Barbossa's return to Tortuga was a spectacle designed to be whispered about in every tavern from Port Royal to Nassau.
The Sea Serpent didn't just limp into the harbor; she paraded. The hull's sides had been fitted with brand-new brass plates that caught the midday sun, turning the ship into a shimmering golden needle on the water. A massive Jolly Roger, embroidered with actual gold thread that glittered with every snap of the breeze, flew arrogantly from the mainmast.
Barbossa himself was a walking treasury. He stepped off the gangplank dressed in a custom-tailored captain's uniform of deep crimson velvet and black silk, his ten fingers laden with rings pried from the Santa Trinidad's hoard, heavy bands of gold set with emeralds and rubies. A silver-hilted scimitar and a pair of flintlock pistols with ivory stocks rested at his waist, every inch of them encrusted with gems.
To the rest of Tortuga, he was a king. He immediately occupied the entire Mermaid's Rest, declaring an open feast for three days. Every pirate on the island was invited to drink and eat their fill on his account. The town was a riot of celebration, the name "Barbossa" being roared into the night by a thousand drunken throats. He had achieved the ultimate pirate dream: he was the wealthiest man in the harbor.
However, when Barbossa, flanked by a few of his most loyal, heavily armed confidants, strutted toward the abandoned shipyard, the smug display on his face froze into a mask of stunned disbelief.
He saw The Explorer.
He blinked, rubbing his eyes as if the rum were playing tricks on him. A month ago, this had been a "fish's nest", a rotting carcass of grey wood sinking into the mud. But the vessel sitting in the dry dock now was a streamlined creature of dark, polished beauty.
The port side had been entirely reconstructed. The new planks, treated with Hugo's salt-and-kiln method and sealed with the black Heart-Oak resin, glistened with an oily, metallic sheen. The joints were so perfect they looked like they had been fused together by nature rather than cut by hand. A towering new mainmast, fashioned from a single, massive tree and reinforced with the strange compounds Hugo had synthesized, stood dead-center in the hull, looking strong enough to hold up the sky.
A dozen pirates, his own men, the ones he'd left behind were working with a mechanical, focused efficiency. There was no shouting, no drunken stumbling. They were sanding, rigging, and fitting components with a disciplined grace that Barbossa had never seen on a pirate deck.
"What in the name of the abyss is this?" Barbossa whispered, pointing a ring-laden finger at the ship.
Gibbs hurried forward to meet him, his chest puffed out with a pride that matched the Captain's, though for a very different reason. "Captain! You're back! As you can see, we've been busy. Master Hugo's been... well, he's been leading us."
"Busy?" Barbossa stepped closer, his boots squelching in the mud as he reached out to touch the hull. He ran a jeweled hand over the smooth, black planks. He was a seaman; he knew the feel of good wood. This wasn't just good, it was impossible. The craftsmanship surpassed the finest work of the Royal Navy's shipwrights.
It had only been a month. A month to turn a condemned wreck into a masterpiece.
Barbossa looked up at the deck, where Hugo stood calmly overseeing the installation of a new capstan. Hugo merely gave a curt, professional nod as a greeting before returning to his blueprints. He didn't run down to flatter the Captain; he didn't acknowledge the flashy velvet or the gold rings.
A complex, jagged emotion surged in Barbossa's chest. There was shock, yes, and a flicker of jealousy. But beneath that, there was a growing, cold seed of fear. He had returned to show off his wealth, to prove that he was the "Alpha" because he had the gold. He wanted Hugo to see what a wise choice it had been to serve him.
But standing before The Explorer, Barbossa felt like a comical child in a costume. His vanity, bought with silver ingots, felt hollow and fragile compared to the raw, creative power Hugo had displayed. He realized he understood the young man even less than before. Hugo didn't want to buy a ship; he wanted to create one that defied the laws of the sea.
"Master Hugo," Barbossa called out, jumping onto the deck. The wood felt unnervingly solid beneath him, devoid of the usual hollow creaks of a sloop. "Well done. I see you've turned this pile of firewood into something that might actually float."
Hugo looked at him, his expression unreadable. "She'll do more than float, Hector. She'll fly."
Hugo's voice was calm, but he was scanning Barbossa with the clinical intensity of a navigator. He noticed the signs immediately. While Barbossa looked magnificent, his physical state was deteriorating. There were heavy, dark shadows beneath the Captain's eyes, and his skin had a pallid, greyish tint that no amount of rum could mask. His movements were twitchy, and his hand was constantly, unconsciously reaching for his chest pocket, clutching whatever was hidden there as if his life depended on it.
Hugo's "Basic Seamanship" and the "Wreckage Analysis" foundations weren't just for wood; they were for patterns. And the pattern on Barbossa screamed of the Aztec curse. The gold of the Santa Trinidad had been a trap, and the Captain had walked right into it.
"You look tired, Captain," Hugo said quietly. "Has the wealth been a heavy burden?"
Barbossa's eyes flickered, a momentary flash of frantic anxiety passing through them before he forced a boisterous, empty laugh. "Tired? Nonsense! I've never felt more alive! The rum is sweet, the gold is bright, and the world is mine for the taking!"
But his laugh didn't reach his eyes. He leaned in toward Hugo, pulling him away from the proximity of Gibbs and the others. The scent of stale alcohol and an odd, metallic rot wafted off him. His expression became tight, his voice a conspiratorial whisper.
"Hugo... you're a man of secrets. You see things other men don't." Barbossa's hand gripped Hugo's arm, his gold rings biting into the flesh. "Tell me... have you ever heard the gold? Have you ever felt it... talking to you?"
Hugo didn't flinch. He looked at the Captain's dilated pupils and felt a chill of confirmation. The gold of the Trinidad had likely been mingled with a few of those cursed coins, or perhaps the treasure itself was tainted.
"Gold doesn't speak, Hector," Hugo said, his voice as cold as a deep-sea current. "But it has a way of showing a man exactly what he's made of."
Barbossa stared at him, his breath hitching. "It whispers, Hugo. It tells me... it tells me they're all looking at it. They all want to steal it. Even you."
The madness was taking root. Hugo realized that the "peaceful" era of reconstruction had just ended. He wasn't just dealing with a greedy pirate anymore; he was dealing with a cursed, paranoid captain who was slowly losing his grip on reality.
"I don't want your gold, Hector," Hugo said, pulling his arm away. "I'm building something better. Now, tell me... why have you truly come back to my shipyard?"
Barbossa's hand went back to his pocket, his fingers twitching. "I need... I need a new job, Hugo. A bigger one. The gold... it isn't enough. It never feels like enough. Tell me where the next one is. Tell me... and I'll give you anything."
Hugo looked at the broken man in the velvet coat and then at the dark, powerful hull of The Explorer. The game had changed. He needed to finish his ship before the Captain's madness burned everything to the ground.