Onboard a ship, flowing with the waves of the Sea of the Rising Sun, Corvus Blackwood was standing on the deck, unfazed by the waves due to his pathway. The sea stretched out around them, a vast expanse of shimmering azure under a sky that hinted at the full, brilliant glory of dawn, living up to its name. Yet, despite the gentle swell and the rhythmic slap of water against the hull, Corvus Blackwood remained utterly still, as if rooted to the very deck. The ship, a fast, dark-hulled cutter named the 'Phantom's Grace', moved with a purposeful silence, cutting through the water with an almost unnatural ease. Blackwood's Sequence-9: Sailor pathway, known to few, granted him an unparalleled balance, making him utterly unfazed by the ship's movements. He stood as steady as if on solid ground, an almost supernatural poise that allowed him to command the deck even amidst the wildest swells. Though his powers were subtle at this Sequence, a slight control over the air currents also aided his stability, and a heightened lung-capacity and faster swimming were dormant strengths, ready should the sea truly rise against him.
He was the captain of the small, tightly-knit crew, a seasoned team of bounty hunters. Their faces were weathered by salt and sun, their eyes sharp with the perpetual vigilance required of their trade. They worked with the quiet efficiency of professionals, their movements precise and economical. They had recently executed a daring capture, they had seized a ghost ship, one of the spectral vessels rumored to haunt these waters, along with its crew of elusive outlaws. The captured ship, an eerie, half-transparent hulk, was now lashed securely to the Phantom's Grace's port side, its tattered sails and broken mast a stark, unsettling contrast to the sleek lines of Blackwood's own vessel. The outlaws, a grimy, desperate bunch, were secured below deck, their fate sealed.
A crew member, a burly man named Finn with a scarred eyebrow and a perpetually watchful gaze, emerged from the cramped interior of the ship, his heavy boots thudding softly on the wooden deck. He moved with the quiet respect common among those who served Corvus Blackwood, a respect born of both awe and a healthy dose of fear.
"May the storm be with you, Captain," Finn rumbled, his voice rough but sincere, acknowledging the inherent dangers of their profession and the unpredictable nature of the sea.
Corvus merely offered a fractional nod, his gaze already shifting towards the cabin entrance. He didn't speak, but his acknowledgment was clear. He strode inside, his movements fluid and silent as a shadow, leaving Finn to take up his watch. The cabin, though functional, was surprisingly uncluttered, a testament to Blackwood's austere nature. A single, small lantern swung gently from the ceiling, casting a warm, intimate glow that seemed to ward off the encroaching chill of the sea.
He moved directly to a locked, reinforced chest, retrieving a piece of paper. It was ancient, brittle with age, its surface covered in a script that defied common understanding. Intricate, swirling symbols interwove with angular lines, forming a language that had been dead for millennia, spoken only in the hushed tones of forgotten cults and the crackle of burning ritual fires. Corvus had acquired it from a particularly obscure Black Market dealer in Aural, a man who swore it was a fragment of a text rumored to grant glimpses into the fourth epoch. Despite his vast knowledge and the considerable resources of his organization, Corvus Blackwood, for all his power, could not decipher a single word of it. It was a tantalizing, infuriating puzzle.
As he gazed upon the piece of paper, his flint-grey eyes narrowed in intense concentration, searching for some pattern, some innate truth that might unravel its secrets, a sudden, piercing shout ripped through the quiet of the morning.
"Everyone! There is a warship coming towards us!"
The call came from the crow's nest, relayed by a frantic crew member. Corvus snapped his head up, his attention instantly drawn from the ancient enigma to the very real, very present danger. He moved to the nearest porthole, peering out across the glittering expanse of the Sea of the Rising Sun. Sure enough, a dark smudge was rapidly growing on the horizon, resolving into the unmistakable silhouette of a modern, heavily armed warship, its flags snapping crisply in the wind. Its speed was formidable, and its trajectory indicated it was heading directly for them.
A cold, analytical certainty settled over Corvus Blackwood. Their recent capture had, it seemed, proven to be a double-edged sword. While it had secured them a bounty and eliminated a nuisance, it had also broadcast their position, albeit inadvertently. Ghost ships were a notorious sign. They were only ever used by the outlaws, and their unique spectral appearance was unmistakable, a clear indicator of criminal activity to any navy patrolling these waters.
Certainly, the Croele Navy had spotted the captured ghost ship lashed to their side and had mistook them for the outlaws. A hunter, now hunted. A grim, almost imperceptible smile, devoid of humor, touched Blackwood's lips. This would be... inconvenient. But not insurmountable. His fingers instinctively flexed, a faint hum resonated deep within the Phantom's Grace. It was time to show the Croele Navy exactly what kind of 'outlaws' they were dealing with. The Sea of the Rising Sun was about to witness more than just a sunrise.
