On the eighth day of their relentless voyage, as the morning sun bled through the storm-laden sky, Jhon Rackham and his crew beheld the gates of the Silver Axes.
The ship drifted into the bay of Sol-Minora, a land unlike anything they had ever seen. The coastline was jagged and hostile, carved by centuries of battle and bloodshed. Towering cliffs loomed over the darkened sea, their bases riddled with bones half-buried in the sand—some human, some... not. The very air reeked of sweat, steel, and death.
But it was the gate that truly stole their breath. A colossal wall of black iron and jagged stone stretched across the bay, sealing off the land like the mouth of some insatiable beast. It was monstrous, a fortress designed to withstand not just siege but the very wrath of gods. The doors, forged from obsidian-black steel, stood over sixty feet high, each panel carved with grotesque murals of war. They depicted battles fought in oceans of blood, warriors splitting skulls with monstrous axes, entire villages put to the torch—all in the name of the Silver Axes.
At the gate's center, a massive silver sigil gleamed under the light. A battle-worn war axe, larger than a man's body, was bolted to the iron, its edges still stained with dried gore. Beneath it, a chilling inscription was carved in a brutal, angular script.
Jhon's men, once brimming with reckless brave, now stood frozen in eerie silence. Some clenched their fists, others muttered curses under their breath, but none dared to step forward.
"By the gods..." one of them whispered. "Are we even worthy to stand before this gate?"
Jhon tightened his grip on his sword hilt, his gaze unwavering. He could feel their fear—his own fear—gripping his chest like a vice. But fear was not an option.
They had come too far.
They had spilled too much blood.
They had one chance.
Taking a deep breath, he took the first step toward the gate. And the war drums from within began to sound. Athunderous roar of war drums echoed through the fortress walls. The sound was primal, a heartbeat of war, shaking the ground beneath Jhon's feet. The air vibrated with the deep, rhythmic pounding, as if the very gods of battle were calling forth their champions.
Then, they emerged. From behind the colossal gates, the warriors of the Silver Axes marched forward in terrifying unison. Black-skinned giants, their muscles carved like stone, their bodies marked with golden tribal tattoos that pulsed under the harsh light of Sol-Minora's sun. The markings were not merely ink—they glowed faintly, as if whispering of ancient power, of blood spilled for centuries in the name of war.
They carried two gleaming silver axes each, the metal so polished that it reflected the grim faces of Jhon and his crew. Their armor was minimal—some wore nothing but leather harnesses and thick belts, leaving their scarred torsos bare. They did not fear wounds. They did not fear death.
Jhon had seen warriors before. He had fought brutes, mercenaries, warlords. But these men? They were something else entirely. Predators.
The formation they took was flawless—a deadly crescent, locking Jhon and his crew in place, ready to strike. One step out of line, and they would be nothing more than dismembered corpses. No escape. No second chances.
For the first time since he set foot on this forsaken land, Jhon realized the weight of his mistake.
They would not win. Not here. Not against these warriors.
His men gripped their weapons, trembling despite themselves. The warriors of the Silver Axes did not move. They were waiting. Watching.
Jhon exhaled slowly. His mind raced. If he tried to fight, they would all die.
No. Not like this.
With a deep breath, he did the only thing that might keep them alive.
Jhon dropped to his knees.
His men gasped. A few hesitated, then followed suit, kneeling beside him.
Raising his hands in surrender, Jhon spoke with a steady voice, loud enough to carry over the war drums.
"We come not as enemies. We seek Torgo the Black."
No response. The warriors remained statues, their silver axes gleaming under the sun.
Jhon swallowed hard. One wrong word, and they were dead men.
"We come with a message—an opportunity. A chance to bring ruin to your greatest enemy."
The warriors remained still.
Then, from the center of their formation, one man stepped forward.
Larger than the rest. More tattoos. More scars. His eyes gleamed with something ancient. Something dangerous.
His voice was deep as thunder, heavy as fate.
"Speak of this enemy, outsider. And pray your words are worth your life."
The warriors of the Silver Axes didn't speak further. Instead, they moved in perfect formation, parting like a great tide, allowing the massive warrior who had addressed Jhon to step forward. His gold-inked eyes locked onto Jhon's, searching, judging.
Jhon knew hesitation would mean death. He took a breath and spoke.
"Iron Foot."
At that name, some of the warriors stiffened, their grips tightening around their axes. Good. They hated them just as much as he did.
Jhon's voice didn't waver as he recounted the night of slaughter. His men, butchered like cattle. Their screams still haunted him. He described the massacre, the cruelty, the way the Iron Foot warriors laughed as they tore through flesh, how they piled the bodies like trophies, drenching the sands in blood. He told them of his failure, his powerlessness.
Then he gave them the one thing that mattered most—information.
"I know where their newest camp is," Jhon said, his voice low but burning with rage. "At the shores of Sol-Mayora. It's within reach. You can take them before they move."
The warriors listened, silent as death.
"But I can't do it alone," Jhon admitted. "I need Torgo the Black."
The leader of the warriors studied him for a long moment, then finally spoke.
"Come."
Jhon and his crew were led through the colossal iron gates of the Silver Axes stronghold, a city of warriors and war-born. The very air smelled of blood, fire, and steel. The streets were lined with beheaded skulls impaled on spikes, their hollow eyes staring at them in eternal agony.
It was not a kingdom. It was a fortress of war.
Then, at the heart of it, stood the Throne of Bone.
Jhon's breath caught. Torgo the Black.
The warlord of the Silver Axes sat upon a throne carved from human and beast skeletons, fused together like a nightmarish monument. The skulls were polished, their hollow sockets glowing under the torches. Some were gold-plated, others cracked with age, all whispering tales of slaughtered foes.
