Chapter Text
Besties I have been sitting on this fic for far too long. Here's a glossary for the lingo used:
Hull - bottom of a ship
Prow - the most forefront of a ship’s bow, above the waterline
Port - left side of the ship
Starboard - right side of the ship
Nihon - Japan
Chōsen - Korea during the Joseon dynasty
Tokoku - China
Ruson - Philippines
Shiryō - spirit or ghost
Koban - Japanese currency of the 18th century
I tried to make everything as historically accurate as possible, like even with the dialogue i was like "i need this to be giving whimsical 18th century vibes" but i mean who am i shitting, there's literal magic and sirens and fantasy bullshit happening here.
The morning had begun beautifully.
The sea stretched wide and glasslike beneath a pale dawn, its surface broken only by the long, patient swell of the tide.
The rising sun cast bands of amber light across the water, and a steady wind filled the sails of The Kitsune. Her canvas bellied proudly against the sky, as the ship rode the current with the calm confidence of a seasoned war vessel.
She was no common trader’s craft. The Kitsune carried three tall masts dressed in square sails and staysails alike, her dark hull banded with lacquered red along the gun deck. Bronze cannon mouths peered from the ports like watchful eyes, and the carved fox figurehead at her prow cut the water with elegance. Even at rest, she possessed the air of a ship that could bare her teeth if need be.
Captain Urokodaki stood at the starboard rail with his hands clasped behind his back, breathing in the salt wind. The scent of tar, rope, and sea brine was as familiar to him as his own breath.
“A fine morning, is it not?”
He looked to the merchant beside him who had spoken.
Urokodaki nodded, looking out over the calm water. “A fine morning indeed.”
His eyes shifted toward the vessel lying just ahead of them. The merchant ship rocked gently at anchor, its hull lighter and narrower than that of the Kitsune.
She was a coastal trader by the look of her, broad in the belly for cargo, her three masts rigged with clean white sails that glowed in the sunlight like the wings of cranes. Compared with the naval strength of the Kitsune, she seemed almost delicate.
Still, she was a welcome sight.
Their stores had been thinning after weeks at sea. Fresh water casks, rice, barley, and medicinal herbs were worth their weight in silver upon a long voyage northward. To meet a well-stocked trader in such open waters could only be taken as a blessing from Kami.
Between the ships, sailors were already laying a long gangplank across the narrow gap of water, the timber creaking as it settled into place.
The merchant himself stood beside Urokodaki upon the deck of the Kitsune, overseeing the negotiations with a pleasant composure.
He was younger than most traders the captain had known, no more than in his mid twenties by the look of him. His frame was slight, his complexion pale for a man of the sea, and his dark hair had been cut in a tidy bob that brushed his collar.
That collar, however, was unmistakably European, its cravat and ruffles a contrast to the haori Urokodaki wore.
Beneath the merchant’s tricorne hat, the man’s eyes shone a bright teal, with two moles resting beneath them like ink marks.
“Pray tell, Captain,” the merchant said lightly, voice lilting as he watched sailors haul rope along the deck, “what waters does the Kitsune make for?”
Urokodaki turned a page of the parchment ledger he held. The stiff paper crackled beneath his thumb.
“Northward,” he replied. “Routine patrols along the trade lanes. A few inspections at the island harbours. Nothing beyond the ordinary business of the Corps.”
The words were spoken easily, though he revealed little. A naval captain did not volunteer more than was required.
The merchant seemed satisfied with that answer.
“I see,” he murmured.
His gaze drifted toward the insignia embroidered upon Urokodaki’s haori. A golden crest depicting a single kanji letter.
滅.
To destroy.
The emblem caught the morning light.
“In that case,” the merchant said with a small bow of his head, “allow me to offer my gratitude. With the Navy keeping watch over these waters, men of trade may sail with some measure of peace. Pirates have grown bold these past years.”
Urokodaki gave a modest nod as he finished signing the parchment with a brush.
“It is our duty,” he said simply.
He rolled the document closed and handed it back.
“All’s settled then.”
Turning slightly, he raised his voice toward the quarterdeck.
“You there, cabin boy.”
The boy snapped upright immediately.
“Aye, Captain!”
“Prepare the hold for cargo. See that the casks are stowed proper and lashed tight. I’ll not have grain spoiled through careless handling.”
“Aye!”
The boy dashed off at once, scrambling down the ladder from the quarterdeck.
Across the ship, sailors and marines alike began moving with disciplined efficiency. Men hauled ropes, cleared the gangway, and prepared the cargo nets. Others gathered near the plank as the first barrels were rolled forward from the merchant vessel.
The crew of the Kitsune worked with the precision of long practice, every man knowing his place in the labour.
A well-run ship was a rare treasure upon the sea.
And the Kitsune was among the finest.
Urokodaki watched them for a moment, allowing himself a brief flicker of satisfaction.
The moment did not last.
For he noticed something peculiar at the edge of the deck.
A faint mist began to creep near the edge of the planks.
At first it was nothing more than a thin haze curling across the ships surface. But then it grew thicker, from a fine mist to a thick fog, engulfing almost everything onboard.
Within moments the air grew dense and colourless.
The world shrank.
Urokodaki could scarcely see the length of his own arm.
He frowned, taking off his cap lest he further obscured his vision.
“Strange…” he murmured.
Turning his head slightly, he called to the cabin boy standing near the quarterdeck ladder.
“Lad. Was there any word of fog upon the forecast?”
The boy blinked, peering uselessly into the grey.
“N-Nay, Captain,” he said, voice wavering. “Harbour report said clear skies an’ a fair wind. Nothin’ about fog.”
Urokodaki considered this a moment.
The sea was known for its temper, yes, but such a blanket of mist did not descend without warning.
“Then we would do well to delay the transfer,” he said calmly. “No sense shifting cargo blind. We shall wait until—”
He turned toward the merchant to relay the decision.
But the man was gone.
Urokodaki paused.
The spot where the merchant had stood only a breath before now held nothing but pale fog curling over the deck boards.
He stepped forward, parting the mist with his hand as though it were a curtain.
“Merchant?” he called.
No answer came.
The young man with teal eyes and curious twin moles had vanished as though swallowed by the sea itself.
A faint unease crept down Urokodaki’s spine.
Before he could voice another word, the fog thickened further still.
Within moments the entire deck lay smothered beneath it, pale grey tendrils winding about the spars and shrouds like drifting smoke from a battlefield. Even the great masts of the Kitsune faded into ghostly silhouettes above.
