The night after the battle was thick with the smell of salt, blood, and smoke. The Abyss floated silently in the moonlit waters, its crew working tirelessly to repair the ship and secure the captured vessel. Below deck, in the dim light of a flickering lantern, Jacob sat alone, his mind turning over the events of the battle.
He had wielded the system's curse with deadly precision, but the cost had been high. The drain on his energy had been severe, leaving him vulnerable in the aftermath. Jacob knew he couldn't continue like this, relying on the system to manage his powers. The extra step, the need to consciously activate each ability, slowed him down and left him exposed.
He needed to master these powers on his own, to draw them out without the system's mediation. If he could control the curses directly, he would be faster, more efficient—and, most importantly, more dangerous.
Jacob closed his eyes, focusing on the sensation he had felt when he'd called forth the curse during the battle. The cold surge of energy, the way it had twisted fate itself, turning the tide in his favor. It had been exhilarating and terrifying in equal measure, a raw power that he needed to harness fully.
"System," Jacob whispered, his voice barely audible, "how did the curse work when I used it?"
The system's response was as cold and clinical as ever.
[The curse was activated through your mental command, utilizing stored necrotic energy to manipulate the probability and outcomes of specific events.]
Jacob frowned. The explanation was technical, detached—useful, but lacking the depth of understanding he needed. He wasn't just interested in how the system saw the power; he needed to feel it, to know it in his bones.
"Enough," Jacob muttered, more to himself than to the system. "I need to do this my way."
He rose from his seat, the decision made. There were prisoners below deck—captured enemy sailors who had survived the battle. They were bound and guarded, awaiting whatever fate the captain decided for them. But Jacob had a different plan.
He made his way to the lower hold, where the prisoners were kept. The air was damp and heavy, the sound of the ship's timbers creaking in the dark. As Jacob approached, the guards stiffened, giving him respectful nods as they stepped aside. They had seen him in battle, seen what he was capable of, and they knew better than to question his presence.
"Leave us," Jacob ordered, his voice low and firm. "I need to speak with them."
The guards hesitated only for a moment before obeying, their footsteps echoing as they ascended the stairs, leaving Jacob alone with the prisoners.
There were six of them, all bound and gagged, their eyes wide with fear as Jacob approached. He could see the terror in their expressions, the knowledge that they were at the mercy of pirates. They had likely expected a quick death after the battle, but instead, they had been kept alive—for now.
Jacob knelt in front of the first man, a grizzled sailor with a deep scar running down his cheek. The man's eyes were filled with defiance, but there was fear there too, a fear that Jacob intended to exploit.
"Listen carefully," Jacob said, his voice calm but laced with a dark undertone. "I'm going to test something, and you're going to help me. You might survive this, or you might not. It all depends on your luck."
The man glared at him, his gag muffling whatever curse he tried to spit out. Jacob didn't care. He wasn't here for conversation.
Instead, he closed his eyes, focusing on the cold, dark power that he had felt during the battle. He reached for it, not with words or commands, but with his mind—willing the power to surface, to respond to his call without the system's intervention.
It was difficult at first, like trying to grasp smoke with his bare hands. The energy was elusive, slipping away each time he tried to focus on it. But Jacob was nothing if not determined. He pushed harder, forcing himself to remember the feeling of control, the sensation of twisting fate to his will.
And then, slowly, he felt it—the dark energy stirring within him, coiling like a serpent ready to strike. It was different from before, more tangible, more under his control. He didn't need the system to guide him; he could feel the power responding to his will alone.
Jacob opened his eyes and stared into the prisoner's face. He focused on the man's fate, the probability of his survival, and began to twist it, pulling the threads of fortune in directions that would lead to misfortune.
The prisoner's eyes widened in terror as he felt something shift in the air, a creeping dread that settled over him like a shroud. He struggled against his bonds, but it was futile. Jacob could see the curse taking hold, could feel the man's luck turning sour.
Jacob narrowed his focus, honing in on the scar that marred the man's cheek—a deep, jagged line that spoke of an old injury, one that had never fully healed. The curse latched onto it, twisting the fates around the injury, forcing it to flare up in a way that was both unnatural and agonizingly painful.
The man's breathing grew ragged, his eyes bulging as he felt the curse take hold. The scar began to darken, the flesh around it turning an angry red as the old wound seemed to reopen, blood seeping from it as if it had just been inflicted. The prisoner let out a muffled scream, his body convulsing as the curse worked its way through him, spreading like poison in his veins.
Jacob watched, his expression impassive, as the man's face contorted in pain. The flesh around the scar began to rot, the skin blackening and peeling away as if consumed by some unseen fire. The man's eyes rolled back in his head, his body shuddering violently as the curse ravaged him from the inside out.
And then, with a final, desperate gasp, the prisoner's body went still, the life draining from him as the curse claimed its due. The air around him seemed to thicken, the shadows deepening as the last vestiges of his soul were torn away, leaving only an empty husk behind.
Jacob exhaled, releasing the energy he had been holding. The room seemed to darken momentarily, the shadows deepening before slowly receding. He had done it—he had wielded the power directly, without the system's mediation. It had taken effort, but he had felt the control, the precision that he had been missing before.
Just then, the system's voice echoed in his mind, cutting through the quiet with a tone of finality:
[Soul absorption complete. Current soul count: 34]
Jacob's breath caught as the realization set in—he had crossed the threshold during the previous battles. The dark power within him had surged, stronger and more potent than before. He could feel the difference now, the way the curses flowed with ease, the precision with which he could twist fate to his will. It was so natural, so seamlessly integrated into his being, that he hadn't even noticed the change until he actively tried to use it just now. Like taking a breath, his new control was effortless, almost instinctual, and just as easily dismissed in the heat of battle.
His mind raced with the possibilities. The system's notification was sparse, but it was enough to confirm what he already knew: he was no longer just a fledgling in the dark arts—he was becoming something more, something dangerous.
The weight of the power settled over him like a mantle, and Jacob knew that this was only the beginning. The curses he had wielded before had been potent, but now they were deadly, precise tools in his hands.
As he left the hold, a sense of satisfaction settled over him. He was no longer just reacting to situations—he was shaping them, bending them to his will. The system was still there, still a part of him, but now it was clear that he could go beyond it, that he could shape his own destiny with his own hands.
Jacob was ready for whatever came next. The darkness was his to command, and he intended to use it.