The Abyss rocked gently in the dark waters just beyond the port, cloaked in the fading light of dusk. Jacob stood at the helm, his eyes locked on the horizon as the last glimmers of sunlight dipped below the edge of the sea. A cool breeze rustled through the sails, carrying the salty tang of the ocean, and with it, the tension of the hunt.
Garrett approached, standing by his side, the weight of their upcoming raid hanging heavy between them. "The men are ready," he said quietly, his voice steady. "Renard's crew is prepped, and Elias has the boarding parties ready to strike as soon as we're in range."
Jacob nodded, his thoughts racing. He had led raids before, but something about this one felt different. The merchant ship, La Fortune, wasn't just a prize—it was an opportunity to solidify his grip on the crew, to prove that Black Jack Jacob was a captain worthy of both fear and respect.
But there was something else, too. A lingering feeling, a shadow of doubt creeping at the edges of his mind. The information they had gathered was solid, but something about the way the merchant ship avoided the major ports and patrolled lanes—it felt off. It wasn't just about rival merchants or light protection. There was something more.
"Any sign of them yet?" Jacob asked, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the open waters ahead.
Garrett shook his head. "Not yet, but they'll be out soon. If they leave in the next few hours as we expect, we'll catch sight of them before midnight."
Jacob leaned against the rail, his thoughts drifting back to the stories whispered in the tavern—stories of French silks, jewels, and arms. And yet, even then, there had been a hesitation in the dockhand's voice, as if he hadn't told the full tale.
"Garrett," Jacob said quietly, "something about this doesn't sit right with me. It's too easy."
Garrett glanced at him, his brow furrowed. "You think it's a trap?"
Jacob shook his head slowly. "No. But there's something they're not telling us. The merchant ship's taking back lanes, avoiding both the Navy and other pirates, but why? And what else are they hiding?"
Garrett let out a low grunt. "Could be a dozen reasons. Smuggling, illicit trade, dodging taxes."
Jacob's gaze hardened. "Or something worse."
By the time La Fortune appeared on the horizon, its tattered Bourbon flag flapping in the breeze, the crew of The Abyss was primed for battle. The ship was large—larger than most merchant vessels Jacob had seen, with a wide hull and three towering masts. The red-and-gold lion figurehead glared at them from the bow, its presence almost defiant as the ship sailed into open waters.
"That's our target," Garrett said, his eyes gleaming with anticipation. "Three masts, lion at the front, Bourbon flag. No mistaking her."
Jacob studied the ship closely, noting the small escort ships that flanked it. They were armed but lightly—enough to deter a small pirate crew, but no match for The Abyss.
"Stay in the shadows," Jacob ordered. "We'll tail them until they're far enough from port. When we strike, we hit fast and hard. No survivors."
The crew moved into position, the tension aboard The Abyss mounting as they prepared for the attack. Renard stood ready with his gunners, the cannons primed and waiting for Jacob's signal. Elias paced near the boarding parties, his eyes burning with the promise of violence.
As the hours passed and La Fortune drifted farther from the safety of port, Jacob's mind returned to the unease gnawing at him. What was the merchant ship really carrying? Why were they taking these hidden lanes, cutting through quieter waters instead of sailing the safer routes?
He glanced at Garrett, who stood by the cannons, giving final instructions to Renard. "Keep your eyes open," Jacob muttered to himself, more to calm his instincts than anything.
And then, at last, the moment came.
Jacob raised his hand. "Now."
The cannons roared as The Abyss opened fire, blasting the first of La Fortune's escorts to splinters. The ship reeled from the impact, its sails torn as cannonballs ripped through the hull. Screams echoed across the water, and in the distance, Jacob could see the panic setting in aboard La Fortune.
"Prepare to board!" Elias bellowed, his voice cutting through the chaos as the second escort ship fell under a barrage of cannon fire. The men scrambled into position, but already Jacob could see the inexperience in their movements, the missteps in timing that would cost them.
Garrett stood beside Jacob at the helm, his expression grim. "We've got two more escorts closing in on us. We're outnumbered three to one."
Jacob's eyes narrowed as he focused on the waters around them. The remaining two ships were circling, readying to flank The Abyss. His mind worked quickly. He wasn't going to rely solely on brute strength. The advantage lay in his hands—his powers were a weapon unlike any other.
"We'll take out one more with the cannons and cripple the last," Jacob said, his voice cold and sharp. "I'll handle the rest."
Garrett gave a sharp nod, but there was no time for further planning. The first escort ship, having recovered from the initial blast, was already turning, aiming its guns at The Abyss.
"Brace!" Renard shouted from the gun deck, but it was too late.
