Beside the body of the Iron Lantern, the man who decided what his freedom meant lay still. This man had chased the sea and made it his truly a free man, even his death was of choice. His body was cold as ice, his face peaceful, his eyes closed. The storm raged above, indifferent to the legend that had just ended.
Beside him was his rival, who was totally exhausted.
Woodes Rodgers. The man who had challenged the Iron Lantern's meaning of freedom. The man who had killed him. He lay on the deck, his body broken, his breath shallow, his mind reeling. He was at the last of his stamina, filled with many injuries, but he was still alive.
And not known to him, there was something planted deep within him.
It is said by many that a man dies when he is no longer alive. But then you have to ask: what does it mean to be alive, and what does it mean to be dead?
A doctor and a man in the field of health would say a man would be dead the moment he is unable to breathe. Lack of breath is death. His body will be cold. That is death to them.
But some others have their own definition of death. Some believe that the absence of breath and the physical being is not death. They see death more as something conceptual. Death occurs when there is no evidence of your existence.
One would say: a man who has no impact on any life and has no memory in anyone this man is already dead.
Rodgers got up.
His body ached. His wounds burned. His mind screamed at him to rest, to stop, to simply lay down and let the darkness take him. But he continued to hear the sound of battle the clash of steel, the roar of monsters, the screams of dying men. His body had recovered a bit, just enough to stand, just enough to fight.
And now that a really huge enemy to him had been dead, conviction had been born into his heart.
The conviction that he was right.
No matter what he did, he was right. Because he was a good person, and his reasons for fighting were good. That was how his heart became. Exactly what his rival had planned from the beginning.
So it turns out there would be two winners at the end of their battle. A winner that won long term, and one that won short term.
And so, even though the Iron Lantern was dead, he lived on even within his rival as something like a spectre. A seed of conviction that had been planted and would grow, whether Rodgers knew it or not.
As Rodgers got up, he felt a presence behind him.
His body reacted instantly turning, drawing his blade, preparing to cut down the opponent. The steel sang as it left the scabbard, its edge gleaming, its purpose absolute.
But the opponent used their foot.
They stepped on the hilt of the blade, pushing it back into the scabbard with a smooth, practiced motion. The blade clicked into place, denied its purpose, rendered useless.
And then she spoke.
"So..." Her voice was calm, almost conversational. "You are the man who witnessed the end of my captain."
She paused.
"It is just as he said it would be."
Rodgers immediately recognized her face.
His eyes widened. His breath caught. His heart pounded.
"You..." He took a step back. "Mutaro."
She smiled a thin, cold, knowing expression.
"Your here." She tilted her head. "And what does that mean? Did you think that I would die?"
She took a step forward.
"Though, of course, you would really love that." Her voice hardened. "Since, apart from my captain, I'm one that stood against you."
She touched the hilt of her sword a long, curved blade that hung at her hip.
"In terms of the sword, you could not come close to me." She paused. "And even in this world, you still cannot come near me."
She stopped.
"I am here for one reason." Her voice dropped. "To confirm the words of my captain."
Rodgers was dumbfounded.
He could not understand her words. His brow furrowed. His mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. He stuttered, his voice cracking.
"Dead or alive?" He gestured at the body of the Iron Lantern cold, still, gone. "What do you mean by that? Can't you see his body?"
He shouted, his voice rising with frustration.
"Does he look like someone who is alive?!"
He pointed at the corpse.
"I'm the winner!" His voice cracked. "He's dead!"
Mutaro was a woman who wore a long black skirt, her chest wrapped with bandages. Her hair was blue in color, like the depths of the sea at midnight. She was a dark Asian woman, her skin the color of honey, her eyes sharp and fierce.
She looked at Rodgers.
"If I confirm that my captain is alive..." She paused. "...then I shall make it so that he lives a long life on this sea."
She pulled out her long sword.
It was a katana the length of a normal human, its edge curved, its steel gleaming, its purpose absolute. The blade sang as it left the scabbard, its voice clear, pure, deadly.
She pointed it at Rodgers.
"Come at me." Her voice was calm, measured, absolute. "I shall begin by defending."
Rodgers stood, broken and bleeding.
Mutaro stood, calm and ready.
And the sea roared.