softly. "Impressive, in a manner of speaking."
With clinical precision, he continued. A rapid double action allowed his rapier to strike twice in swift succession—the nineteenth cut along the shoulder, immediately followed by a flicking motion of the short sword that completed the twentieth across Gollum's chest.
Gollum froze.
Both machetes slipped from his grasp, clattering onto the deck. His knees buckled, and he collapsed forward, breath ragged, body trembling from the accumulation of wounds. None were immediately fatal, yet together they drained his strength and will.
Marco withdrew his rapier with effortless grace, giving it a gentle flick to cast away the blood before lowering both blades. He regarded the fallen bandit for a moment, a faint smirk lingering on his lips.
"Well fought," he said lightly, though the mockery remained unmistakable. "You provided excellent exercise."
—
Up on the steering deck, the fight did not slow—it simply changed shape.
Durgan came in first, just as before—hammer rising into another crushing swing meant to end it in one decisive blow. The weapon howled through the cold air, heavy enough to break bone through armor, simple enough to rely on nothing but strength.
Captain Hack didn't meet it.
He shifted—one short step to the side, weight rolling off his front foot—and the hammer smashed into empty space, its force biting into the deck with a splintering crack. Before Durgan could recover the motion, Hack was already inside his reach.
Not fast in the way of light fighters.
But inevitable.
His arm came up, thick and steady, hooking beneath Durgan's jaw. The grip tightened—not precise, not elegant—but crushing in its simplicity. His stance widened, belly forward, center grounded like an anchor set deep into the sea.
Durgan reacted immediately.
His hands flew to Hack's forearm, fingers digging, muscles straining as he tried to pry himself free. His boots scraped violently across the deck, body thrashing, strength pouring into the struggle—but the more he fought, the tighter the hold became.
"You two gettin' borin', ain't ya?" Hack said, voice low and amused, breath steady against the effort.
Durgan forced the words out through a strangled throat. "I… can still… fight…"
The sentence broke before it finished.
His strength gave way.
Arms slackened.
Then dropped.
Hack held him there for a moment longer, just long enough to be certain.
"Eh?" he muttered, tilting his head slightly. "Didn't quite catch that."
A quiet chuckle followed before he released him.
Durgan collapsed to the deck with a heavy thud, unmoving.
—
"You killed him!!!" Brakk roared, the sound tearing through the wind as he raised his axe and shield.
Hack glanced down at the fallen body, then back up, scratching idly at his jaw.
"Nah," he said casually. "Just sleepin'."
A small grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"Now whether it's a nap or a farewell…" he added, resting the curved blade against his shoulder, "…that's between him and whatever gods he prays to."
—
Brakk's rage answered before words could.
His aura surged.
Not controlled.
Not refined.
But powerful—raw energy spilling outward in uneven pulses, wrapping his body in a pressure that bent the air around him. Muscles tightened, breath deepened, and without another word he charged.
Shield forward.
Axe drawn back.
Everything committed.
—
Hack's expression shifted—not to concern, but to interest.
"Ohhh… now that's more like it."
He lowered his stance slightly, blade sliding off his shoulder into a ready angle. Unlike Brakk, his aura did not explode outward—it settled, faint and heavy, coiling close to his body like heat before a storm.
Controlled.
Measured.
Used.
—
Brakk slammed forward with the full weight of his charge, shield leading like a battering ram.
Hack stepped—not back, but aside.
A small adjustment.
His blade snapped out, striking the rim of the shield—not to stop it, but to turn it. Steel rang as the angle shifted just enough for the charge to drift off-center.
Brakk's momentum carried him past the line he needed.
Hack's boot rose instantly, kicking the edge of the shield mid-motion. The impact tilted it further, opening the centerline for a fraction of a second.
That was enough.
Hack's sword flicked in—a short, precise cut across Brakk's forearm.
Not deep.
But deliberate.
Brakk barely reacted before swinging back, axe cutting horizontally in a brutal arc meant to take Hack in half.
Hack leaned away, his body bending just enough for the blade to pass inches from his stomach. He glanced down at it as it went by.
"Careful now," he muttered. "Took me years to grow that."
—
Brakk pressed harder, aura flaring unevenly as he unleashed a barrage of heavy strikes. Axe rose and fell in relentless succession, each swing carrying enough force to break through steel if it landed clean.
Hack gave ground—but only in inches.
Each step was measured.
Each movement efficient.
His curved blade met the axe again and again—not to contest strength, but to redirect it. Steel slid against steel, angles shifting, force bleeding away into empty space.
A downward strike came—
Hack turned his wrist, catching it near the base, letting the momentum roll off to the side rather than stopping it outright. In the same motion, his elbow drove forward, slamming into Brakk's jaw with a dull, heavy impact.
Brakk staggered.
Only slightly.
But enough.