A volley of cannon fire ripped through The Abyss's side, sending splinters flying across the deck. One of the crewmen was hit directly, his body flung against the railing with a sickening crack. The ship groaned, the force of the blast knocking several men off their feet. Blood stained the deck as chaos erupted.
Jacob's gaze snapped to the fallen man, anger boiling in his chest. His powers surged, the familiar cold grip of death tightening within him. He focused on the damaged escort, his mind reaching out like a predator stalking its prey. He could feel the lives aboard the enemy ship—vibrant, flickering lights. With a thought, he twisted the fate of the captain at the helm.
A scream rose from the enemy ship as its captain collapsed, clutching his chest. The wheel spun out of control, the ship veering wildly off course. Jacob could sense the chaos aboard, confusion spreading as the crew scrambled to regain control. But it was too late.
"Fire!" Renard bellowed, and the cannons roared again.
The second escort ship shuddered under the impact of another broadside, its hull splintering. The masts groaned as rigging snapped, and the ship began to tilt. Within moments, it was clear that it wouldn't recover. The Abyss had crippled it.
But even as the second ship fell apart, the third was closing in fast, its cannons aimed directly at The Abyss.
"Hard to port!" Jacob barked, gripping the wheel with white-knuckled hands. Garrett spun the wheel, but the crew was slow to adjust. The sails flapped uselessly for precious moments as they fumbled with the lines. Jacob cursed under his breath. The delay in command was costly.
The third escort fired, and the cannonballs slammed into The Abyss's side once more. This time, the damage was more severe. The main mast groaned under the impact, and one of the lines snapped with a whip-crack, lashing out and catching a deckhand across the face. The man screamed as he was thrown backward, his body limp.
Jacob's eyes flared with fury as the third escort attempted to circle around for another volley. He reached out with his powers again, but this time, he didn't aim for the captain—he aimed for the rigging. A faint whisper of dark energy snaked through the air, invisible to all but Jacob. It coiled around the lines of the enemy ship's sails, and with a sharp twist of his mind, the lines snapped.
The sails crumpled, and the ship's momentum faltered. It was as if fate itself had betrayed the vessel, its crew helpless as the rigging collapsed. Jacob grinned, the thrill of control flooding through him.
"Now, while they're crippled!" Jacob shouted to Renard.
The cannons on The Abyss fired one final volley, and the third escort ship exploded in a shower of wood and fire. The deck erupted in cheers, but Jacob's focus remained on La Fortune.
"Get us in close!" Jacob commanded. "We board La Fortune now!"
Elias and his men were already preparing the grappling hooks, ropes coiling in their hands as they waited for the perfect moment. The Abyss pulled alongside La Fortune, and the grapples flew, biting into the wood of the merchant ship.
"Go! Go!" Elias bellowed, leading the charge as the pirates swarmed across the gap between the ships.
Jacob was the first to set foot on the deck of La Fortune, his cutlass gleaming in the dim light as he cut down the first man who dared cross his path. The crew of the merchant ship fought back, but their resistance was weak—panicked. They had no experience in this kind of fight.
Jacob cut a swath through the chaos, his movements precise and lethal. Every swing of his blade was followed by a curse under his breath, his powers twisting the fates of those who opposed him. A man lunged at him with a knife, but Jacob's focus was already on him. With a twist of his will, the man stumbled mid-strike, his own knife turning against him and plunging into his throat. He collapsed in a pool of his own blood, the light fading from his eyes.
Elias roared in the thick of the battle, his massive frame cutting through the merchant crew like a battering ram. He swung his axe in wide arcs, bodies falling in his wake. But even Elias couldn't prevent the cost of war. One of the pirates, a young deckhand who had joined at the last port, took a spear to the chest, his face twisted in shock as he fell to the deck, gasping for breath. Jacob saw it happen but was too far to intervene.
His rage flared again, and his powers surged in response. He focused on the men still standing, still fighting against The Abyss. He could see the moments of weakness in their defenses, the fragile lines of fate that connected them to life. With a flick of his mind, Jacob snapped those threads.
One by one, the enemies fell, their movements faltering as fate turned against them. A man slipped on the blood-slicked deck, his head cracking against the rail. Another's sword snapped in half mid-swing, leaving him defenseless as one of Jacob's crew buried a cutlass in his side.
Jacob's powers reached further, focusing on the injured men aboard La Fortune. A snap of rigging sent a chain reaction across the ship—sails collapsing, masts creaking, and one of the crossbeams coming loose. The beam swung wildly, crashing down onto a group of enemy fighters, crushing them beneath its weight.
