Chapter 366

Daphne

Fucking hell.

I thought the medieval world smelled like shit. I was wrong. Pirates are worse. Way worse. The stench of unwashed bodies, stale rum, and something I refuse to identify hangs over Port Vermilion like a physical weight.

I ended up buying soap from the System store. And those chewable plants for mouth hygiene. Not that it would help much—most of these people don’t have teeth anyway.

I suddenly feel so bad for the women who do that kind of work on this island.

My boots sink into the muddy pathways of the so-called pirate hub. The buildings lean at odd angles. The locals leer. The air is thick with rot and violence.

"What’cha doing, pretty boy?" A woman with missing teeth steps into my path.

"Want to spend time with me, pretty boy?" Another one, this one with a scar across her throat.

"Wasss, p’weety boy like y’self doing in these parts?"

They start to surround me. Their hands reach for my coat, my hair, my belt.

I don’t think. I just move.

My gun is in my hand. The shots are deafening in the narrow street. One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

They crumple. All of them. Dead before they hit the mud.

Did they deserve to die for that? I don’t know. Probably not. But these bastards are certainly leaving me alone now.

The street is silent. The other pirates stare at me with new eyes. Respect. Fear. A mix of both.

I holster my gun and keep walking.

A flash of purple lands on my shoulder.

My parrot. Bright purple feathers, beady black eyes, and that familiar smugness in the way it tilts its head. The System has been possessing this creature for five years now. It still unsettles me.

[The main character is on the island]

The parrot says. The System’s voice coming from a bird’s beak never gets less strange.

Finally.

I’ve been in this godforsaken world for five years. Technically, I could have gone to his kingdom to wreak havoc.

But I don’t know if it’s because I’m a pirate now, but I love the open seas. The salt spray. The wind in my sails. The freedom of no one telling me what to do.

And something tells me she’s in the water.

Two options: she could either be on a pirate ship, or she’s some form of sea creature.

For the first three years, I hunted down literally every ship I found on the water. Boarded them. Searched them. Questioned every captive, every sailor, every soul who crossed my path.

Nothing.

For the last two years, I’ve been searching for any insight on mermaids. Old texts. Fisherman’s tales. Drunken ramblings from sailors who claimed to have seen things in the deep.

Unfortunately, mermaids are elusive as hell.

I could only wait for the male lead.

"Okay, 404." I stand, stretching. "Let’s go introduce ourselves."

The parrot flies off my shoulder and disappears into the dark.

I follow.

***

Caspian

A purple bird flies into the tavern.

Suddenly, everyone is quiet.

The patrons freeze mid-drink. The barkeep stops wiping a glass. Even the old drunk in the corner looks up, his milky eye wide.

The bird screeches—a sharp, commanding sound—and chaos erupts.

Men scramble. A chair and stool are dragged to the center of the room. Someone produces a rag and starts scrubbing the seat clean. Someone else lights candles. A third man sweeps the floor around the chair with frantic, desperate energy.

They’re not just reacting.

They’re preparing.

I watch, fascinated and unsettled. These are hardened criminals. Pirates. Murderers. Men who would slit their own mothers’ throats for a handful of coins.

And they’re terrified.

What’s going on?

I have my information. I should leave. Slip out the back, return to the ship, set sail before whatever is coming arrives.

But I’m curious.

Who can illicit this kind of response from these pirates?

I stay.

Seems I’m not alone. A man at the next table leans over, his voice a low whisper.

"What’s happenin’?"

"Ye not from ’round these parts, are you?" Another man answers.

"No. Is it the pirate king or somethin’?"

The first man shakes his head. His face is pale.

"No. It’s worse."

He looks toward the door. Everyone looks toward the door.

"It’s the Devil of the Seas."

Devil of the Seas?

The man visibly starts trembling. His hands shake around his tankard. His eyes are wide, fixed on the entrance like a rabbit watching a snake.

Clearly, everyone knows of this person.

I glance around the tavern. The hardened pirates are cowering. Some have their heads bowed. Others are staring at the floor. One man in the corner is quietly weeping.

I want to ask. I open my mouth—

The tavern door slams open.

Everyone flinches.

A figure steps inside.

Coat black as pitch. Hat wide-brimmed, casting the face in shadow. Boots that click on the wooden floor with each deliberate step. Slender build. Movement fluid. Predatory.

He walks to the chair that was prepared. The one the pirates scrubbed clean like an altar. He doesn’t look at anyone. Doesn’t acknowledge the trembling men, the weeping drunk, the barkeep frozen behind the counter.

He sits. Places his feet on the stool. Leans back.

The purple parrot is on his shoulder. Its beady eyes scan the room.

I can’t shake the feeling that the bird is looking at me.

The tavern is silent. No one breathes. No one moves.

Then the man behind the counter—the same one who served me earlier with shaking hands—rushes over. He stops exactly two meters away from him. Not closer. No one gets closer.

"These are the recent sightings of mermaids," he says. His voice trembles.

The parrot hops off his shoulder. Takes the map in its beak. Brings it to him.

He looks at it. His face is still obscured by the hat. I can’t see his expression. I can’t see anything but the shadow where his face should be.

"Hmmmn."

That’s all he says.

And the entire tavern waits.

They wait for his judgment. His approval. His next word.

I find myself holding my breath.

The Devil of the Seas.

What kind of person commands this much fear?