Chapter 1: The Festival of The Pig
The waves of the ever-expanding sea rolled against the hull with restless haste.
Atop them sailed a massive ship, once expertly crafted from old oak and decorated with golden trim. Whatever elegance it had possessed in its prime was long gone. Its hull had been patched with pieces of stolen vessels, its railings repaired with mismatched boards, and its sails carried scars from battles no one aboard seemed interested in remembering.
Yet despite its battered appearance, the ship was alive.
Loudly so.
At the center of the deck sat a massive stone slab.
Upon it lay the corpse of a man.
His body was beaten and bloodied, his clothing torn apart in several places. A massive scar ran down the length of his exposed chest. A shackle was fastened around one wrist, bolts driven directly through flesh. From the shackle hung several lengths of chain, one end disappearing into the wood beneath him.
The other end was attached to a cleaver.
The weapon had been driven deep into the deck.
Several other scars, shaped similarly to the one across his chest, marked his body.
He looked dead.
Around him, however, there was laughter.
Two armed men leaned against the railing, watching the chaos below with wide grins.
Across the deck, a dozen crewmates scrubbed the wooden boards furiously, desperately trying to remove every stain and speck of residue.
Others hurried between them, carrying enormous platters of food.
Barrels were being opened.
Drinks were being poured.
Someone had already started setting off fireworks.
Several sailors were sprawled unconscious across the deck, victims of their own enthusiasm.
Nobody seemed concerned.
They were celebrating.
Today was the Festival of the Pig.
And everyone aboard had one thing in common.
They were absolutely delighted that their leader was coming home.
Peter wasn't.
The boy stood near the edge of the deck, staring toward the distant horizon.
He barely noticed the fireworks.
Barely heard the laughter.
His fingers tightened around the handle of the small dagger at his belt.
It was the same dagger his mother had given him.
The same dagger he had used to kill the man who murdered his family.
Peter's eyes drifted down.
To the empty sleeve hanging from his left shoulder.
For a moment, the ship disappeared.
He was back home.
The sky had been red.
Smoke swallowed the village as buildings collapsed one after another. Flames crawled across rooftops while people screamed and ran through the streets.
Peter remembered his father.
Running.
Not toward them.
Away.
He remembered his mother being thrown into the flames.
He remembered her looking back at him.
He remembered the dagger being shoved into his hand.
Run.
Peter hadn't.
He had watched.
Until there was nothing left to watch.
His long blond hair had been stained red with the blood of his neighbor. His left arm was gone. His home was gone. His father was gone.
Everything he had ever known had been taken from him.
And then one of the men responsible walked past him.
Peter moved.
He didn't think.
He couldn't.
He simply leapt.
His small body slammed onto the man's back, arms wrapping around his neck as he drove the dagger downward.
Once.
The man dropped.
Peter landed beside him, staring at what he had done.
His hands shook.
Then he looked up.
The Butcher stood in the middle of the burning street.
The man was enormous.
Chief attire hung from his shoulders, torn and stained from the raid. A massive scar crossed his exposed chest.
Peter tightened his grip around the dagger.
If there was nothing left to lose...
Then there was nothing left to fear.
He charged.
The dagger disappeared into the Butcher's stomach.
Peter looked up.
The Butcher smiled.
Then his hand closed around the boy.
The next thing Peter remembered was the ground rushing toward him.
Then darkness.
───
When Peter woke, he was aboard the ship.
He had expected death.
Instead, the Butcher gave him two reasons to be alive.
The first was practical.
The crewmate Peter had killed was dead.
The Butcher needed a replacement.
The second reason was simpler.
Peter had tried to kill him.
Not because he thought he could win.
Not because he was strong.
But because everyone Peter had ever known had failed him, and somehow, the boy still had enough fight left in him to try.
The Butcher respected that.
He had a soft spot for the boy.
Peter didn't understand it at first.
Over time, he began to.
The Butcher never treated him like a helpless child.
He taught him how to fight.
How to survive.
How to demand respect.
And slowly, against every instinct Peter had left, the boy began to grow a soft spot for the monster who had destroyed his home.
───
The memory faded.
Peter blinked.
He was back on the deck.
The Festival of the Pig continued around him.
Massive pig-shaped balloons were strung between the masts.
Fireworks exploded overhead.
Enormous slabs of BearHawk steak covered tables.
Men drank, laughed, fought, gambled, and celebrated.
To everyone else, it was paradise.
To Peter, it was a graveyard wearing a smile.
His captain was dead.
Peter had seen it happen.
He had personally carried the man's body back to the ship.
And yet everyone was celebrating.
Peter didn't understand.
Maybe he never would.