The ship fell eerily quiet.
Urokodaki opened his mouth to issue an order.
Only for the cabin boy beside him let out a sudden, wet cry.
A violent spray of crimson burst across the deck boards.
And the boy crumpled where he stood.
Urokodaki froze.
For one terrible heartbeat his mind refused to comprehend the sight before him.
Until the screams began.
Men cried out from every corner of the ship. Boots thundered against the planks. Steel rang against steel somewhere within the fog, followed by the sickening sound of flesh being struck.
Blood spread dark and slick across the wood.
Yet the enemy could not be seen.
The fog swallowed all.
Shapes moved through it, distorted shadows that flickered and blurred like figures painted upon wet parchment. Urokodaki could scarcely see ten paces before the forms of men dissolved into grey nothingness.
Then the deck erupted into chaos.
Sailors shouted for one another. Marines stumbled through the mist with blades drawn, striking at shapes that vanished before their steel could land.
Urokodaki forced himself forward through the murk, pushing forward through the fog like he was wading through deep sea water.
It wasn’t until he struggled onto the stern, guided by the outline of the steering wheel, that a sudden breeze swept across the water, and for the briefest moment the fog thinned, allowing him to finally catch a glimpse of the neighbouring ship.
And what he saw turned his blood cold.
For the merchant ship’s white sails were gone.
Where moments ago clean canvas had gleamed in the morning sun, now a single black banner hung from the masthead, snapping sharply in the wind.
A crescent moon had been painted across it, pale and cruel against the dark cloth.
And beneath it, stood two stark letters:
無限
The Infinity.
Urokodaki’s stomach sank like lead.
Not merely at the danger.
But at the name.
Another scream rang out across the deck.
Yet these cries were different.
They were not the panicked shouts of sailors.
They were wild whoops of savage delight, melodic hoots and mocking laughter rising above the clash of steel.
Somewhere in the fog a rope tightened and snapped taut. Hooks clattered against the railings. Metal flashed briefly as blades swung through the mist.
Urokodaki’s eyes hardened.
He turned and strode back toward the main deck, sweeping his arm through the fog as he moved.
“PIRATES!” he roared, his voice cutting through the chaos like a cannon’s report.
“STARBOARD SIDE. ALL HANDS ON—”
Something struck him hard in the chest.
The blow lifted him clean from his feet.
Urokodaki slammed across the deck and rolled hard against the planks. The breath was forced from his lungs in a harsh grunt.
But long years at sea had taught him well.
Before the pain had even settled he was moving.
His hand found the hilt at his side and drew his cutlass in a single practiced motion as he rose to one knee.
Urokodaki looked up.
And met the gaze of the man who had kicked him.
The man who had struck him was broad of shoulder and built like a prizefighter.
Younger than Urokodaki by several decades, yet the strength in him was plain to see.
His sleeves had been rolled above the elbow, revealing forearms thick with corded muscle. Ink ran across them in two stark bands.
Prison markings. Urokodaki recognised the pattern at once.
Not the idle tattoos of sailors seeking amusement in foreign ports, but the brands reserved for the most grievous offenders, for men who had once stood in irons before a magistrate’s court.
The man straightened slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. A red bandana had been tied about his close-cropped pink hair, its loose ends snapping in the wind like a scrap of battle flag.
Cold blue eyes flicked briefly across the deck.
They did not linger on Urokodaki.
Instead, the man was already running.
Like a sudden gale tearing through harbour sails, Akaza burst forward through the fog, past the captain, past the fallen boy, past the stunned marines scrambling to form ranks.
A marine from the Kitsune leapt up onto the deck ladder just then, musket already rising toward his shoulder.
He never fired it.
Instead, two curved blades sliced through the mist.
The marine had just enough time to gasp before Gyutaro’s sickles carved across his chest. The chains linking the weapons sang sharply as they swung, and a violent spray of blood burst into the fog.
Gyutaro twisted through the soldier’s collapsing body with vicious ease, landing in a low crouch among the marines gathering on the deck, his scarred face splitting into a crooked grin.
And once the first blood had been spilled, the battle broke open like a storm.
The marines of the Kitsune poured onto the deck in disciplined waves. Muskets were raised. Bayonets gleamed as men dropped into firing lines along the rail.
“FIRE!”
The first volley thundered through the fog.
Gun smoke mingled with the grey mist as the bullets tore toward the pirates.
Gyutaro only rolled his neck once with a lazy crack of bone, before stepping in front of Akaza, and whipped the chains of his sickles outward.
He spun the blades in a circle with such furious speed they blurred into a flashing ring of iron.
Bullets struck the whirling sickles and glanced away with shrill sparks. Others clanged against the patchwork plates of armour strapped across his arms and ribs.
Several shots ricocheted outright, one striking a marine squarely in the shoulder, another snapping back into the firing line.
Men fell with startled cries.
Through that moment of confusion, Akaza moved.
He slipped through the line of firearms like water through a broken net.
His first strike landed squarely against a marine’s ribs. Bone shattered beneath the force of it with a sickening crack.
The man screamed.
Akaza seized him by the collar at the base of his neck and drove him bodily into the deck planks.
The sound of the impact echoed like a dropped cannonball.
He did not pause.
Another soldier lunged with a bayonet.
Akaza turned effortlessly, and drove his heel into the man’s knee. The joint folded instantly. A second blow followed, his fist crashing into the man’s jaw with enough force to send teeth scattering across the boards.
Through the charge of bullets and steel, pirate moved among them with terrifying speed. Bare fists, elbows, and kicks tearing through the formation with brutal precision. Blood slicked the deck beneath his boots.
In moments like this, Akaza was always grateful his captain had allowed him to forego a cutlass or any other weapon.
Fighting etiquette was pointless. His barehands could produce the same results as any sword or gun.
Driven by hopelessness, one particularly desperate marine gave a cry of fury and charged straight at him with a bayonet raised high.
“YAHOOOOO!”
A shout split the air overhead.
Akaza barely had time to glance up before a figure came hurtling from the rigging above.
Urogi descended through the fog, a rope wrapped around one arm as he swung down from the mast.
“WOOHOO!” Urogi howled.
His laughter echoed across the deck.
He crashed feet-first into a marine below.
The metal of his prosthetic leg struck the man’s jaw with a brutal crack that sent him sprawling across the planks.
He severed the rope around his wrist with a quick slice of his cutlass and dropped lightly onto the deck, gold eyes alight with fiery delight.
