The dawn broke with a blood-red sky, casting an ominous hue over the encampment. Jacob stood atop a makeshift watchtower—a hastily constructed platform of lashed logs and planks—gazing out toward the restless sea. The events of the previous day weighed heavily on his mind. The natives were cunning, and their ambush had cost him good men. The jungle was their domain, and he knew that continuing to confront them on their terms would only lead to further losses.
Garrett climbed the ladder to join him, his face etched with fatigue. "Captain, the men are uneasy. They've been on edge all night. No sign of the natives since they vanished at the treeline."
Jacob nodded, his gaze shifting to the dense wall of greenery that bordered their camp. "They're watching us. Waiting for the right moment to strike again."
"What's our move?" Garrett asked, concern evident in his tone.
Jacob's eyes hardened. "We turn the tables. If they won't give us time, we'll force their hand. We'll lure them into a trap—on our ground."
Garrett considered this. "An ambush? How do you propose we do that?"
A faint smile tugged at Jacob's lips. "By appearing vulnerable. We'll stage a scene—make it look like we're disorganized, unprepared. We'll set large fires, create distractions. The natives won't be able to resist an opportunity to attack when they think our guard is down."
Garrett's brow furrowed. "It's risky. The men are already spooked."
"Which is why we need to act decisively," Jacob countered. "We can't afford to let fear take hold. Trust me, Garrett. This is our best chance."
After a moment's hesitation, Garrett nodded. "Very well. I'll inform the officers and begin preparations."
"Good," Jacob affirmed. "And make sure the cannons are positioned to cover the beach. We'll need their firepower."
As the camp buzzed with renewed purpose, Jacob gathered his key officers—Briggs, Renard, Kofi, and Barret "Old Wood" Hawkins—to outline the plan in detail.
"We'll start by constructing large bonfires along the perimeter," Jacob explained, indicating points on a rough sketch drawn in the sand. "Make it seem like we're preoccupied with repairs and celebrations. Let the men laugh, sing—put on a show."
Briggs crossed his arms skeptically. "Won't the natives see through such an obvious ruse?"
"Perhaps," Jacob conceded. "But it's a calculated risk. Their previous attacks suggest they believe us to be inferior—disorganized intruders. We can use their arrogance against them."
Renard tapped the butt of his musket thoughtfully. "I'll position sharpshooters in concealed spots. Once the natives commit to the attack, we'll catch them in a crossfire."
"Excellent," Jacob said. "Barret, ensure the cannons are ready. We'll use grapeshot to maximize their effect."
Barret nodded. "They'll be primed and waiting, Captain."
Kofi spoke up. "What about the ships? Should we signal The Tempest and La Fortune to provide support?"
"Good thinking," Jacob replied. "Send word to Elias and Cedric. Have them ready to lend artillery support from the sea if necessary."
With the plan set in motion, the crew moved with purpose. Large piles of driftwood and broken crates were assembled into towering pyres. As night fell, the fires were lit, casting a warm glow that bathed the beach in flickering light. The men feigned merriment, their laughter and shouts echoing into the jungle. Barrels of ale were tapped, and raucous sea shanties filled the air.
Jacob watched from a shadowed vantage point atop a dune, his eyes scanning the treeline. He could feel the tension coiled within him, every nerve attuned to the slightest movement.
Garrett approached quietly. "Everything's in place. The men are ready."
"Good," Jacob replied. "Stay sharp. They'll come soon."
Hours passed, the false revelry continuing unabated. Some of the crew began to tire, the strain of maintaining the façade taking its toll.
Then, shortly after midnight, Jacob caught a glimpse of movement—a flicker of shadows where there should be none.
"Eyes open," he whispered into the speaking tube connected to Renard's position. "They're here."
From the jungle edge, dozens of natives emerged silently, their bodies painted in dark hues that blended with the night. They moved with lethal grace, weapons poised—a mix of spears, bows, and clubs studded with sharp stones.
"Hold," Jacob murmured, waiting for the right moment.
The natives crept closer, spreading out to encircle the seemingly oblivious pirates who continued their feigned celebrations.
A sudden war cry pierced the night, and the natives charged.
"Now!" Jacob roared.
In an instant, the entire scene transformed. The laughing pirates dropped their mugs and drew weapons. Hidden trenches were unveiled as camouflage coverings were swept aside. Renard's sharpshooters opened fire from elevated positions, their muskets flashing. The initial volley cut down several attackers, the impact of lead balls tearing through flesh and bone.
The natives faltered, surprised by the swift response. But they were warriors, and their hesitation was brief. Arrows whistled through the air, one embedding itself in a pirate's throat. He collapsed, gurgling as blood frothed from the wound.
Cannons thundered, the grapeshot spraying lethal shards of metal into the massed ranks of the attackers. The beach erupted in chaos—sand kicked up by the force of explosions, screams of pain mingling with shouts of fury.
Jacob drew his cutlass, joining the fray. A native lunged at him with a spear, but Jacob sidestepped, slashing across the man's arm. The blade bit deep, slicing through muscle and sinew. The native cried out, dropping his weapon.
Another attacker charged from the side, swinging a club aimed at Jacob's head. He ducked, feeling the rush of air as the weapon passed inches above him. With a swift upward thrust, he drove his cutlass into the assailant's abdomen. The man's eyes widened in shock as he collapsed to the sand.
All around, brutal combat raged. Briggs fought with ferocious intensity, his sword cleaving through opponents with practiced efficiency. Blood splattered across his face, but he pressed on, undeterred.
