Jhon Rackham stepped over the shattered remains of the throne room's gilded doors, his boots trailing blood across the polished marble floor. The scent of incense still clung to the air, struggling against the acrid stench of death.
The Oasis King, a grotesque mound of flesh draped in silk, squirmed on his throne, surrounded by the remnants of his hedonistic empire. The once-beautiful dancers, their naked bodies now trembling with terror, clung to him, seeking the protection of a man who had never protected anyone but himself. Their kohl-lined eyes darted to Jhon and his warriors, desperation flickering in their gazes.
Jhon smirked at the pathetic display, stepping forward as the King let out a wheezing gasp. "You… you don't have to do this," the King sputtered, his jowls quivering, sweat glistening over his rolls of flesh. "I can give you wealth—power! I can make you a prince of this land!"
Jhon tilted his head, his bloodied sword resting on his shoulder. His lips curled into something between amusement and disgust. "A prince of what? A kingdom of rot?"
Before the King could plead further, the first blade struck. A spear, jagged and rusted, plunged through his meaty thigh, sending him screaming and thrashing like a butchered pig. Blood gushed from the wound, soaking his silken robes. The slave who had thrown it—a once-starved girl with hollow cheeks—spat at him."For my mother," she whispered, unsheathing a small dagger.
Another blade followed. Then another. A whirlwind of steel and vengeance.One by one, those he had enslaved came forward, taking their due. Some hacked at his flesh, carving deep gashes into his sagging belly. Others sliced away his fingers, breaking his golden rings between their teeth. One man—a former palace guard whose family had been sold to the Iron Foot—plunged his dagger into the King's mouth, twisting until teeth cracked and blood frothed from his lips.
Jhon watched in silence, his eyes locked on the spectacle. This wasn't just an execution. It was justice, centuries overdue. The Oasis King's wails turned into wet, gurgling gasps, his massive body convulsing as they stripped him of his wealth, his flesh, his very dignity. In his final moments, his eyes met Jhon's, pleading, desperate.
Jhon smiled. And then, with a final, brutal hack to the throat, the Oasis King slumped forward, his weight collapsing onto the blood-slicked marble. His gilded throne was now a butcher's slab, his body the sacrificial offering. A moment of stillness followed.
Then, a whisper turned into a cry—a chant—a victory song. The survivors—men, women, children—cheered, wept, laughed, kissed, and embraced Jhon. One by one, they pressed their lips to his hands, his face, his forehead, murmuring words of gratitude.
Jhon felt their joy, their relief, their sorrow—all of it. The weight of years of suffering, lifted in a single night. But his work was not done. He turned to his warriors, his voice sharp as steel. "Find my ship."
The Oasis Palace still burned behind them, its golden domes collapsing under the weight of flames and vengeance. The air reeked of charred flesh and smoldering silk, but Jhon Rackham barely spared a glance at the ruins. His mind was already set on the next step—his ship. If it still existed.
His boots crunched against the desert ground as he led his warriors and the freed captives toward the palace's lower docks. The Oasis King's fleet was said to be vast, but Jhon wasn't interested in the bloated merchant ships stuffed with stolen gold and silks. He needed his own vessel—the ship that had carried him across treacherous waters, the ship where his crew had laughed, bled, and died screaming.
The docks, hidden behind the palace's western walls, were half-buried beneath layers of sand, neglected in favor of the King's overland caravans. The scent of salt and stagnant water cut through the smoke-filled air, leading them toward the small lagoon where the Oasis King's personal ships were kept.
Jhon scanned the dark waters, his pulse quickening. Then, in the dim torchlight, he saw it. Or what remained of it. His ship, The Seafarer, was not untouched. The once-proud vessel had been dragged onto the shore, its hull covered in deep gashes, its mast snapped like a broken limb. The Iron Foot's mark was carved into the wood, a mocking scar left by the very bastards he now swore to annihilate. The sails were gone, stripped away, leaving the ship naked against the desert wind.
Jhon's jaw clenched, his fists tightening. Behind him, his warriors muttered curses, their anger rising like the tide. A man named Farim, a former blacksmith-turned-fighter, spat onto the sand. "They butchered her."
"She can still sail," a voice said—a woman, Elya, an ex-slave who had once served as the palace's mapmaker. She ran her fingers along the ruined wood. "If we rebuild her."
Jhon stepped forward, pressing his palm against the ship's scarred hull. He could almost hear the echoes of his crew—their laughter, their drunken singing, the way they used to tell stories under the stars. All gone. He exhaled sharply. "Then we rebuild."
Restoring The Seafarer
What followed was a night of furious work. The freed prisoners—sailors, traders, carpenters—people who had suffered under the Oasis King—now threw themselves into the effort. Torches burned bright, illuminating the shoreline as they worked tirelessly.
Ropes were scavenged from abandoned merchant ships. Nails and planks were stripped from lesser vessels.T he mast was reinforced, a patchwork of old and new timber, standing like a wounded soldier refusing to fall. The missing sails were replaced with anything they could find—stolen banners, woven cloth, even the discarded silks of the King's concubines.
By dawn, The Seafarer stood once more.
Not whole.
Not perfect.
But ready. Jhon stood at the water's edge, staring at her. His ship. His path to revenge. He turned to his people—his warriors. Men and women who had bled for this night. Their faces were streaked with sweat and sand, their eyes burning with purpose.Jhon smirked, running a hand through his dust-coated hair. "Time to set sail," he said. And for the first time in what felt like an eternity—he was a captain again.