“That was fun!” Urogi barked, landing hard, his coat billowing behind him like feathers.
“Focus!” Akaza snapped, shoving away two opponents. “Clear the deck! Make sure there’s no stragglers!”
Urogi flashed him a crooked grin and gave a mock salute. “You got it!”
A rush of footsteps sounded behind him.
Urogi spun on instinct, raising his cutlass just in time to meet a marine’s bayonet. Steel shrieked as the weapons locked.
Another soldier rushed him from the side.
Without breaking the bind of blades, Urogi lifted his good leg and drove a solid kick into the man’s stomach, sending him stumbling backward.
He twisted instantly, meeting the second attacker head-on.
His laughter rang across the deck as he danced between the two men, steel flashing wildly as he switched between opponents with reckless delight.
Adrenaline coursed through every limb. The feathers braided into his dark hair whipped about his face as he moved, and a feral glint burned bright in his golden eyes.
He was enjoying himself far too much to notice the third marine emerging from the fog behind him.
The soldier raised his musket.
Akaza saw it a moment too late.
“Urogi!”
The shot rang out.
Urogi spun around, eyes widening.
And the marine aiming at him collapsed instantly.
A bullet had punched clean through his chest.
Urogi blinked.
Then a grin spread across his face as he lifted his gaze toward the mast.
Far above, perched neatly within the crow’s nest, a girl lowered the smoking rifle from her shoulder.
White hair fluttered in the wind around her face, her eyes as blue as the sky above them. She pulled down the cloth mask covering her mouth just enough for her voice to carry.
“Are you alright, Urogi-nii?” she called, cupping her mouth.
Urogi gave a cheerful salute upward.
“Aye, Ume-chan! Nice shot!”
Ume beamed proudly, a faint blush colouring her cheeks.
From somewhere ahead, Gyutaro’s voice cut through the smoke.
“UME! COVER ME!”
She nodded. “On it!”
And reset the rifle against the railing, steadying the barrel as she peered down its length.
Below her, Gyutaro was already charging deeper into the fog.
Urogi glanced across the chaos strewn deck, shaking his head with an impressed whistle.
“Man,” he muttered. “Enmu’s gas canisters really came in handy, huh?”
Akaza gave no reply. He had already turned away, tightening the bandages around his knuckles with his teeth.
“Let’s move,” he said calmly. “I’ll take the port side. Aizetsu should already have the stern.”
Urogi flashed another wild grin.
“Aye aye!”
And with that he launched himself back into the fight.
Behind them, Urokodaki still lay upon the deck.
The world had become strangely distant.
His ribs burned with a deep, grinding pain each time he tried to breathe. No bone pierced the skin, yet he could feel the damage beneath the flesh, the slow warmth spreading through his chest, the wet heaviness that spoke of blood gathering where it should not.
He had seen enough men die to know it was internal bleeding.
But the pain in his body was the least of his concerns.
The deck around him had become a slaughterhouse.
The fog was thinning now, revealing the full measure of the carnage. Bodies of his crew lay scattered across the planks.
Marines who had stood beside him through tempests and battles alike. Muskets lay dropped where their owners had fallen. Blood ran between the seams of the boards and dripped slowly through the scuppers back into the sea.
Urokodaki clenched his jaw.
No.
There was still something he could do.
He had to reach the lower decks.
The emergency boat.
If even one warning reached the Navy Corps, the Kizuki could still be hunted down.
Coughing harshly, he forced himself onto one elbow. His hands trembled as he groped for the musket that had fallen beside him. The familiar weight of the weapon steadied him somewhat as he dragged himself upright, leaning heavily upon it like a crutch.
He braced himself. Even wounded, he would fight.
It was only then he heard the footsteps.
They were not the frantic pounding of marines scrambling for their lives.
Nor the reckless charge of pirates drunk on bloodshed.
No. Those steps were slow. Measured.
Each one placed with the certainty of a man who needed no hurry, because the battle was already won.
Urokodaki slowly lifted his head.
The fog around him parted.
And through it walked a man.
Tall and unwavering. The figure was robed in an obsidian, so black that almost no light penetrated his form.
A long coat rested upon his shoulders, its silver embroidery catching faint glimmers of the morning sun that now pierced through the dying mist.
His hair fell down his back in long, dark strands.
And at the ends, the colour bled into red, the same shade of carnage that painted the deck.
The man lifted his head, and beneath the shadow of his captain’s cap, a pair of cold violet eyes looked down upon him.
But it wasn’t the man’s face Urokodaki was looking at.
No, the sight that made him pale was the sword held at the man’s hip.
A steel scimitar, long and elegant.
Its metal shone even with the weakest rays of light, clear like the still water of a pond. Etched onto its surface were inked engravings of the moon’s cycle. From crescent, to half, to full moon.
And upon the hilt, a single red eye had been carved into the metal, its pupil fixed so precisely that it seemed to stare directly into Urokodaki’s own.
In that very instant, Urokodaki had understood that his end had come.
For standing before him was the captain of the Kizuki himself.
None other than Kokushibo Tsugikuni.
Yet even as death stood before him, something stubborn burned in Urokodaki’s chest.
A final spark of defiance.
His hands shook as he straightened fully, drawing breath through clenched teeth. The bayonet fixed to his musket caught the light as he lifted it.
With a hoarse roar, he charged.
Kokushibo did not even look at him.
His scimitar lifted with one hand.
In a flash of steel, the world fell silent.
Then Urokodaki’s head fell cleanly off his shoulders.
His body collapsed where it stood.
Kokushibo flicked the blade once through the air, sending a thin arc of blood scattering across the deck, before guiding the weapon smoothly back into its sheath.
And just like that, the raid had ended.
The marines of the Kitsune had been seasoned men, hardened by storms and long years upon the sea.
But they had never faced the Kizuki.
The ship they had boarded had once held triple the number of men now standing upon it.
Now, as the last of the fog drifted away upon the sea breeze, the deck was littered with bodies.
Their captain lay among them, headless, the musket slipping loosely from his lifeless grasp as blood darkened the planks beneath him.
Kokushibo regarded the scene with indifference, and what almost felt like disappointment.
Sakonji Urokodaki, one of the famed captains of the Navy Corps, had fallen scarcely two paces from where he now stood.
His death had been so inconsequential that Kokushibo almost questioned Muzan’s earlier warning, to stay vigilant when it came to the Navy Corps, the so called punishers of sea and land.
Akaza emerged onto the main deck, shaking off the last of the mist clinging to his arms. “Captain.”
