Harnessing this surge of energy, Marcellus moved with a speed and precision that seemed supernatural.
The tide of the battle shifted.
The Wereshark, sensing a formidable change in its opponent, hesitated for the briefest of moments, giving Marcellus the edge he desperately needed.
Capitalizing on the Wereshark's momentary lapse, Marcellus unleashed a flurry of strikes, each one more forceful than the last.
The creature, taken aback by the sudden onslaught, struggled to defend itself. Its snarls grew more desperate, its movements less coordinated.
Marcellus, riding the wave of his awakened passion, manoeuvred around the beast, dodging its wild lunges and retaliating with razor-sharp precision.
At one point, he leapt onto the walls, drawing on his newfound agility, and managed to land a solid blow to the Wereshark's back. The creature roared in pain, its echoing cries filling the ship's hold.
But the beast was not to be underestimated, it refused to believe it had become prey. With a guttural growl, it gathered its remaining strength and lunged at Marcellus with renewed vigour, its jaws snapping hungrily.
Their clash reached its zenith as the two locked in a fierce grapple.
In the dream-like ritual, Marcellus had always grappled and fought hand-to-hand when he could, He did not falter.
Marcellus felt the chilling cold of the Wereshark's breath against his face, a foul and suffocating mix of brine and blood, heavy with the scent of the ocean's darkest depths.
The creature's breath was like a gust of cold wind, tinged with the acrid aroma of human blood and decay, a visceral reminder of the beast's lethal nature. Its malevolent eyes, glowing with sinister intent, bore into him, piercing and aimed at his resolve.
But Marcellus's own eyes, alight with an unyielding fire, met the creature's gaze with equal intensity. In his eyes burned a fierce, unwavering flame, one that seemed to grow even more luminous in the face of the Wereshark's chilling stare.
It came to him like a memory of his dream, It was a fire fueled by courage, determination, and unspoken responsibilities. This incandescent blaze in Marcellus's eyes reflected a spirit that would not be extinguished, a defiance that shone even brighter amidst the grim reality of their deadly encounter.
His fighting spirit ablaze he countered.
A Typical Sword Saint is a master of controlling their Battle Aura and wielding the Longsword of Absolute Silence and Lightning Draw, Battel aura was the only option he could rely on.
A Sword Saint is not only a master of the blade but also a master of their own inner energy, known as Battle Aura. This aura, a potent force that enhances physical capabilities to extraordinary levels, is central to a Sword Saint's prowess. Marcellus, drawing upon his training and innate power, knew that his Battle Aura was his most reliable ally in this dire moment.
In the esteemed teachings of the Church of Combat, Battle Aura – or Temma, as it is known in certain circles – is revered as the essence of a warrior's fighting spirit. This invisible yet palpable force not only amplifies physical strength and agility but also serves as an instrument of intimidation. While it remains unseen, its presence can be profoundly felt, often instilling a sense of awe or fear in those who perceive it.
Harnessing the full potential of his Ether-infused body, Marcellus let out a thunderous roar, a primal sound that resonated with the power of his Battle Aura. It was a roar designed to unnerve, to showcase the depth of his fighting spirit, and to challenge the monstrous foe before him.
With a swift, decisive motion, Marcellus thrust his sabre deep into the heart of the Wereshark. The creature's response was a guttural, mournful cry, an echo of defeat that reverberated through the ship's hull.
In a final, climactic act, Marcellus mustered all his strength for one last, devastating strike. His sabre, guided by his unwavering resolve, pierced the creature's heart once more. The Wereshark's howl, now a haunting lament, signalled its end as it collapsed lifelessly to the floor.
Marcellus stood amidst the aftermath, his breathing heavy and laboured. He was drenched in both the blood of battle and the sweat of exertion. His sabre, still quivering from the ferocity of the encounter, remained clutched in his grasp.
He had triumphed. Against all odds, Marcellus had faced a terror and emerged victorious. The realization of his achievement, and the profound transformation he had undergone, began to settle within him.
He had slain the fearsome Wereshark, a creature that had terrorized the crew.
Marcellus, panting heavily, took a moment to comprehend the enormity of his victory.
The power that had awakened did not recede leaving him drained but alive, he was still as strong as before. The stillness of the ship's hold was a stark contrast to the chaos that had just ensued.