As the chaos unfolded, Jacob pushed forward, cutting his way through the remaining defenders. The deck was soaked in blood, the bodies of the fallen littering the space between the two ships. But La Fortune was theirs now. The fight was over.
"Secure the captain!" Jacob shouted as he made his way toward the ship's bridge, cutting through the last remnants of resistance like a shadow of death. His crew followed behind, their faces grim but victorious.
As he stepped onto the bridge, Jacob's eyes fell on the merchant captain—an older man with a haggard face, his eyes wide with fear as he backed away. There was no mercy in Jacob's gaze as he raised his cutlass.
"The ship is ours," Jacob said coldly. "Your time is over."
As the battle died down and The Abyss stood victorious, the sound of the waves lapping against the hull became a stark contrast to the brutal violence that had unfolded minutes before. Jacob's thoughts, sharp and calculating, turned to the real prize. La Fortune's hold would be filled with riches, silks, and weapons, just as promised—but something deeper nagged at him. The way La Fortune had avoided the major ports, how fiercely they had fought—there was more to this than mere wealth.
"Garrett," Jacob called, his voice cutting through the silence that had settled over the deck. "Get below. Check the hold."
Garrett moved swiftly, his eyes narrowing with the suspicion that had been gnawing at Jacob all along. The former first mate disappeared into the bowels of La Fortune, and the seconds stretched into an eternity as Jacob awaited his return. When Garrett emerged, his face was pale, his jaw clenched tight, and in his eyes, Jacob saw something that sent a cold shiver down his spine.
"Jacob," Garrett said, his voice low and grave. "You need to see this."
Without a word, Jacob followed him below deck, where the air grew thick with the stench of sweat, fear, and something else—something vile. The hold was dimly lit by flickering lanterns, their weak light casting shadows that danced along the walls. But no shadow could obscure what awaited Jacob there.
In the dark, crowded space, dozens of men, women, and children were chained together, huddled in fear. Their gaunt faces stared back at Jacob, eyes wide with terror and desperation. Slaves. Human cargo. Packed into the hold like livestock, treated as little more than property.
Jacob's stomach twisted, a wave of revulsion surging through him. He had expected treasure, maybe a few dark dealings, but this—this was different. This was a horror that cut deeper than any betrayal or stolen wealth. The sight of them—families torn apart, children in chains—touched something raw inside him.
His jaw tightened as he scanned the faces. Some were adults, weathered and hardened by life, but others—others were children, too small to comprehend the nightmare they were trapped in. One little girl's wide eyes met his, her tiny wrists shackled to a rusted chain, and something snapped inside him. An old, buried rage rose to the surface—one that not even the system's cold grip could dull.
Jacob stood there, his hands clenched into fists, the fury building in his chest like a storm. Slavery was a widely accepted practice in these waters, he knew that. Many pirate crews dealt in human lives as easily as they did in gold or rum, and even though it was outlawed in certain places, companies and captains alike continued the trade to line their pockets. But seeing children like this—innocents bound in iron—it was a line Jacob couldn't let himself cross, nor could he stand by and let others profit from it.
No, he wouldn't just let this stand. These slavers would pay.
His voice, when he finally spoke, was quiet but edged with a steel that cut through the thick air of the hold. "Garrett, gather the remaining crew of La Fortune. Line them up on the deck. Every single one."
Garrett's eyes flicked to the slaves, then back to Jacob. He didn't ask any questions, didn't hesitate—he knew what Jacob was about to do. With a sharp nod, Garrett turned and barked orders to the men. Soon, the sound of scuffling boots and harsh commands echoed down the narrow halls of the ship as the surviving slavers were dragged up to the deck.
Jacob stayed behind for a moment longer, his gaze fixed on the terrified children in the hold. His mind raced, but the rage, the overwhelming need for justice, burned brighter than anything else.
"Stay here," he said to Garrett, his tone leaving no room for argument. "I'll deal with them."
Jacob ascended to the deck, where the slavers were now lined up—twenty or so men, all bound and beaten, their faces smeared with blood and dirt. They stood on trembling legs, fear replacing the arrogant defiance they had shown just moments before. Garrett's crew kept them under guard, but they didn't need to—the slavers weren't going anywhere.
Jacob moved to the front of the line, his presence dark and menacing. He could feel the necromantic energy pulsing within him, eager to be unleashed. His power had always been a tool, a weapon he wielded with precision, but this time, it wasn't just about survival or tactics. This was about retribution.
Jacob walked slowly along the line of men, his cold eyes scanning each face. He could see their fear, smell it. Some of them wept openly, others trembled silently, waiting for their fate. But Jacob wasn't interested in killing them all—not yet.