Kokushibo inclined his head, acknowledging his first mate. “Report.”
“All have been accounted for. No injuries. No survivors.”
As he said that, the rest of the Kizuki’s silhouettes emerged. Urogi with his arms held behind his head, a crooked smile on his lips.
Gyutaro wasn’t far behind, shaking the blood off his sickles as he ripped the leather mask of his face. Ume following behind him did the same.
Kokushibo always thought it peculiar why she wore a mask. Gyutaro’s mask at least bore practical purpose, its reinforced metal plating protecting his skull during close combat.
But Ume rarely left her perch in the crow’s nest. She had little need of armour.
It was only later that she confessed the reason, with slight embarrassment, that she wished to appear more intimidating. After all, few would fear a delicate looking girl scarcely past her teens, certainly not in the way sailors recoiled from Gyutaro, who needed only one scowl to make hardened men quake.
Kokushibo had given no visible reaction, his silence being permission. He had no qualms about the mask, as long as it did not hinder her efficiency.
“I’ve secured the stern,” Aizetsu said quietly as he approached. His blue eyes narrowed slightly in disgust as he beheld the blood on his yari spear.
“Some remain alive, however,” he continued, reaching into his doctor’s bag and wiped the blade with a handkerchief. “I didn’t wish to kill them without your approval. Should we take prisoners?”
Kokushibo shook his head. “No. The contents of this vessel will suffice. Additional prisoners would only slow our departure.”
“Well then we are most unfortunate!”
Enmu hopped lightly from the forecastle platform, the various trinkets on his belt jingling as he landed onto the main deck.
“I’m afraid the ship offers little worth taking,” he continued, dusting invisible grime from his gloves. “That old man spoke truth when he claimed they had not made port in some time. Their barrels are near empty.”
“Search the stores,” Kokushibo ordered. “See if there is anything that has not run dry.”
Enmu smiled, giving a small bow of the head, and immediately to the opposite side, though Kokushibo was not overly concerned about rations. The Infinity carried ample supplies, the raid had never been about food.
“Aizetsu, see if the infirmary is stocked,” Kokushibo resumed giving commands. “Ume, Gyutaro. Search the weapons onboard. Take ones that can be used or sold. Urogi, be on the look out.”
At his command, each member of the Kizuki nodded in acknowledgement before turning to do their allotted task.
“And Akaza.” The tattooed pirate looked up. “Check the brig for prisoners or cowards. You know what to do with both.” Akaza nodded, and ran off.
Over the years, the sea had forged a rhythm among the Kizuki when it came to stripping a captured vessel. Orders rarely needed to be spoken.
Each raid unfolded with the same quiet precision. Positions taken, decks cleared, cargo inspected, valuables collected. Like a well-rehearsed drill, the crew scattered to their assigned duties without a word exchanged.
While the others moved across the ship, Kokushibo turned toward the officers’ cabins.
The corridor below the quarterdeck was narrow and dim, lit only by the thin shafts of sunlight that filtered down through the open gratings above. The air smelled faintly of oil, salt, and damp wood.
Doors lined the passage on either side, with the very end of the hall standing a larger door.
The captain’s quarters.
Kokushibo clasped it and pushed the door open without ceremony.
The chamber beyond was spacious by the modest standards of a naval ship, not much different from Kokushibo’s own quarters on the Infinity if a little larger.
A four poster bed stood against the far wall, its wooden frame draped with simple linen curtains, and beside it rested a tall bookshelf packed with worn volumes whose spines had been softened by years of sea air.
Across the room stood a heavy writing desk bolted securely to the floor, its surface littered with charts, rolled parchment, and instruments of navigation.
He moved first to the bookshelf.
Most of the covers were of little interest. Volumes of naval history, and the occasional book of idle recreation meant to pass the dull hours between ports.
He did, however, find a detailed compendium on herbology, on both flora from the East and along the coast of southern Europe. Perhaps Muzan would deem it useful, and so he slipped it beneath his coat without further thought.
Another item was found tucked between two thicker covers, a thin leather bound journal.
Kokushibo rustled through the contents briefly, which contained the captain’s personal log judging by the hurried script within. He closed it, and slid into the inner lining of his jacket.
The main objective of the targeted raid was information. And while Kokushibo scarcely believed they would find all their answers within a thin journal of a deceased captain, it was worth keeping anything that could get them closer to finding the blue spider lily.
And the island the flower resided upon.
Moving towards the desk, a large world map had been nailed there. Its parchment bore numerous inked markings scattered across the coasts of Nihon and along Chōsen, eastern Tokoku, and even some among the south eastern islands of Ruson.
Trade routes, naval patrol lines, and the locations of several minor ports. Kokushibo studied the map quietly for a moment, then drew his scimitar.
With one clean motion, sliced away the portion of parchment containing the marked waters and folded it neatly into his coat.
The rest of the room offered smaller treasures.
A handful of kōban coins rested inside a wooden drawer. A compass lay beside a brass sextant, both polished from regular use. Such instruments were not rare, but they fetched respectable prices in port markets.
And upon the desk sat an empty tobacco box.
It was a small thing crafted from refined silver, its lid engraved with the image of an elegant kitsune.
Kokushibo turned the box once in his hand before pocketing it.
Satisfied, he stepped back into the corridor.
He had nearly reached the stairwell when hurried footsteps echoed from behind him.
His hand moved instantly toward the scimitar at his hip. But the blade remained sheathed when he saw who it was.
Akaza emerged from the doorway leading down to the lower decks.
His broad frame filled the passage, one hand gripping the doorframe so tightly that his knuckles had turned pale.
Kokushibo didn’t need words to tell him something was wrong.
Akaza’s face had lost its colour, his skin damp with sweat as though he had seen a Shiryō or some other terrifying Yokai.
“Captain, you have to come,” Akaza panted, voice breathless and barely concealing his panic.
Kokushibo regarded him steadily.
“There’s…there’s something in the brig, I…I can’t explain it properly.”
“A prisoner?” Kokushibo asked.
“…Yes,” Akaza said after a moment.
He dragged a hand slowly across his mouth.
“But… I am not certain it is human.”
Kokushibo’s brow furrowed slightly.
Akaza was not a man easily shaken.
For him to appear so unsettled spoke volumes.
“Show me,” Kokushibo said.
They descended the stairs together toward the ship’s hull.
The wooden steps creaked beneath their weight. Several boards had cracked along their edges, splintering from years of neglect.
Either the Navy had seen little reason to repair them. Or they lacked a carpenter of Nakime’s particular skill.
