The Captain's Cabin of The Explorer had been transformed into a sanctuary of high-grade mahogany and reinforced timber, lit by the steady, warm glow of whale-oil lamps. It was now more luxurious than any private room in a high-end tavern in Port Royal. On the table were top-grade porcelain plates, "borrowed" from the Governor's Mansion during the chaos, now filled with a sizzling, roasted suckling pig. Beside it was a plate piled high with tropical fruit, looking like a small mountain of vibrant jewels.
Billy, Hanson, and a few of the senior crew members were gathered around the table, devouring the food like starving refugees who hadn't seen a hot meal in eight lifetimes.
"By the powers! It's a fine thing followin' the Commodore," Billy mumbled indistinctly, stuffing a massive piece of roast meat into his mouth. Grease ran down his chin, but he didn't seem to care. "These British pigs are simply tastier than those scrawny Spanish ones we found on the Trinidad!"
"That's the truth of it!" Hanson added, chugging a large gulp of red wine snuck out of the Governor's private cellar. His face was flushed with the heat of the cabin and the richness of the haul. "Look at this wine! This is what the Governor drinks while we're out breakin' our backs on the brine. When did we ever get a chance to taste the King's own vintage before?"
The crew let out a boisterous laugh, the atmosphere reaching its peak of rowdy celebration. They were safe, they were rich, and they were sailing on the fastest ship in the Caribbean.
Hugo sat at the head of the table, holding an exquisite silver wine glass. The blood-red liquid inside swayed gently with the motion of the ship. He watched the crew's unrefined behavior and shook his head with a faint, indulgent smile. He had built this loyalty through competence and shared spoils, and seeing them satisfied was a mark of his success as a commander.
He picked up a silver fork, spearing a piece of what looked like perfectly tender, juicy roast pork. He put it into his mouth, expecting the savory explosion of salt and fat.
The moment the meat touched his tongue, the smile on Hugo's face didn't just fade; it froze.
There was no taste.
Not a single hint of flavor reached his senses. The piece of meat in his mouth had the texture of oil-soaked wood chips, it was greasy and hot, but he couldn't detect the seasoning, the char, or the richness of the pork. It was a complete sensory void.
Hugo's heart sank like a lead weight.
He calmly swallowed the tasteless mass, his mind racing through every logical explanation. Perhaps it was the salt air? A sudden fever? He raised his wine glass and took a long, deliberate sip of the expensive aged vintage.
The liquid slid down his throat, leaving nothing but a cold, wet sensation. There was no fruitiness, no richness of the bouquet, not even the sharp bite of the alcohol. It was like drinking a cup of colored, tepid water.
Hugo's blood ran cold. He remembered the broken, manic version of Barbossa he had encountered on the Sea Serpent, and the hollow, terrified look in the old pirate's eyes as he spoke of his torment.
"I can see delicious food, but I can't taste it... I can drink the rum, but I can't feel a trace of drunkenness..."
Hugo subconsciously reached into his coat and felt the two Aztec gold coins with their grinning skull patterns. The metal felt unnervingly cold against his palm, a chill that seemed to seep through his skin and into his very soul.
Damnation, he thought, his expression turning grim. I haven't just been playing a game of strategy. I've been caught in the snare.
The curse of Cortez was as absolute as it was unreasonable. He wasn't one of the original mutineers; he wasn't even a pirate by trade. He was a man of the future, a strategist using a "System" to navigate a world of myth. But the ancient magic of the Aztec blood-debt didn't care for his origins or his technical expertise. Possession was the trigger, and the debt was now his to carry.
"Commodore? Is the pig not to your liking?" Gibbs asked with concern, noticing the way Hugo had set down his glass, his eyes fixed on the shadows in the corner of the cabin.
"Nothing is wrong, Gibbs," Hugo said, forcing his voice to remain steady and authoritative. He couldn't let the men see the flicker of dread in his eyes. A Commodore who was losing his grip on reality was a Commodore who would soon be replaced. "Perhaps I've been at sea for too long. My palate feels a bit... dull tonight."
He took a deep breath, rapidly recalling all the information the System had provided about the Aztec gold. The source of the curse was the Chest of Cortez. To lift it, every single one of the eight hundred and eighty-two coins had to be returned, and the blood debt repaid by those who had participated in the original sin.
Until now, collecting the coins had been a secondary objective, a way to fuel his "Era Advancement" and unlock the Medieval and Industrial tiers of his technology tree. It was a calculated move for power. But now, the nature of the mission had fundamentally shifted. It was no longer a quest for better cannons or faster sails. It was a desperate race for his own humanity.
He didn't want to live in a world of grey ash and tasteless wine. He didn't want to watch the sun rise and feel no warmth on his skin.
He realized he had to speed up the progress. He couldn't afford to slowly strategize from the sidelines anymore. He needed to find the Black Pearl, find the real Hector Barbossa, and reclaim the hoard.
"Gibbs," Hugo said, his voice cutting through the laughter of the pirates like a sharpened blade.
"Aye, Commodore!"
"Our guest has had enough time to reflect on the sudden change in her surroundings. Go and invite Miss Swann back to the cabin. I believe it is time we discussed the price of her 'extended vacation' at sea."
He needed capital. A massive amount of it. He would use the ransom from Governor Swann to turn The Explorer into a true sea monster, a vessel that could hunt the undead across every corner of the Caribbean. He would seize the Black Pearl, take the hoard, and rip the flavor of the world back from the ghosts of the past.
The hunger for victory had been replaced by a much more primal hunger, the simple desire to taste the salt and the rum once again.
As Gibbs left to fetch Elizabeth, Hugo looked down at the roast pig. It looked magnificent in the lamplight, but he knew it was nothing but dust in his mouth. He pushed the silver plate away, his eyes burning with a new, lethal focus.
"The hunt has truly begun," he whispered to the empty air.