His powers flared as he reached the first man, a wiry slaver who had likely profited from the trade for years. Jacob's hand twitched, and with a mere thought, he twisted the threads of fate around the man's heart. The slaver gasped, his body jerking as his heart seized painfully in his chest. He collapsed to the deck, dead before he hit the ground.
The rest of the slavers flinched, horror etched into their expressions as they saw what Jacob could do.
"You've made a living off selling human lives," Jacob said, his voice cold and filled with a terrifying calm. "But now, your lives are mine."
Jacob moved to the next man, an older slaver with a sneer carved into his face, one that spoke of years of cruelty and unchecked power. His skin was weathered and scarred, a patchwork of old injuries poorly tended to over a lifetime of violence. Jacob's gaze darkened, and the necromantic energy within him stirred, cold and calculating.
He focused, honing in on the man's frailties, searching for the point of greatest suffering. An old wound—an infection just barely healed—caught his attention. The man had likely ignored it, thinking it would heal on its own, but Jacob knew better. With a subtle flick of his will, he twisted the necrotic energy toward the wound, forcing it to flare open as if it had never closed.
The slaver let out a choked gasp as the flesh around the wound began to blacken, rot spreading rapidly through his body. His leg gave out beneath him, and he collapsed to the deck, clutching his side, his eyes wide with horror as the old injury blossomed into a fresh agony. The pain twisted his face, but Jacob felt no pity. This was a man who had built his life on the suffering of others.
Jacob moved down the line, his focus sharp, his power precise. He didn't need to snap necks or stop hearts—he targeted old scars, neglected wounds, and hidden weaknesses, bringing them to the surface with devastating effect. One man, already limping from a poorly set broken leg, collapsed in screams as Jacob willed the bone to fracture once more, splintering inside his flesh. Another, who had hidden a festering infection beneath his tunic, convulsed as the poison spread through his veins, eating him alive from within.
Each slaver's death was slow, drawn out, and tailored to the pain they had inflicted on others. Jacob's power was a scalpel, cutting into the places where their past misdeeds had left them vulnerable. The screams of the slavers filled the air, their bodies breaking under the weight of their own neglect and cruelty.
Jacob's expression never changed, his face a mask of cold determination as he methodically picked them apart, exploiting every weakness, every scar. He watched as the worst of them, the ones who had reveled in their cruelty, fell to their knees, their strength stolen by the very wounds they had once ignored.
He didn't revel in the slaughter, but neither did he shy away from it. This was justice, delivered in a way that only he could. And as each slaver fell, broken and defeated, Jacob knew they would suffer as their victims had—long, agonizing deaths that would mirror the cruelty they had inflicted.
By the time he finished, the deck was slick with blood, and the surviving slavers, those not yet claimed by his curse, were barely holding on to their sanity. Their eyes darted to Jacob, filled with a mixture of terror and pleading, but there would be no mercy.
Jacob stood tall, his voice cold and final. "This is the price for the lives you've ruined."
Jacob stepped back and turned to the adult slaves who had been brought up to witness the executions. Their eyes were wide, their bodies trembling from both terror and the dawning realization that the slavers' reign over them was ending.
"You want freedom?" Jacob called out to them, his voice rising. "Then take it."
He gestured to the remaining slavers, who were still bound and on their knees, waiting for death. "These men chained you, sold you, made you less than human. Now, the choice is yours. You can kill them, take your vengeance, and join my crew—be free men and women who sail under no one's rule but your own. Or you can let them live, and stay bound to a fate that sees you as nothing more than cargo."
The adult slaves exchanged glances, their expressions hardening. Slowly, one by one, they stepped forward, picking up the weapons left behind by the fallen crew of La Fortune. They didn't hesitate. They didn't flinch. The slavers screamed as the former slaves descended on them, hacking and stabbing with a ferocity born from years of torment.
Jacob watched as the blood flowed freely, but his mind was already elsewhere. The children. What would he do with the children?
Some had already been reunited with their parents, weeping into their arms as the chaos died down. But others stood alone, orphans in the wake of violence. His fury had been sated, but now came the hard decisions. What kind of future could he offer them? Would they become part of the crew, trained to fight and survive, or would they be left at the next port, with a hope for a better life?
Jacob didn't know the answer yet, but he would find one. He had given these people a choice, and he would do the same for the children. Freedom was the gift he had to offer—but what form that freedom would take, only time would tell.
As he looked out over the blood-soaked deck, the bodies of the slavers lying in twisted heaps, Jacob knew one thing for certain: Black Jack Jacob was no ordinary pirate. He was becoming a force, a symbol of change. And his legend would only grow from here.