Akaza’s candle burned brighter as they moved deeper below the decks. With each step downward, the sunlight faded further until the world was lit only by the trembling orange glow of the small flame.
By the time they reached the final landing, it felt as though night had fallen.
The first thing that hit him was the smell. The scene of mould and dampness oozing into each crevice.
Kokushibo rarely visited the brigs, as he never believed in keeping prisoners. Less out of mercy, but rather efficiency.
He trusted no prisoners aboard his ship. On the rare occasions they discovered captives within a seized vessel, he granted them swift deaths rather than risk trouble.
The heaviness pressing into the air felt oppressing, combined with the sound of waves slamming against the hull’s walls, like a cacophony of eerie percussion that made Akaza’s candle flicker, painting looming shadows over the walls like spirits that never found rest.
He followed Akaza, passing by a row of cells, all of them empty. Their footsteps carried them deeper into the brig until Akaza suddenly stopped.
Kokushibo stepped beside him and looked ahead.
He expected a cell.
Instead, sitting alone in the center of the chamber was a large barrel.
It was the typical sort, used for storing rations or gunpowder, if not larger than the rest. Even for a man of Kokushibo’s height, the barrel reached nearly to his chest.
He glanced at Akaza questioningly, only for there to be no response.
Akaza was one of the most physically imposing members of the Kizuki. Disciplined in both fighting and coordination, he was one of the few members Kokushibo trusted to be his first mate.
Yet that same man was showing outward fear. In fact, he was actively backing away from the barrel, refusing to go any further than the candlelight allowed him to reach.
This behaviour from someone normally stoic, prompted Kokushibo to take the lamp from him and approach the barrel, sliding his fingers near the cracks of the lid.
Once his fingers found purchase, he gripped onto the ledge, and hauled the lid open.
Kokushibo hadn’t been sure as to what he would see. But the sight that greeted him far exceeded anything he could have imagined.
At first he wasn’t unable to process the things he was seeing.
Only that there was liquid inside the barrel, the salty smell giving it away as seawater, and a pale lump floating within it.
It wasn’t until the candlelight seeped over the barrel that Kokushibo realised the lump was a human.
A man, to be exact.
The upper half of his torso pale and naked against the dark water filling the barrel.
Curiously, large, patches of deep purple, to which Kokushibo assumed to be bruises of some sort, marred the otherwise smooth skin.
Despite the condition the man was in, he appeared to be strongly built.
His arms were well-formed, the beginnings of muscle visible even through the water. Lean strength defined the lines of his collarbones and shoulders, not the gaunt frame of a starving prisoner, but the body of someone accustomed to movement.
Yet the injuries were strange.
The bruising climbed his body in irregular trails, creeping up the column of his neck where faint blue veins pulsed weakly beneath the skin.
Kokushibo found himself studying those lines longer than intended.
He spent so long tracing the lines of the man’s body that when he lifted the lamp to see the man’s face, his breath hitched.
Kokushibo stumbled back a step. Just barely, as he beheld the man’s face.
Or, at least, what he could make of it.
The man’s eyes had been covered with cloth, tied tightly behind his head. Another strip of fabric had been forced between his teeth and knotted cruelly at the nape of his neck to silence him.
Eyes blindfolded.
Mouth gagged.
Kokushibo could only assume the arms below the water had been bound as well.
The same purple bruising travelled along the side of the man’s cheek, the rest of it covered by strands of silvery blond hair, matted and tangled along one side.
A curious colour, Kokushibo noted, nothing typically seen in neither the Eastern lands nor sea. Perhaps a foreigner then. Yet it didn’t explain why the man was bound, kept in a barrel full of water no less.
“What is this...” Kokushibo found himself musing.
He was given no answer from Akaza, nothing but the steady sound of water hitting the ship’s hull.
The stranger didn’t move. Kokushibo couldn’t tell whether he was already dead or simply in a case of comatose.
He couldn’t see if the man was breathing. In any other circumstance, Kokushibo would presume the stranger dead, but for whatever reason he found himself moving before he even thought to.
As if some hidden force had compelled him to reach his gloved fingers to touch the side of the stranger’s face.
The skin under his hands was soft, slightly wet, the skin so pale it was almost translucent with the way candlelight seemed to pass through it like thin parchment.
Then, brushing his fingers under the strands of hair, he slipped his fingers under the piece of cloth covering the eyes, and ever so gently tugged it off.
A pair of dark lashes greeted him as the fabric was discarded. They fanned out against his pale cheek, in such contrast, almost like the black sails of the Infinity floating against the sky of dawn.
It struck him then, that under the matted hair and bruises, the tightened gag and the looming shadows, that the stranger’s face was…quite remarkable.
Beautiful, even.
His nose curved in a graceful line, sloping downward before turning slightly at the tip with unexpected delicacy. High cheekbones framed the face. And the mouth, though still hidden by the gag, had the unmistakable fullness of well-shaped lips.
His jaw was sharp, his brows were proud, but despite it all there was something indescribably feminine about the features, something Kokushibo couldn’t quite explain.
And, most miraculously, he could feel it.
It was impossible to tell from far away but under his touch, it was undeniable. The small, imperceptible movements of the man’s chest rising and falling as he breathed. The longer Kokushibo looked, the more certain he became.
“He’s alive,” Kokushibo murmured.
Whether by miracle or curse, the man remained breathing.
But Akaza only shook his head.
“Captain… we should not,” he said. “If anything, we should give him a proper death and be done with it. We have what we came for. Let’s leave.”
Kokushibo did not respond, his fingers continued tracing across the stranger’s face, as if mesmerised.
He paused slightly as his fingers drifted over texture in the usually smooth skin. He leaned closer looking closely, shifting the lamp so that the light caught on the small freckles that lined the man’s cheeks.
Large, peculiar markings, circular in shape, almost blue in colour that shimmered faintly with the light of the candle.
In the attempt to tuck the silvery hair further back, his fingers caught on something. Just behind the ear.
Kokushibo peeled the hair fully back, and his eyes widened at the sight. He faintly registered Akaza’s breath hitch.
Thin, skeletal like bones jutted out from the man’s temples, with thin translucent webs in between that glowed the same blue as those freckles.
No…not freckles, Kokushibo suddenly realised.
Scales.
And the structures at the temples were fins.
Kokushibo swept his gaze over the man’s body, or rather, creature’s body, suddenly noticing how the ears were not rounded but rather elongated.
And that along the purple bruising of the neck, three distinct gills fluttered ever so slightly.