Renard's sharpshooters continued to pick off targets with deadly accuracy. One native archer took aim at Jacob, but before he could release the arrow, a musket ball struck him square in the chest, knocking him backward.
Garrett led a group of pirates in a flanking maneuver, pushing the attackers toward the water's edge. The natives, realizing they were outmatched, began to waver.
"Press the advantage!" Jacob shouted. "Drive them back!"
The pirates surged forward, their collective momentum overwhelming the disheartened natives. Panic spread among the attackers as they stumbled over the bodies of their fallen comrades.
Amidst the turmoil, Jacob spotted the native who appeared to be their leader—a tall man adorned with feathers and intricate tattoos. Their eyes met across the battlefield.
In that moment, Jacob felt a surge of the island's negative energy coursing through him. He reached out mentally, channeling his necromantic power. The native leader's expression shifted from defiance to confusion as he clutched at his chest.
Seizing the opportunity, Jacob advanced, maintaining his focus. The leader staggered, blood trickling from his nose and ears. The unseen assault weakened him, disrupting his connection to his warriors.
The natives began to retreat, pulling back toward the jungle. The pirates gave chase for a short distance before Jacob called out, "Hold! Let them go!"
His men halted, breathing heavily. The beach was littered with the dead and dying, the sand stained crimson.
"Captain, we have them on the run," Briggs protested.
"Enough," Jacob said firmly. "We've sent our message."
Garrett approached, wiping blood from a shallow cut on his cheek. "Casualties?"
"Seven dead, a dozen wounded," Renard reported grimly. "We gave worse than we got, but it wasn't without cost."
Jacob surveyed the aftermath. The bodies of the natives lay strewn about, their lifeless eyes reflecting the cold light of the moon. He felt a familiar pull—a whisper at the edge of his consciousness.
"Gather the wounded," Jacob ordered. "Tend to them immediately."
As the crew set about their tasks, Jacob moved among the fallen natives. With each one, he knelt briefly, placing a hand over their hearts. He concentrated, drawing in the residual energy of their souls. A subtle warmth spread through him with each absorption, his "Soul Count" incrementally increasing.
He was careful, discreet. The act was quick, and in the chaos, it went unnoticed by the others.
Returning to Garrett's side, Jacob felt a surge of vitality tempered by a creeping numbness. The familiar conflict stirred within him—the allure of power weighed against the erosion of his humanity.
"Captain, what's our next step?" Garrett asked, his eyes reflecting concern.
"We need to secure the area," Jacob replied. "They'll think twice before attacking again, but we can't assume we're safe. Double the watches, reinforce the defenses."
"Understood," Garrett said. "And the men... they're uneasy. This victory came at a price."
"I'll address them," Jacob assured him.
He gathered the crew near the largest bonfire, the flames casting long shadows across their weary faces.
"Men," Jacob began, his voice carrying over the crackle of the fire. "Tonight, you fought bravely. You stood together against a formidable enemy and emerged victorious. We've shown that we won't be driven off easily."
A murmur of agreement rippled through the crowd.
"But our work isn't done," he continued. "This island holds dangers we must respect. We'll strengthen our camp, tend to our wounded, and prepare for whatever comes next. Trust in each other, and trust in our purpose. Together, we'll make this place our own."
The men responded with subdued cheers, the weight of the night's events still heavy upon them.
As they dispersed to carry out their duties, Jacob pulled Renard and Briggs aside.
"Ensure the bodies are properly handled," he instructed. "We can't leave them to fester. Burn them if necessary."
"Aye, Captain," Renard acknowledged.
Briggs hesitated. "Do you think they'll return?"
Jacob's gaze was distant. "They might. Desperation can drive people to reckless actions. But we've bought ourselves time."
Later, as the camp settled into an uneasy quiet, Jacob and Garrett sat near the shore, the rhythmic crash of waves providing a soothing backdrop.
"You were right," Garrett admitted. "The plan worked."
"For now," Jacob replied. "But we can't underestimate them. They know this island intimately. We need to establish a more permanent foothold."
Garrett nodded. "A clearing further inland could serve as a better location. More defensible, and less exposed."
"I've been thinking the same," Jacob said. "Tomorrow, we'll send out scouting parties to find a suitable site. We need to start building—fortifications, shelters, infrastructure."
"Ambitious," Garrett remarked. "But necessary."
Jacob looked out over the dark expanse of the sea. "This place can be more than a refuge. It can be a stronghold—a place where we control our destiny."
Garrett studied him for a moment. "You're changing, Jacob. There's a... resolve in you I haven't seen before."
"Responsibility does that," Jacob said softly. "Every decision carries weight. Lives depend on us making the right choices."
"You're a good leader," Garrett affirmed. "The men believe in you."
Jacob sighed. "I hope that's enough."
They sat in companionable silence, each lost in their thoughts. The night's chill began to seep in, and Garrett stood.
"I'll check on the watches," he said. "Get some rest, Captain."
Jacob nodded, remaining seated as Garrett departed. He closed his eyes, reaching inward to assess the changes within him. The souls he had absorbed tonight added to his power, pushing him closer to the next level of his abilities. But with that power came a subtle numbness—a dulling of emotions that he struggled to ignore.
He knew the risks, but rationalized them as necessary sacrifices.
"Power for protection," he murmured to himself. "For the greater good."
The distant call of a night bird drew his attention back to the present. He stood, casting one last glance toward the shadowed jungle.
"Tomorrow brings new challenges," he thought. "And I'll be ready."
With renewed determination, Jacob returned to the camp, the flickering fires guiding his steps. The tide had indeed turned, but the journey ahead was far from over.