Hack's blade followed immediately, tracing a clean line across his thigh before he stepped out of range again.
—
"See, that's the problem," Hack said, voice almost conversational despite the fight. "You're tryin' to end it with every swing."
He rolled his shoulder, loosening the tension.
"I'm just makin' sure I win it."
—
Brakk roared, aura surging harder in response, less controlled now, more desperate. He charged again—faster this time, throwing everything into the attack.
Hack exhaled slowly.
Then stepped forward to meet him.
—
The axe came down with everything Brakk had left.
Hack pivoted, letting the strike crash into the deck behind him in an explosion of splintered wood. By the time Brakk tried to recover, Hack was already inside his reach again—too close for the axe to matter.
His shoulder slammed into Brakk's chest, knocking the breath from him.
Then the blade moved.
Once—across the ribs.
Twice—along the arm.
Three times—quick, efficient, and placed where armor gave way.
None of the cuts were deep.
All of them mattered.
Brakk's strength began to falter, not from a single blow, but from the accumulation of many. Blood marked his movements now, slowing him, dulling the edge of his swings.
—
Hack stepped back again, watching carefully.
"Now you're feelin' it," he said. "That weight in your arms… that drag in your legs…"
A faint grin returned.
"Welcome to the part where it stops bein' fun."
—
Brakk ignored him and pushed forward one last time.
Axe raised high.
Aura flaring wildly.
Everything committed to a final strike.
—
Hack sighed.
"Yeah… thought so."
—
The axe fell.
Hack stepped aside.
Simple.
Clean.
His blade rose—not to block, but to guide—redirecting the path just enough for the strike to miss completely.
And in the same breath—
His sword flashed.
A precise, decisive cut across the already-weakened forearm.
Deep.
Brakk's grip broke instantly.
The axe slipped from his hand and crashed to the deck.
—
Silence hung for a brief moment.
—
Hack closed the distance slowly this time, stepping right in front of him. Close enough to see the fading fire in Brakk's eyes.
"Told ya," he muttered.
Then, without ceremony, he drove the pommel of his sword straight into Brakk's temple.
A sharp crack followed.
Brakk collapsed where he stood.
—
Hack exhaled, rolling his neck as the faint trace of his aura settled back into stillness.
He glanced between the two fallen figures—one unmoving, the other barely breathing.
"Hah…"
He wiped his blade against his sleeve, then rested it once more against his shoulder.
"Ain't dead," he said under his breath.
A short pause.
"…probably."
Then his gaze shifted toward the rest of the ship, where steel still rang and battle still raged.
His grin returned—slow, amused, and far too calm for a man standing in the aftermath of a fight.
"Now then…"
"…who's next?"
Most of the bandits seeing two of the best of them dropped, surrender immediately
Eh...?No fun in ya!" Hack exclaimed
—
Below deck—
Zilan didn't stop.
He crashed through the narrow corridor, boots slipping against the worn planks, breath tearing out of him in ragged bursts. Every step sent fire through his arms—dead weight now, useless. The runes across his body were gone, burned out to nothing.
He needed time.
Just a moment.
A door—
He hit it.
CRASH.
Wood splintered inward as his body slammed through, fragments scattering across polished floorboards. Behind him, faint but closing—footsteps.
Alessia.
Too close.
Zilan staggered upright, shoving the broken door back into place out of instinct more than hope. His eyes darted once—quick, sharp—taking in the room.
Lavish.
Warm.
Safe.
Wrong place.
Wrong time.
He dragged a small cabinet across the floor, wedging it hard against the door.
A breath.
Another—
"Mathilde, did you get a warm wa—"
The voice cut.
Sharp.
Annoyed.
Zilan turned.
Princess Roxana stood on her bed, sheets tangled at her feet, eyes wide—but not with fear. With irritation.
"—Who the fuck are you?" she snapped, already rising to her feet.
Zilan blinked once.
"…Nobody," he said flatly, already turning away, pressing his weight against the cabinet as the door rattled faintly behind him.
"Excuse me?" Roxana's voice spiked, incredulous. "You just broke into my room, look like absolute shit, and that's your answer?"
A beat.
Then sharper—louder—
"Answer me properly! I'm a Princess, you idiot, and if you don't start talking, I will call Alessia—my Royal Guard—and she will—"
SMACK.
The sound cracked through the room.
Roxana's head snapped to the side.
Silence followed.
For half a second.
Then—
She turned back.
Slowly.
Eyes blazing.
"...You just hit me."
Zilan exhaled, exhausted, barely even looking at her.
"Be quiet."
SMACK.
Her hand came back harder.
A clean slap across her face—sharp, fast, full of offended pride.
"You don't get to tell me what to do in my own room, you deranged asshole!" she snapped,with tears filing the side of her eyes,voice rising again. "Do you have any idea who I—"
BANG.
The door shook violently.
Wood splintered further.