Kokushibo looked down where the man’s lower half was submerged in water.
Could it be…?
He turned slightly, and his grip on the lamp nearly faltered.
Because somewhere between the moments of examining the scales, the fins, the gills, the creature had awakened.
And it was staring directly at him.
Its eyes looked to be made of glass.
Like the stained windows of western cathedrals with the way they shined and reflected the candle light.
At first they glowed a dim amber. Then more colours emerged.
Red, green, violet, and a shade of blue that rivalled the clear skies. It was a view more spectacular than the glittering waves, more ethereal than dawn over open ocean.
The colours shifted endlessly within those irises like tides moving beneath glass.
Kokushibo found himself transfixed.
He had never seen anything so strange.
So indescribably beautiful.
It was one of the most breathtaking things Kokushibo had ever seen, as if entire universes were in their depths.
The longer he stared, the harder it became to look away.
His feet moved closer to the barrel without his permission.
His body leaned forward, drawn toward those impossible depths, as though the creature’s gaze were an endless tide beckoning him to submerge himself into the endless tide pools of those iridescent eyes.
The moment shattered when a hand seized his shoulder and yanked him backward.
Kokushibo staggered slightly as the spell broke.
He turned to see Akaza gripping him, panic written plainly across the first mate’s face.
“Captain,” Akaza whispered hoarsely.
His eyes flicked toward the barrel.
“That thing… that creature…”
His voice dropped further.
“It’s a siren.”
And as if the word itself was a trigger, the body within the barrel suddenly stirred.
The fog that had clouded the creature’s eyes cleared, the dull haze giving way to sharp awareness.
Gone was the peace and stillness, the silence broken by strangled whimper that came from behind the gagged mouth. The siren’s body convulsed violently, its torso jerking backwards with such force the entire barrel almost toppled over.
Distantly, Kokushibo heard a curse of alarm from Akaza, boots scuffing against the ground as the pirate was no doubt readying himself should the creature break free.
Through the tangled curtain of silver hair, Kokushibo could see the creature’s gaze now. Panic blazed within it.
The siren’s eyes darted wildly around the brig, as though the walls themselves were closing in to devour him. His breathing came in ragged bursts, each desperate inhale rattling against the gag forced into his mouth.
Kokushibo noticed that with each intake, the gills on the creature’s neck would expand and tremble, much like that of a fish dragged too long from the sea.
But the struggle did not last.
The creature’s strength was already failing.
After the initial shock had worn off, its movements slowed, becoming sluggish and uneven. Each tremor of his limbs seemed weaker than the last, as though the life itself were draining from his body, bled away by the strange violet bruises staining his skin.
As Kokushibo watched in silence, something unfamiliar stirred faintly in his chest.
He dismissed it as mere curiosity. Fascination, perhaps, at the inhuman creature before him.
Yet there was something else beneath it, something dangerously close to longing.
A desire, or some other unfathomable sensation, to claim the creature as his own. To take every inch of that pale, bruise marred skin and to drink every unshed tear that fell from those eerily enchanting eyes.
To devour the creature, so entirely that he may conquer every facet of the creature’s being, mind, body and soul.
The sensation was wholly unwelcome, and Kokushibo found himself both shocked and disgusted by such thoughts.
He tore himself immediately from the siren’s gaze. Perhaps Akaza was right, and he was a fool for peeling back the blindfold, and now he was undoubtedly entranced.
“Captain… we must kill it.”
Akaza’s voice came low behind him, edged with urgency.
“That thing is a siren,” he continued. “Did you not see what it nearly did to you? The moment it opened its eyes, you leaned toward it. It was pulling you in. It was trying to drag you under.”
Akaza’s words confirmed what he originally thought. Even in a weakened state, the siren’s powers were still potent enough to destabilise even a man of Kokushibo’s caliber. It was a dangerous creature indeed.
Still, a siren.
It was unbelievable to think such a creature existed.
Kokushibo had heard of them, mainly as myths or folktales meant to scare misbehaving children.
A distant memory of his mother resurfaced. She had whispered to him, her voice soft as evening tide as she combed through his hair, as she told him tales.
Tales of beautiful but dangerous creatures. Those with the upper body of a man and the tails of fish. Their eyes and voices were so enchanting that sailors and pirates alike would follow them willingly into the sea, only to be torn apart beneath the waves.
The stories had always sounded like nothing more than folklore.
Kokushibo had sailed across nearly the entire East Sea in his lifetime. Never once had he encountered such a creature.
Yet now, one lay before him.
“A siren,” Kokushibo murmured, testing the word on his tongue. “How as it captured?”
Akaza shook his head. “It doesn’t matter how or why. That thing needs to be slain. It would be a mercy to do so.”
The creature had gone still once more.
His convulsions had ceased entirely, leaving him slumped weakly against the inner wall of the cask. The delicate fins at his temples had fallen limp against his hair like wilted petals.
The glassy emptiness had returned to his eyes, as though he drifted somewhere between waking and nightmare.
It was clear enough. The creature could not free itself. The bruises along its body were severe, and even if left alive, it would likely perish once the ship sank beneath the sea.
There was no practical reason for it to live.
The decision was simple.
Kokushibo stepped forward, each footfall heavy against the creaking floors, and drew his scimitar.
The blade caught the dim candlelight, a thin ribbon of silver gliding along its curved edge as he lifted it to the creature’s throat.
The creature made no movement. Its eyes open but appeared as if its soul had already separated from its body.
Kokushibo drew the blade back.
But just before the strike could fall, a distant memory resurfaced.
His arm halted just mere inches from the creature’s neck.
“They say that Mugenshima is like a paradise.“
Kokushibo froze completely as Yoriichi’s voice filled his head.
“An island found only in the East Sea, with infinite riches and land. And a river of stars stretching as far as the eye can see.”
The memory floated in like clouds overcasting the sky.
His younger brother had smiled at him then, sitting precariously on the stern’s ledge, on a ship that was much younger than the Infinity. A subtle wind had blow through the morning dawn, rustling through Yoriichi’s long maroon hair and dangling sun earrings.
“There’s a myth, you know. About a flower that grows only there. A flower that cures all diseases and brings eternal youth. A blue spider lily, they call it. But no one has found it. Legends say there are creatures called the ‘angels of the sea’ who are its keeper. Only they can guide us.”
Yoriichi finally turned to face him, a wide smile carving against his fresh faced youth. “Let’s find that island together, Aniue. And when we do, nothing will separate us again.”
