"Who gave you the coin?" Barbossa demanded. "And who told you to lie about your name—about being a Turner?"
The prisoner shook violently, terror finally breaking through. "I—I don't know! He told me to say it! He said they wouldn't kill me!"
Barbossa's eyes narrowed.
Whoever had done this hadn't guessed. They knew exactly what the crew needed—the coin, the bloodline, the name. That meant only two possibilities.
They knew where the real Turner was.
Or they were connected to him.
Barbossa tightened his grip, his expression hardening as his voice dropped to something colder.
"Then you'll tell me everything you know," he said. "Who gave you the coin? When did this happen?"
The man's voice shook. "I—I was a prisoner in Port Royal. He came to me there. Gave me the coin and told me what to say. That's all I know, I swear."
Barbossa's eyes narrowed. "His name."
"I don't know," the prisoner said quickly. "But he had blond hair, blue eyes. Wore strange clothes—nothing like anyone else in Port Royal."
Barbossa studied him for a long moment. "Nothing else?"
The man shook his head frantically. "Nothing. I swear."
Barbossa released him.
For a brief second, the prisoner sagged in relief—
Then Barbossa's hand moved.
The man gasped, clutching at his throat as his strength drained away. Blood seeped between his fingers, dark and slick, as he stumbled backward.
Losing his footing on the mound of gold, he tumbled down the heap, leaving a crimson smear in his wake before landing motionless at the base.
Silence settled over the cave.
One by one, the pirates turned toward Barbossa.
One of them stepped forward. "You said this would break the curse," he said, anger creeping into his voice. "You said this was the last coin."
Barbossa straightened, his expression hard. "I was right," he replied coldly. "It was blood that was required."
He gestured toward the lifeless body at the base of the stone mound.
"But it was the wrong blood. You brought me the wrong man."
Murmurs broke out immediately.
"So what now?" one pirate shouted.
"We're still cursed!" another barked.
"We can't die, can't feel, can't enjoy anything!"
The noise grew louder, frustration spilling over as the crew vented years of suffering.
Barbossa's patience snapped.
"Enough!" he roared, his voice cutting through the cave like a blade.
The pirates fell silent.
Barbossa swept his gaze across them, steady and unyielding. "Whoever did this knew exactly what we needed," he said. "They knew about the blood, the coin, and the name Turner."
He clenched his jaw. "That means the real Turner is still out there."
A grim smile touched his lips.
"And as your captain, I promise you this—we will find the one who fooled us. We will drag him here, and we will fill this chest with his blood."
He turned back toward the stone chest, resting a hand on its edge.
"Only then," Barbossa said quietly, "will this curse finally be broken."
The cave fell silent.
The pirates stood around him, faces hard, the torchlight flickering over their faces. Doubt lingered in the air, thick and heavy.
Barbossa turned slowly, his gaze sweeping over them.
"And if any of you don't trust me," he continued, voice calm but edged with steel, "you're free to search on your own. Though I doubt you'll find him."
A few pirates shifted uneasily. No one spoke.
Barbossa stepped forward, moonlight spilling through the cracks in the cave ceiling and washing over him. His human features faded, revealing what lay beneath—bone and curse, undead flesh bound by greed and gold.
"So," he said, voice carrying through the cavern, "are you with me?"
He looked from face to face.
"Are you ready for the final hunt?" Barbossa asked. "To track down the one who dared to fool us—who thought he could deceive the undead?"
Slowly, grim smiles spread among the crew.
Steel scraped as swords were raised.
"Aye," one pirate said.
"Aye!" another shouted.
The answer came again and again, echoing through the cave.
Barbossa nodded once.
"Then we hunt," he said.
Far from Isla de Muerta, a man in unfamiliar clothes continued on his way, unaware of how much attention he had just drawn to himself.
And even if he had known, it wouldn't have bothered him in the slightest.
Back at the island, the undead crew of the Black Pearl set sail once more. Dark clouds gathered overhead as the ship turned toward Port Royal, its course fixed with purpose.
They were coming to find the one who had fooled them and they were pissed.
On the HMS Interceptor, Daniel suddenly sneezed.
"…Huh," he muttered.
For no clear reason, he had the distinct feeling someone, somewhere, was thinking about him a little too intensely.
He scanned the deck and quickly spotted Jack weaving his way past a coil of rope. Daniel stepped into his path.
"Jack," Daniel called.
Jack stopped and looked at him. "Hello to you too, mate. What do you need?"
Daniel didn't bother with small talk. He pointed at Jack's coat.
"Your compass."
Jack's hand instinctively moved to it. "Now hold on," he said cautiously. "That's a very personal request."
*****
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