Marcellus smiled, he was truly now a Sword Saint.
…
On the deck above, the crew was ensnared in a web of mounting anxiety. Captain Crowe and his men stood in a state of tense anticipation, their hearts braced for grim news.
The sound of the gunshot had carved a deep silence into the night, a silence that stretched into an agonizing void. It left them fearing the gravest outcome - that another would have to brave the dangers below.
In a moment of uncertainty, Captain Crowe resorted to his coin - an old habit for seeking fate's counsel. The coin spun through the air, glinting briefly under the dim light before landing on tails. A sigh of relief escaped his lips, accompanied by a faint, weary smile.
Then, as if answering their silent prayers, a triumphant shout echoed from below, swiftly followed by the unmistakable clatter of a lantern striking the deck. This burst of sound ignited a flicker of hope within their hearts, their ears straining for any further sign of life.
As Marcellus reemerged onto the deck, the first whispers of dawn were painting the horizon with hues of promise. The crew, having listened intently to the distant echoes of the tumult below, now looked upon him with a blend of awe and palpable relief. Their faces were an open book of admiration - Marcellus had not only conquered a formidable foe but had also carved his legend into the annals of pirate lore.
Stepping out from the darkness, Marcellus was a figure transformed. His chest heaved with the weight of exhaustion, his face etched with both shock and disbelief. He was drenched in the dark blue ichor of the Wereshark, yet his eyes blazed with the unquenchable fire of a victor.
A wave of cheers and applause broke over the deck, the crew marveling at his bravery and prowess.
Captain Crowe approached, a grin unfurling across his weathered face. "Blackeyed, today you've not just earned your place among us, you've defined it. You stand as a true pirate, a warrior of the sea."
Marcellus responded with a small, inscrutable smile, his thoughts lost in the depths of his recent ordeal.
In a spontaneous act of celebration, the crew lifted Marcellus onto their shoulders, parading him around the deck in a triumphant procession. This night, a night that would be etched forever in their memories, was the night an unassuming crew member rose to become a legend.
And so, under the star-studded sky, cradled by the gentle embrace of the sea breeze, Marcellus found his place among the pirates. He stood among them not just as a fellow sailor but as the fearless warrior who had vanquished the terror of the deep.
…
Tommy, along with Master Dobbs, Captain Crowe, and several other crew members, descended into the depths of the ship to verify the unbelievable news. The dim lantern light created haunting shadows along their path, and the air was thick with the stench of the Wereshark's putrid blood.
As they reached the scene of Marcellus's daring fight, they were greeted by the sight of the formidable Wereshark, now nothing more than a lifeless carcass, Its blue heart was pierced by the sabre.
The creature's malevolent eyes, once glowing with predatory intent, had faded into a lifeless dullness. In death, the fearsome beast appeared almost ordinary, stripped of its terror.
Quartermaster Dobbs, a veteran of countless sea battles, approached the fallen monster. His experienced hands probed the creature's wounds with a professional caution.
After a moment of inspection, he turned to Captain Crowe, his face a complex tapestry of shock and confirmation.
"It's truly dead, Captain," he announced, his voice tinged with a sense of disbelief. "Blackeyed has done it. He's slain the beast, a Hybrid."
Captain Crowe, displayed a rare moment of visible astonishment. Sending Marcellus below, he had braced for the worst. Yet, here lay the defeated Wereshark, a tangible proof of Marcellus's extraordinary bravery. It was a victory that had shifted the tides of their fortune and survival.
The crew members present echoed this sense of astonishment and confirmation. They had watched Marcellus descend into the abyss, and now they stood witness to the remarkable fruits of his courage. Their faces, once etched with uncertainty, now glowed with respect and awe.
Tommy, initially overwhelmed by the situation, now sported a broad grin. This revelation had confirmed something vital for him – Marcellus's victory was not a stroke of luck. It was earned through sheer skill and bravery.
Observing the scene before him, Tommy mused to himself about Marcellus's youth and apparent inexperience. He seems younger than four, perhaps he is from the Church of Combat he muttered, admiringly, reassessing his earlier notions of Marcellus's capabilities. The young man had just rewritten his own story in the eyes of his crewmates, like a story.