Something like bile, sour and bitter, rose in Kokushibo’s throat at the memory.
It did not burn, but rather simmered an unresolved hatred lingering beneath the surface. At Yoriichi’s voice echoing through his mind with same gentle cadence, soft and steady, flowing as easily as water across stone.
And that face….
That cursed face. Radiant with youth, with strength.
Even now, after a whole decade, Kokushibo could still see it with perfect clarity.
The scimitar in his hands trembled. Only slightly, but enough for him to feel the fury coiling beneath his skin.
Why?
Why was it that after all these years he still could not escape that voice?
Why was it that even after Yoriichi’s body had lain cold beneath his hands, after the blood had poured out across the deck like a tide of his own making, that his brother’s presence still lingered within him like a shadow that refused to fade?
Kokushibo drew a slow breath and lifted the scimitar once more.
Until a sudden realisation blooming in its wake.
As if awoken from a trance, Yoriichi’s words registered in his mind.
Legends say there are creatures called the ‘angels of the sea’ who are its keeper. Only they can guide us.
Angels of the sea. Creatures of the sea.
A siren.
Kokushibo stared down at the creature before him, at the fins, the scales, the gills. And an idea, dark and insidious, formed in his mind.
If the legends spoke true… if the guardians of Mugenshima were creatures of the ocean…
Then certainly…a siren could lead him there.
The thought settled, heavy and dangerous in his mind.
If the notion proved true, he would not only fulfil Muzan’s contract, he would uncover something far greater. A hidden paradise whispered of in half-drunk taverns and old sailor’s myths. A land of endless bounty. A place spoken of only in fragments of legend.
A world unlike anything he’s seen before.
But if it were false…
He could be leading his entire crew in pursuit of a ghost. He might as well have sunk his ship himself.
Yet even knowing the risk, Kokushibo felt the answer settle deep within him.
There was no price too great for Mugenshima.
Because finding that island meant something more than treasure. It meant surpassing the one man he had never been able to escape.
For all his life, it had seemed as though his younger brother existed solely to eclipse the world around him. Stories of the great Sun Bearer had spread across the eastern seas like wildfire, tales of a pirate who stole from tyrants to feed starving villages, who shattered naval fleets to deliver justice to the forgotten.
A legend, they called him. A hero. A flame to guide the lost, and warm the blind.
But Kokushibo had known Yoriichi well enough to know those legends never satisfied him. It had irked him beyond compare how little his younger brother cared for what others thought of him.
At first Kokushibo thought him indifferent. But in truth, Yoriichi was cursed with the one thing the twins had in common. Ambition.
Yoriichi had hungered for something beyond the horizon. Mugenshima had been his dream, the island of myth said to hold endless riches and the flower of immortality.
And yet, for all the praise sung of him, Yoriichi had failed. Pathetically so.
Slain by the same brother who lived an entire life living in his shadow.
His ship had vanished beneath the waves, the mighty Sun Bearer disappearing into obscurity. A legend swallowed by the sea.
Yet his death had left behind something else. A mantle. One Kokushibo had been more than willing to claim.
No. Not merely claim. But to complete.
Because where Yoriichi had failed, Kokushibo would succeed.
He would find Mugenshima. No matter the cost.
And the creature before him.
The siren.
Would be the key.
Kokushibo stood in silence, the candlelight wavering faintly between him and the barrel.
For several long moments he said nothing.
His gaze drifted back to the creature within, slumped weakly against the barrel, breathing shallow, gills along its neck fluttering with each strained inhale.
Then, he leaned forward.
“Can you hear me?”
No response. The siren remained unmoving, but he continued. “My name is Kokushibo Tsugikuni, and I am the Captain of the Infinity.”
Still no response, not even a flicker of recognition.
Kokushibo had expected as much. His reputation carried weight among pirates and naval officers alike throughout the eastern seas, but he doubted a creature of the deep would know his name.
“The crew that captured you is dead,” he said quietly, watching for any sort of reaction. There was none.
“I can offer you a quick death. Or.” He paused.
“I can offer you a chance to come with us.”
He felt Akaza next to him stiffen sharply.
Kokushibo ignored it. “Which do you prefer?”
For a moment, the siren did nothing.
The seconds stretched, dictated only by the wax melting off the candle and the distant groan of waves striking the hull.
Even the air in the brig stilled, as if the entire ship was holding her breath.
Then suddenly, there was a jolt.
His body lurched violently as he tried to sit upright, only to slam against the cramped confines of the barrel. The sudden movement sent water sloshing over the rim.
Still it jerked hastily, squirming in place, the mouth behind the gag letting out muffled, almost pitiful whimpers, tugging at its restraints in frustration when it couldn’t sit upright.
Its shoulders jerked, muscles trembling beneath bruised skin, the gills along its neck fluttered wildly.
There wasn’t a semblance of grace or elegance in the creature’s movements.
Yet the meaning itself was unmistakable.
The siren wanted to live.
It was fighting through agony and exhaustion just to show it didn’t want to be killed.
That perhaps, it deserved to go back into the waves of its home or feel the warmth of the sun on its scales.
It was a proving that it still had the will to fight.
Kokushibo felt the corner of his mouth lift.
Good. That will was all he needed.
In a single movement, he drew the scimitar back into its sheath, his decision made.
Without a word, Kokushibo reached forward and slid his fingers under the siren’s arms, and began to tug.
It was harder than expected. The barrel was too small for the creature’s size and so it was compressed in there, its shoulders scraping harshly against he wood as Kokushibo tried to lift it free.
The siren made a muffled noise of alarm, its hands shooting up to grasp weakly at Kokushibo’s arms.
Up close, Kokushibo noticed the webbing between his fingers, and the faint scales along the backs of his hands.
Kokushibo managed to drag his torso halfway out of the barrel before the resistance became worse. The bruising along his ribs extended further than he had first realised, spreading down its sides and all the way down its ribs.
When Kokushibo pulled harder, the siren cried out in pain, arms shaking as the claws of its webbed hands dug into the fabric of Kokushibo’s coat, nails biting through the fabric.
Irritation flickered briefly across Kokushibo’s mind. This won’t do.
Wordlessly, he gestured for Akaza to intervene. It took several motions for the first mate to move, the pirate still unsettled by the sight, but eventually he stepped forward.
Together they managed to turn the barrel sideways, carefully lowering it so it pressed horizontally on the ground, the seawater spilling out onto the brig boards.
From the new angle, Kokushibo wrapped the creature’s arms around his neck and tugged it forward.