The Sefarer groaned against the weight of the sea, its newly mended sails billowing under the relentless winds. The sun was a golden tyrant in the sky, beating down upon the deck with its merciless heat. Despite the harsh elements, Jhon Rackham stood at the helm, his fingers gripping the wheel with the certainty of a man who had been born for the sea.
This was where he belonged. He had been forced to crawl through the sands of Sol-Mayora like a dying dog, but now, with the salt air filling his lungs and the deck swaying beneath his feet, he was a captain once more. His crew, a ragtag band of survivors, worked tirelessly under his command. They weren't seasoned sailors, not yet, but desperation and revenge made for strong teachers. The men and women who had once rotted in the Oasis King's dungeons, or lived in fear beneath the Iron Foot's rule, now moved across the deck with purpose.
Their destination: Sol-Minora, the land ruled by Torgo the Black, warlord of the Silver Axes—a savage, merciless people who despised the Iron Foot almost as much as Jhon did. If there was any hope of waging war against Greythor Redbeard, it lay in convincing Torgo to fight. And Jhon knew warlords didn't fight for free.
As The Seafarer cut through the waves, Jhon moved along the deck, his sharp eyes assessing his newfound crew. He had taken whoever was willing—drunkards, outlaws, and ex-slaves—but some of them stood out.
Farim the Smith – A mountain of a man, his arms thick with muscle and burn scars from years at the forge. He had been the Oasis King's personal blacksmith before Jhon put a blade in the fat bastard's gut. Now, he served as the ship's weapon master, sharpening blades and forging new ones from the scrap metal they looted.
Elya the Cartographer – Once a concubine-turned-mapmaker in the Oasis King's court, she knew every island, every hidden reef, and every smuggler's cove in the Searing Sea. She had once drawn maps for merchants and warlords alike, but now she sailed with Jhon, guiding them toward Sol-Minora with cold precision.
Vann the Strider – A former pit fighter who never spoke a word. No one knew where he came from, but the scars on his throat suggested his voice had been cut from him long ago. What mattered was that he was lethal—his twin axes had already spilled blood for Jhon, and they would spill much more.
Rashad the Crow – A fast-talking rogue who had been a smuggler before the Iron Foot burned his village. He had a way with people, with words, and more importantly, with daggers. If they needed someone to slit a throat in the night, Rashad was the man.
Rashid "The Viper" – A thin, wiry man with a scar running down his left eye, once a desert bandit feared for his ability to slit throats before a man even knew he was dead.
Safa "The Phantom" – A woman dressed in a dark, loose shawl, her face mostly hidden but her amber eyes sharp. A former concubine stolen by the Oasis King, she had escaped by poisoning the last noble who tried to claim her. Her expertise? Blades laced with venom.
Yusuf "The Anvil" – A hulking blacksmith, muscles carved from years of hammering steel. He wielded a sledgehammer like it was an extension of his arm.
Samir and Fahim "The Twin Rats" – Two street thieves, notorious for their agility and pickpocketing skills. They could climb walls like lizards and slip through locked doors like shadows.
Nadia "The Firebird" – A tall woman with a cruel smirk and burn scars on her forearm. She had been a servant in the palace before escaping. Now, she handled explosives.
Tarek "The Mute" – A quiet, hulking warrior who never spoke a word, but his spear had whispered death to many. He had no home, no family—only revenge.
These were the souls that now followed him. Not honorable men. Not noble warriors. But men and women with nothing left to lose. And those were the most dangerous kind. And most important, they always ready to sail.
For three days, The Seafarer sailed across the Searing Sea, cutting through the waves like a beast on the hunt. The journey was not without its trials. By the fourth night, the wind shifted. Dark clouds gathered on the horizon, creeping toward them like a pack of starving wolves.
Jhon stood at the prow, his coat billowing as he watched the sky churn. The storm was coming. Behind him, Farim spat into the sea. "The gods spit on us, Captain."
"The gods can choke on their own bile," Jhon growled, tightening his grip on the railing. "We've survived worse."
The storm hit within the hour. Winds howled like dying spirits. The sea churned into a furious beast, rising and falling with monstrous waves that threatened to tear the ship apart. Rain lashed against their skin, stinging like whips."Secure the sails!" Jhon bellowed over the chaos.
Men and women scrambled across the deck, gripping ropes and tying knots with shaking hands. The mast creaked under the force of the wind. A wave slammed against the hull, knocking Rashad clean off his feet. He would have gone overboard if Vann hadn't caught him, dragging him back before the sea could claim him. Jhon fought against the wheel, his arms burning as he tried to keep the ship from capsizing.
The storm raged for what felt like an eternity. Then, as quickly as it had come, it passed. The sea settled into an eerie stillness, the clouds rolling away to reveal a blood-red sunrise. Jhon exhaled, his grip loosening. They had survived, barely.
By the seventh day, the cliffs of Sol-Minora rose in the distance. Jhon stood at the helm, staring at the land before them. Dark forests stretched beyond the shore, jagged mountains clawing at the sky. Unlike the burning sands of Sol-Mayora, this land was wild, untamed—savage. Sol-Minora, the land of warlords. The domain of Torgo the Black. Jhon exhaled, rolling his shoulders. He could feel the weight of what came next settling in his chest. Convincing Torgo wouldn't be easy....