The alert from the crow's nest shattered the pre-dawn calm aboard the Phantom's Grace. Corvus Blackwood's flint-grey eyes, which had been fixed on the enigmatic paper, snapped towards the porthole. He didn't need to ask for confirmation; the subtle hum of the ship, which was usually a harmonious extension of his will, now carried a faint, discordant vibration – the approach of a large, hostile vessel, its massive engines churning the Sea of the Rising Sun.
"Battle stations!" Blackwood's voice, though quiet, resonated with an undeniable authority that instantly cut through any lingering drowsiness. His crew, the seasoned bounty hunters known across the seaways as The Storm Hounds, moved with a practiced efficiency that spoke of countless skirmishes and daring captures. Weapons were readied, cannons uncovered, and lines secured, all with swift, silent motions. They were a formidable force for their size, capable of bringing down most rogue privateers and even smaller naval patrols, but a full-fledged warship was an entirely different beast.
Finn, the burly first mate, appeared at the cabin door, his face grim. "Croele markings, Captain. Fast mover. Looks like a cruiser, not a patrol cutter." His jaw was set, and his hand instinctively rested on the hilt of his boarding axe.
"Indeed," Blackwood replied, his voice devoid of any alarm. He calmly folded the ancient piece of paper and tucked it carefully into an inner pocket of his long coat, which fell slightly lower than his knees. His gaze swept towards the spectral form of the captured ghost ship, still lashed to their port side. Its ethereal, translucent hull, a common sight among the lawless, was an unmistakable flag of piracy to any naval officer.
The warship was now a rapidly growing leviathan, a grey behemoth bristling with guns, its bow plowing through the waves with an intimidating spray. Flags whipped violently from its masts, indicating Croelean naval might. A single, sharp blast from its whistle cut through the sea air, a demand for their immediate halt. The sound was deafening, a roar of pure, unadulterated command that echoed across the water.
"They're signaling for us to stand down, Captain!" a lookout called from the deck, his voice straining against the wind.
Blackwood offered no response, his dull blue hair, reaching slightly lower than his shoulders, stirring faintly in the sea breeze. His eyes narrowed, calculating angles, speeds, and trajectories. His slight facial hair seemed to accentuate the grim set of his jaw. His Sequence-9: Sailor abilities granted him not just balance, but an intuitive understanding of currents and winds, allowing him to feel the subtle shifts in the air around them. He could already sense the powerful currents generated by the warship's passage, the pressure variations that preceded its turns. His fingers subtly flexed, and the Phantom's Grace, without any visible command, seemed to subtly adjust its course, a fraction of a degree, a barely perceptible shift, but enough to maximize its own speed while making it a slightly harder target.
"They'll fire a warning shot," Blackwood stated, his voice calm, predictive, betraying no hint of the danger. "Prepare for evasive maneuvers. Finn, get ready to cut the ghost ship loose if needed. It's too much of a liability."
No sooner had the words left his lips than a puff of smoke erupted from the warship's forward gun turret. A moment later, a geyser of water erupted off the Phantom's Grace's bow, a deafening explosion that sent spray high into the air. The warning shot was clear, unambiguous, a loud declaration of intent across the vastness of the Sea of the Rising Sun.
"They want a fight then!" roared one of The Storm Hounds, a grizzled cannonier named 'Hooks', his face alight with a dangerous eagerness to unleash their own limited firepower.
"Hold your fire!" Blackwood commanded, his voice cutting through the rising tension with icy authority. "We do not initiate. Maintain course. Let them make the next move." He knew the Phantom's Grace, though swift and cunning, was no match for a dedicated warship in a direct exchange of broadsides. Their strength lay in surprise, boarding, and the element of the unexpected – not in a slugging match against heavy artillery that could tear them apart in minutes.
The warship's response was swift and brutal. Evidently, their defiance, even in the face of overwhelming force, was taken as further proof of their outlaw status. A second, heavier volley of shellfire tore through the air, whistling with deadly intent. Blackwood's body swayed almost imperceptibly, his unparalleled balance keeping him steady as the Phantom's Grace bucked and shuddered under the near-misses. One shell shrieked past the mast, tearing through a section of the main rigging with a sound like ripping canvas, sending splinters flying across the deck. Another struck the captured ghost ship directly.
The ethereal vessel, already on the precipice of decay, erupted in a burst of spectral light and splinters of phantom wood. The force of the explosion ripped the mooring lines as if they were thread, sending the remains of the ghost ship spiraling into the churning waters, dissolving into mist and debris with a faint, ghostly shriek that only few could hear. The very act of it being destroyed by conventional ordnance seemed to violate its ethereal nature, a violent, unholy end that left behind only a lingering scent of ozone and dread.
"Ghost ship's gone, Captain!" Finn yelled over the din, relieved but grim. "But they're still coming hard! Full broadside, it looks like!"