The siren continued making pained whimpers and grunts, his claws scraping against Kokushibo’s back. The webbed fingers left shallow lines across old scars that already crossed his skin.
With one final tug, the siren finally slid free.
Kokushibo fell backward onto the wooden boards as the creature collapsed on top of him, giving one last broken cry before going limp in his arms.
An odd, astonished feeling struck Kokushibo once he leaned over and beheld the bottom half of the creature’s body.
Where legs should have been was a great tail, large and luminous, shimmering in the dim candlelight like moonlight on water. The scales starting from the hip were a stark, almost seafoam white, which gradually darkened into the same cerulean blue as the scales on its face.
Looking closer, he could see why it was in much pain.
Several scales had been scraped raw against the inside of the barrel. Others had been torn away entirely, leaving streaks of diluted blood that mixed with the seawater still clinging to the creature’s skin.
Nevertheless, Kokushibo found the sight most fascinating.
Akaza, on the other hand, looked like he might be sick.
“…Captain,” he said hoarsely. “We should really reconsider…Wait! What are you —”
Kokushibo pushed himself upright, supporting the creature’s weight against his shoulder, the siren’s upper torso leaning loosely against him. Balancing precariously like this, the siren looked to be almost the same height as him.
From the tales he’s heard, sirens were creatures of supernatural strength with even some claims of regeneration. Whilst the siren in his arms was well built, it seemed whatever time he had spent imprisoned in the barrel had clearly weakened him, as Kokushibo managed to lift the siren into his arms with little effort.
The siren’s head fell back slightly, the silver hair brushing against Kokushibo’s shoulder. The eyes that had been open moments before had slipped closed again.
It almost amazed Kokushibo that despite being in such a weakened, vulnerable state that such a creature could still look breathtakingly ethereal.
Carefully, Kokushibo loosened the gag from his mouth and tossed the damp cloth aside, trying and failing not to notice the fullness of the bare lips, and how they parted ever so slightly around shallow breaths.
Akaza approached his side hesitantly, looking more like a fish than the siren with how he was gaping. “Captain. You can't possibly mean to bring that thing on board?”
“I do,” Kokushibo replied, already walking towards the entrance.
“This creature may still be of use to us,” he reasoned, calmly. “An encounter as rare as this cannot be ignored.”
“Captain…”
For a moment Kokushibo thought Akaza would protest further.
But then he held the candle in his hands, the gold light of a fiery gaze within his blue eyes, set with reluctant determination. “Then let me go first, I have the light.”
Kokushibo watched as Akaza led on, illuminating the stairs of the brig with care.
Watching him, Kokushibo felt a small, familiar certainty settle in his mind.
There had been a time when he doubted Muzan’s decision to recruit Akaza, a street brawler who seemed to think more with his fists than his head.
Yet it was precisely that stubborn loyalty, that unwavering resolve, that had made Akaza indispensable. Which was why Kokushibo had made him first mate.
Relief came the moment they emerged onto the main deck.
After the suffocating gloom of the brig, the sudden flood of daylight struck Kokushibo almost like a physical force. Sunlight poured across the deck in broad sheets of gold, the crisp ocean air sweeping away the stale dampness that had clung to his lungs below. The smell of mould and rot was replaced by salt, tar, and the sharp, living scent of the open sea.
For a brief moment, he simply breathed.
Behind them the sea stretched endlessly beneath a clear sky, the waves glittering beneath the late morning sun as though nothing at all had happened aboard the Kitsune.
Akaza wasted no time lingering in the light. He moved at once toward the gangplank that still bridged the two ships, the fallen navy ship and the looming shadow of the Infinity beside it.
Now, beneath the open sky, the creature in Kokushibo’s arms was no longer hidden by candlelight or shadow.
The siren’s head rested weakly against the crook of his neck, pale nose brushing faintly against Kokushibo’s skin with each shallow breath. Strands of damp hair clung to his cheek, and in the sunlight the strange silver colour softened into warm gold. The light caught in the strands like threads of spun metal.
The blue scales across the siren’s skin glimmered as well, their colour deepening beneath the sun. What had appeared almost ghostly beneath the candlelight now shone with startling clarity, delicate scales that shimmered faintly along the curve of his cheek and throat, their edges catching the light like fragments of polished glass.
More luminous. But also more exposed.
Without breaking stride, he shrugged his captain’s coat from his shoulders and wrapped it firmly around the creature’s body, drawing the heavy fabric across the visible scales and the tail that hung limp against his arm.
The gesture was less about warmth than concealment. The last thing he required was the entire crew gawking at what he carried.
The attempt failed almost immediately.
The Kizuki noticed him at once.
Ume had been hauling a barrel of gunpowder toward the gangway when she froze mid-step, her eyes widening. The sudden halt caused Gyutaro to walk straight into her back.
“Oi,” he grumbled irritably. “What are you…”
Then he followed her gaze and his words died in his throat.
Across the deck, Enmu glanced up as well. His usual serene smile faltered for the briefest moment as his eyes settled upon the bundle cradled in Kokushibo’s arms.
It was Urogi who approached first.
He strode toward them with his usual swagger, golden eyes bright with curiosity.
“Oi, Captain. What took you so long? We almost—”
His voice faltered.
Confusion flickered across his face as his gaze dropped, and he saw the end of a scaled tail had slipped free from beneath the coat.
Urogi stared at it, the colour drained from his golden-browned face.
“No way,” he breathed. “Captain… is that—”
“Urogi.”
The pirate snapped upright immediately.
“Prepare the infirmary,” Kokushibo said calmly. “Inform Aizetsu his service will be required.”
Urogi blinked once, still stunned, before nodding sharply.
“Aye, Captain.”
“And,” Kokushibo added.
Urogi paused mid-step.
Kokushibo’s violet gaze drifted across the ruined deck of the Kitsune.
Blood still streaked the planks. Fallen marines lay where they had been cut down, their muskets scattered uselessly among the bodies. The once-proud vessel now sat silent upon the water like an empty carcass.
“This ship serves no further purpose.”
His eyes flicked briefly toward the cannons along the rail.
“Assist Nakime in preparing the cannons.”
Urogi stared at him a moment.
Then a slow, almost feral smile curved on his lips at those words.
“Aye Captain.”
He snapped a playful salute before turning on his heel and racing across the deck.
Kokushibo stepped across the plank connecting the two ships, careful not to jostle the fragile body in his arms.
And behind him, the cannons of the Infinity began to roar.