"Boy!"
Peter's head snapped toward the voice.
One of the higher-ranking crewmates pointed toward the deck.
"Come clean this mess up!"
A small pool of blood had formed near the center of the ship.
Two prisoners were fighting nearby while several crewmates exchanged gold over the outcome.
Peter stared at the blood.
Then at the man giving him the order.
"My name is Peter."
The man's expression changed.
"What?"
Peter stood straighter.
"My name is Peter."
He was young.
He was crippled.
He was new.
But he was a crewmate.
And the Butcher had taught him something from the very beginning.
A man demanded respect when it wasn't given.
His father hadn't.
And look what became of him.
Look at what became of the weak.
The drunk crewmate tilted his head.
His face reddened as the alcohol began to take hold.
"You little-"
He raised a hand.
"WHY, I OUTTA-"
His wrist never came down.
A hand had closed around it.
The second-in-command stood beside him.
Tall.
Lean.
A long scar ran down one side of his face, disappearing beneath an eyepatch that covered his left eye.
His grip tightened.
The drunken man's expression immediately changed.
The celebration around them continued.
Nobody even looked over.
The second-in-command leaned closer.
His voice was quiet.
Cold.
"Go."
The drunk crewmate swallowed.
Then slowly lowered his arm.
He turned and walked toward the other side of the ship, suddenly finding conversation with the others much more interesting.
Peter watched him leave.
Then he looked toward the stone slab.
Toward the corpse lying in the center of the celebration.
Toward the cleaver chained to its wrist.
The Butcher was coming home.
And yet their he was dead...
And everyone aboard seemed happier than they had been since Peter arrived.
As the sun began to set, the water slowed to almost a halt.
And everybody on the boat was silent.
Well...
Almost everyone.
Standing at the center of the deck was an ancient man dressed in long, dark-purple robes. A massive white beard hung from beneath his hood, covering the rest of his face in shadow.
His arms were raised toward the sky.
He chanted in a low, almost inaudible mumble.
In front of him sat the stone slab.
And upon it...
the corpse.
Every single pirate knelt.
Hands extended before them.
Peter slowly dropped to his knees as well.
The chanting continued.
Now louder.
A whispering yell.
Peter felt a slight tingle spread through his body.
He looked around.
Even the men who had been drunk moments ago were kneeling.
The sailors who had been unconscious were kneeling.
The men keeping watch were kneeling.
Every single member of the crew was participating.
The chanting grew louder.
A speaking tone now.
Peter's spine began to tingle more noticeably.
It almost felt like a vibration running through his bones.
Then the chanting grew louder still.
A purple aura began to resonate from Peter.
From every crewmember.
At the same time, a toxic green aura began radiating from the ancient man.
The purple aura slowly rose above the ship.
Higher.
Past the sails.
Near the top of the mast, it began expanding.
Stretching thinner and thinner until it was barely visible.
The chanting became a yell.
Peter's eyes widened.
His lips were moving.
He wasn't controlling them.
He looked around.
Everyone else's lips were moving too.
The aura began to condense.
The purple and green energy mixed together, swirling into a massive cloud above the ship.
The water surrounding them began glowing the same sickly green.
Then-
THUD.
Something struck the side of the ship.
Another.
THUD.
Another.
The chanting echoed through the sea.
The aura cloud began spinning rapidly.
Faster.
Faster.
Until the entire mass of energy was pulled inward.
Condensing.
Compressing.
Until it became a small ball of energy no bigger than an Applemelon.
Peter stared.
Then something moved.
Along the sides of the ship, boney fingers gripped the railing.
Skulls appeared over the edge.
Skeletons climbed onto the deck.
The ancient man's arms suddenly shot toward the sky.
His voice broke through the chanting.
"CALAMITY!"
His hands slammed into the deck.
The ball of energy followed.
It crashed into the corpse's chest.
The massive scar running down the Butcher's body began glowing.
Purple.
Then green.
His eyes opened.
They glowed purple.
Then green.
Then returned to normal.
The ancient man began fading away.
His body dissolved into a sickly green aura.
Then-
He was gone.
The ocean returned to normal.
The skeletons collapsed.
Their bones scattered across the deck before falling into the sea.
Then silence.
Complete silence.
Then...
CHING.
The sound of a chain.
A slight groan followed.
The corpse moved.
A hand slowly rose and covered one eye.
The Butcher stared down at his other palm.
His fingers flexed.
Then-
With terrifying speed-
his head snapped upward.
He laughed.
A deep, manic laugh that echoed across the ocean.
"Alexander..."
His grin widened.
"Rayez..."
His eyes burned with something almost joyful.
"I'm coming for you!"
