The look within the eyes of the Iron Lantern were as bright as ever.
Like a star in the darkness of the night sky, they gleamed not with hope, for hope was a word for those who were uncertain about fate. Only those who have the ability to see fate, not in a literal sense, but are not swayed by fate, can carry eyes like that. Can a man on the verge of death have those types of eyes?
No. He cannot. He would be too swallowed in his emotions of regret and pain. He would be drowned.
But he was not like other men.
Even if death had already captured him, he would still be free.
The eyes he had were now the eyes of a free man.
He spoke.
"This martial art has no form." His voice was calm, measured, absolute. "It is pure in all its right."
He spread his arms wide his body open, his defenses nonexistent, his posture inviting.
"Try it, my rival." He smiled. "In this entire fight, I promise you without a single shadow of a doubt you won't be able to land a single attack on me."
Rodgers backed up.
His eyes narrowed. His grip tightened on his blade. His body coiled with the tension of a predator about to strike.
He rushed forward.
His blade shot toward the Iron Lantern fast, precise, deadly. The steel sang through the air, cutting through the rain, aimed at the pirate's heart.
The Iron Lantern fell to the floor.
His body dropped not from weakness, not from exhaustion, but from choice. He used the movement of the shaking ship to his advantage, his body sliding across the wet wood, his limbs flowing like water.
Rodgers missed.
The blade stabbed into empty air.
The Iron Lantern grabbed a hold of Rodgers's leg his fingers wrapping around the fabric, pulling himself upward, rising like a ghost from the depths. He shifted Rodgers's weapon to the side a gentle push, a redirection, a denial of force and went back a bit.
He smiled.
The Iron Lantern splashed a large pool of water on the ship into Rodgers's face.
Rodgers kept his eyes open.
He knew what the next attack was about to be. He believed that once the water entered his eyes and he reacted, the battle would go in favour of the Iron Lantern, as he would attack him while unguarded.
He was wrong.
In all ways possible.
The Iron Lantern moved.
His body spun a whirlwind of motion, graceful and deadly. His leg swept across the deck, catching Rodgers's ankle, pulling him off balance. His hand shot forward not a strike, not a punch, but an open palm that pressed against Rodgers's chest, redirecting his momentum, sending him tumbling across the deck.
Rodgers rolled, caught himself, rose.
He attacked again.
His blade flashed a series of rapid strikes, each one aimed at a vital point, each one designed to kill. The Iron Lantern moved between them ducking, weaving, flowing around the steel like water around a stone. His body bent in ways that should have been impossible, twisted in ways that defied anatomy, moved in ways that ignored the limits of flesh.
He blocked with his forearm not meeting the blade, but deflecting it, guiding it past his body. He countered with a kick not aimed at Rodgers's body, but at the space he was about to occupy, anticipating his movement, denying him the choice of where to go.
Rodgers retreated.
The Iron Lantern pressed forward.
Their battle became a dance.
The Iron Lantern moved like the wind unpredictable, untouchable, free. His body flowed through the chaos, twisting around Rodgers's attacks, redirecting his momentum, turning his own force against him. Rodgers fought with power, with precision, with the certainty of a man who had never been beaten. But the Iron Lantern was something else entirely.
He was not fighting.
He was expressing.
The martial art of freedom had no form, no technique, no pattern. It was pure will the will of a man who had chosen to live on his own terms, who had chosen to die on his own terms, who had chosen to be free.
Rodgers swung his blade a massive arc that should have cut the Iron Lantern in two.
The Iron Lantern stepped inside the swing.
His body pressed against Rodgers's chest to chest, skin to skin, breath to breath. His hand closed around Rodgers's wrist, forcing the blade upward, outward, away. His knee rose not to strike, but to unbalance, to shift the center of gravity, to make Rodgers move.
Rodgers stumbled.
The Iron Lantern spun around him a blur of motion, a shadow in the storm and appeared behind him. His hand pressed against Rodgers's back, pushing him forward, sending him staggering toward the edge of the ship.
Rodgers caught himself.
He turned.
His blade shot forward a thrust that would have impaled the Iron Lantern's heart.
The Iron Lantern twisted.
The blade passed by him close enough to cut his coat, close enough to draw blood, close enough to kill but he moved through it, around it, beyond it. His hand shot out, grabbing Rodgers's collar, pulling him off balance, using his own momentum to fling him across the deck.
Rodgers crashed against a crate.
The wood shattered.
He rose.
They clashed again.
And again.
And again.
The battle became destruction. The ship splintered under their feet. The rain turned to steam around them. The sea roared in response to their will.
Rodgers attacked with everything he had his blade flashing, his body moving, his fury unleashed. He was faster now. Stronger. More desperate. He could not land a single hit. Could not even touch the Iron Lantern.
The Iron Lantern moved through him past him beyond him. His body flowed like water, twisted like smoke, danced like a flame. He was not avoiding Rodgers's attacks he was embracing them, guiding them, turning them into nothing.
Rodgers screamed.
His blade came down a vertical strike that should have split the Iron Lantern in two.
The Iron Lantern raised his hand.
Not to block. Not to deflect. To catch.
His fingers closed around the blade the sharp edge, the cutting steel, the death that was supposed to end him. Blood poured from his palm dark, thick, endless but he held. He stopped the blade cold.
Rodgers's eyes widened.
The Iron Lantern smiled.
He pulled the blade toward himself drawing Rodgers closer, closing the distance, denying him the space to attack. His other hand shot forward not a strike, not a punch, but an open palm that pressed against Rodgers's chest.
He pushed.
Rodgers flew backward his body tumbling across the deck, crashing against the railing, fetching up against the edge of the ship.
He lay there for a moment, stunned.
Then he rose.
His body was broken. His face was bloody. His will was shaken.
But he rose.
The Iron Lantern stood across from him.
His body was exhausted. His wounds poured blood. His breath came in ragged gasps. But his eyes his eyes were bright as ever.
"Common." His voice was weak, tired, defiant. "Is this the martial art of the free?" He laughed a short, wet, broken sound. "Isn't it doing too much?"
He coughed.
Blood sprayed from his lips.
"Hahahaha."
The Iron Lantern stood.
Woodes Rodgers stood.
And the sea roared.