The Stepstones, Throat-Cutting Isle Main Island
Caw! Caw!
The supernatural tempest vanished as abruptly as it had arrived. One moment, Cutthroat Isle was a portrait of the apocalypse; the next, it was bathed in an eerie, peaceful serenity. Sunlight danced upon the ripples of the water, and gulls reclaimed the sky. Had it not been for the floating debris and shattered timber choking the shoreline, one might never have known a cataclysmic storm had just passed.
However, this tranquility was short-lived. From the horizon, the silhouette of black sails cut through the mist. "Mad" Jack's corsairs were driving their war-galleys toward the harbor, their eyes burning with a feverish blend of greed and zealotry.
While Jack's sacrifice to the Black Goat hadn't leveled the city as he'd hoped, his crew didn't know that. In their eyes, the mere manifestation of such a storm was proof enough that their dark god favored the slaughter.
Jack himself was far less composed. He felt a lingering tremor of dread. At the moment the storm broke, he thought he'd heard an unearthly shriek of agony echoing from the clouds—a sound of something divine being swatted away like a fly. But the rising tide of bloodlust in his veins quickly drowned out his doubt.
As the first wave of black-sailed ships breached the inner harbor, the air filled with the guttural roars of men eager to pillage. Jack stood at the prow of his flagship, a manic grin splitting his face. Strands of crimson mist seemed to coil around his limbs, a physical manifestation of his madness. He drew his blade, slicing a shallow red line across his own palm, and held it high.
"Charge, my brothers! Today, this harbor becomes our slaughterhouse!"
"Hoo-rah!" "Kill them all!"
The pirates swarmed into longboats and skiffs, rowing with frantic energy toward the stone wharves. They advanced in disciplined five-man teams, huddling behind heavy oak shields to ward off the expected hail of bolts.
"Ready! Loose! Let these fools see what a Scorpion can do!"
Narsas, commanding the rear-guard from an elevated position, dropped his hand.
High atop the newly built stone towers flanking the Market District, the heavy machinery groaned. These towers were Jon's pride—built with expensive imported stone and manned by the most disciplined of the Chainbreakers.
Thrum-thrum-thrum!
The Myrish double-shot Scorpions roared. Bolts the thickness of a man's forearm screamed through the air, trailing a terrifying whistle.
"Watch out—!" CRACK!
The heavy projectiles didn't just hit; they obliterated. A single bolt caught a skiff head-on, splintering the prow and skewering three pirates in a row like meat on a spit. The sheer kinetic force of the Myrish engineering turned the crowded harbor into a red mist.
Lucky survivors, rowing through the wreckage, saw their comrades pinned to the hulls of their own boats, struggling like insects on a needle. A few pirates, those whose minds weren't entirely gone to the Goat, felt their throats go dry.
"Kill! Kill!"
But for the fanatics, the sight of blood was merely fuel. They leapt from their boats into the waist-deep water, wading through the surf with their cutlasses held high. The harbor was a chaotic mess; the earlier storm had tangled the rigging of the merchant ships at anchor, leaving them as charred, wooden obstacles.
"Aims... Loose!"
Narsas signaled the second line. As the pirates reached the stone jetties of the warehouse district, a volley of crossbow bolts rained down from the rooftops. Jon's "System-aligned" archers didn't fire blindly; they picked off the captains and the loudest screamers with terrifying precision.
Thwip! Thwip!
The first wave of pirates to hit the central thoroughfare collapsed into the mud, looking like human pincushions. Though called the "Grand Avenue," the path from the docks to the market was a narrow, five-meter-wide kill zone. To the left and right stood the eight-meter-high stone-and-timber isolation walls, leaving the invaders with nowhere to hide.
"Switch to staggered fire!" Narsas commanded, his voice devoid of emotion. "Watch your marks. Those bolts are expensive—don't waste them on the dead."
He watched as the pirates began tearing doors off warehouses to use as makeshift mantlets. Narsas felt no fear. He knew that no matter how many came, they were merely offerings. When the Dragonfire eventually fell, there would be nothing left but ash.
"Steady, you pups!" Garo's voice boomed from the frontline barricades. He stood tall in his horned helm, the massive Whirlwind Axe resting on his shoulder. "Let these scum taste the steel of the Chainbreakers! If you're scared, close your eyes and listen to my count. If you didn't slack in training, I'll get you home alive!"
The axe on Garo's back was a top-tier weapon from the System Mall. While it didn't literally fly back to his hand like a boomerang, the System had imbued it with a "Residual Shockwave" trait. Every swing could manifest a phantom energy strike, delivering half the force of the physical blow to secondary targets.
Jon had recently invested heavily in his commanders. With the massive influx of Soul Energy, he had bumped Garo and Narsas to Level 10, manually boosting their core attributes. The System was a stingy master—it didn't grant random stat points upon leveling; Jon had to pay for every increment of strength and speed.
"For the Goat! Die!"
A massive pirate vanguard, holding a thick slab of timber like a shield, charged toward Garo's line. Garo's eyes narrowed. He recognized a leader when he saw one—a man that big was likely the anchor for the entire squad's morale.
He reached back and gripped the Whirlwind Axe. He closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, channeling his mental energy into the weapon. In this world, "Willpower" wasn't just an abstract concept; through the System's artifacts, it was a tangible fuel.
Garo stepped forward, the air around the axe blade beginning to shimmer with a distorted, heat-like haze. He was ready to show these pirates the true meaning of a "Chainbreaker."