The cabinet jumped.
Zilan's head turned—just slightly.
Too late.
CRASH—
The door exploded inward.
Alessia came through like a force of nature, splinters scattering as her armored frame drove forward without pause.
No weapon.
No hesitation.
Just intent.
Zilan pushed off the cabinet immediately, meeting her halfway.
Their fists collided—
A dull, brutal impact that echoed through the chamber.
He swung again—wild, desperate—
She slipped it.
Closed distance.
Her gauntlet drove straight into his ribs.
The breath left him instantly.
He staggered—
Tried to answer—
Too slow.
Her fist came again.
Once—into his jaw.
Twice—into his sternum.
Each strike precise.
Each one final.
Zilan's body gave.
His legs buckled beneath him.
One last attempt—
A weak swing—
She caught it.
Twisted.
Then drove her forehead into his.
CRACK.
Zilan dropped.
Hard.
Unmoving.
—
Silence filled the room.
Broken only by Roxana's voice—
"…What the hell was that?!"
Alessia didn't answer immediately.
She stood there, breathing steady, looking down at the unconscious body.
Then—
"He's done, Your Highness."
Roxana crossed her arms, still fuming, hair disheveled, cheek faintly red.
"…Good," she snapped.
A pause.
Then, muttering—
"Absolute lunatic…"
—
The aftermath came quieter than the battle.
Not silent—never that—but quieter.
The groan of the ship.
The low murmur of the wounded.
Boots moving with purpose instead of panic.
A knight stepped forward, helm tucked beneath his arm, voice steady despite the fatigue lining his face.
"Seven crew confirmed dead," he reported. "Most of the bandits were killed in the fighting. Ten captured."
A brief pause as he gathered the rest.
"Zilan is secured—bound in seven chains, shoulder to foot. The one who engaged Ser Marco is alive but severely wounded. The one who awakened aura—same condition. The large one…"
He hesitated a fraction.
"…still unconscious. Breathing."
Another breath.
"The remaining six are restrained. A few escaped—some jumped into the river."
Alessia stood still as she listened, her expression unchanged, though her gaze dipped slightly at the mention of the fallen crew.
"…Understood," she said at last. "You've done well. Thank you for your service."
The knight bowed his head.
She turned slightly, her voice shifting—not softer, but more controlled.
"Do not allow anyone below except the maid."
"Yes, Commander."
He moved off immediately.
—
The lower deck had been cleared for treatment.
Armor came off piece by piece, set carefully beside the med kit—each plate removed with the same discipline she carried into battle.
Without it, Alessia seemed… different.
Not smaller.
Just less like a wall.
Her build wasn't bulky like most knights. It was shaped—refined through discipline rather than mass. Her waist drew in subtly, a natural taper that emphasized the strength in her core, before widening again through her hips—not exaggerated, but balanced, grounded. The kind of structure that supported movement, not display.
Above, her posture remained upright, shoulders set, the line of her frame lifting cleanly into her chest—firm, steady, held with the same control she carried in battle. Nothing about her was loose. Everything had purpose.
Even now, seated, there was a quiet
symmetry to her.
Strength.
Control.
And something softer beneath it—only visible when the armor came off.
There was balance in it—
"Ms. Kinley…"
The voice came gently from the doorway.
Mathilde stood there, hands folded neatly, her age showing in her posture but not in her steadiness.
"Let me aid you," the old maid said, already stepping forward.
Alessia glanced up briefly.
"Aren't you meant to attend to the princess?"
"Ser Marco sent me, my lady."
A small pause.
Then—
Alessia smiled.
Faint.
But real.
"...Very well."
She turned slightly, allowing the older woman to work, the tension in her shoulders easing—not gone, but set aside, just for a moment.
—
Far from the river—
At the Frozen Gate.
Within the castle, deep past stone corridors and ironbound doors, there was a room where sound did not travel.
by accident.
Cold lingered there, clinging to the walls, settling into the air like something alive.
And yet—
Inside that silence—
Two figures stood too close.
A man.
A woman.
His back against the stone floor, breath caught mid-motion. Black wolf-cut hair framing a face caught somewhere between surprise and focus, his hand firm at her back—steadying, not pulling.
She hovered over him, one hand braced against his chest, the other caught awkwardly between them.
Long golden hair spilled forward, cascading down around them like a curtain, strands brushing against his face.
Her red eyes met his.
Too close.
Far too close.
Their breaths mixed in the cold air—visible, uneven.
Neither moved.
Not immediately.
A moment stretched—thin, fragile.
The kind that shouldn't exist in a place like this.
Her lips parted slightly—whether to speak or breathe, even she didn't know.
His grip tightened—just enough to keep her from slipping further.
They are close enough to feel each other breathe
Close enough to feel the warmth of the other.
Close enough that even the cold could not settle between them.
In a castle built on control—
This moment was not.