And around him—women. They danced, their bronzed skin painted with golden dust, their naked bodies moving like flames. Their hands trailed over Torgo, fingers worshipping his skin, pressing their lips against his shoulders, his chest, his arms. Some sat in his lap, whispering words of devotion, while others knelt by his feet, rubbing scented oils into his scarred flesh.
He did not react. Torgo simply watched Jhon, his golden eyes piercing through the chaos like a god surveying an insect.
He was a monster of a man—taller than any Jhon had ever seen, with black skin stretched over a body of pure iron. His muscles were etched with countless scars, some deep enough to tell stories. His thick black beard was streaked with silver, braided with tiny golden rings taken from his enemies. Across his massive chest, a necklace of severed fingers hung, trophies of the fallen.
A conqueror. A warlord. A god among killers.
For a long moment, silence filled the chamber. Then, finally, Torgo the Black leaned forward. His voice was a low rumble, like distant thunder before the storm.
"You have my attention, outsider."
Jhon barely flinched as the helmet clattered at his feet, the hollow skull within rolling onto the cold stone floor. The torches flickered, casting eerie shadows across its cracked surface, the bone stained yellow with age, its jaw partially shattered from a final, brutal impact.
His eyes widened as he recognized the insignia engraved on the rusted iron helmet—a blackened boot stomping upon a skull, the unmistakable mark of the Iron Foot. It must belongs to Greythor Redbeard. Jhon's breath caught in his throat.
Torgo sat back, his massive arms resting upon the skull-adorned throne. His golden eyes glowed like embers, watching Jhon's reaction with amusement.
"You hunt a dead man, outsider."
Jhon slowly knelt down, picking up the helmet. The weight of it felt heavier than steel, like he was holding his revenge itself in his hands.
"Greythor…" Jhon murmured, barely able to process it.
Torgo grinned, flashing rows of sharpened teeth, a beast's smile rather than a man's.
"The King of the Iron Foot fell long ago, killed by hands not my own." He leaned forward, resting his thick fingers beneath his chin."But if it is vengeance you crave, then I have a name for you."
Jhon's grip tightened.
"Boris Thorson."
Jhon's stomach twisted. He had heard that name before—a shadow whispered in taverns, a specter lurking behind every Iron Foot raid. Boris Thorson. The new warlord of the Iron Foot.
Jhon stared at the skull in the helmet, the remains of a warrior he had sworn to kill, and realized the truth was far more cruel than he had imagined.
The son of Greythor had taken his father's throne, and now he sought vengeance upon the world that had slain his blood.
Jhon felt his pulse thunder in his ears as he looked up at Torgo.
"Then I'll kill him instead."
Torgo's grin widened, his sharp teeth glinting like those of a predator about to feast. His massive hand rested on the skull armrest of his throne, fingers tapping slow, rhythmic beats against the bone.
Then, with a deep rumbling chuckle, he leaned forward.
"Good," he rumbled. "You have fire, outsider. I like that."
His piercing golden eyes studied Jhon for a moment, measuring him—not as prey, not as an equal, but as something useful.
Then, he raised his hand.
"Men of the Silver Axes!" Torgo's voice boomed through the hall, shaking the very foundations of the fortress. "You will sail with this one. You will bring ruin to the Iron Foot."
The warriors standing around the chamber slammed the butts of their axes against the ground, the sound echoing like a drum of war.
A warrior stepped forward—taller than Jhon, his dark skin gleaming under the torchlight, golden tribal markings covering his arms and face. His braided hair was streaked with silver, a testament to his years in battle.
"I am Kalthar," he said, voice low and steady. "First Axe of Torgo. Your war is ours now."
More warriors followed behind him, ten in total, their silver axes glinting, their eyes burning with the thirst for blood.
Jhon smirked, feeling a familiar heat in his chest—the same burning fury that had kept him alive this long.
He looked back at Torgo and nodded.
"Then let's paint the sands red."
Thus they go to the docks. But, as Jhon and his comrades walked toward the docks, an eerie silence filled the air. The vast open waters of Sol-Minora stretched before them, calm and undisturbed, yet something felt off.
Jhon frowned. There were no ships. Not a single sail, mast, or hull in sight.
He turned to Kalthar, confusion etched into his face. "Where are your ships?"
Kalthar simply grinned, his golden-marked face illuminated by the dim torches along the rocky shore. He lifted two fingers to his lips and let out a long, piercing whistle that carried across the water and the sand dunes beyond.
At first, there was nothing.
Then, the earth trembled.
Jhon's stomach tightened as the deep rumbling beneath them grew louder. The waters churned, and suddenly, from beneath the rolling waves, six enormous beasts surfaced—colossal creatures unlike anything Jhon had ever seen.
Their massive, armored backs broke the surface, each one the size of a fortress, their sleek, muscular bodies built for both sea and desert travel. Their skin shimmered, a strange blend of obsidian black and iridescent silver, and their eyes—large, deep-set, and glowing faintly blue—held a strange intelligence.
Kalthar turned to Jhon and smirked. "You expected wood and sails?"
Jhon barely found his voice. "What in the gods' name are those?"
"The Shal'Thuun," Kalthar answered, reverence in his voice. "The Wind Devourers. Our ships, our war beasts. Faster than any vessel made by mortal hands."
Jhon's crew stared in awe. The creatures let out a low, resonating hum, their massive tails causing waves that lapped at the shore. Their broad backs were fitted with platforms and structures, built to accommodate hundreds of warriors. Harpoon launchers and mounted ballistae lined their sides, while long banners of blood-red cloth billowed from armored plating along their spines.
"Each one carries over a hundred men," Kalthar continued, pride thick in his voice. "They swim through the sea, dive beneath storms, and burrow through the sand like shadows."
Jhon couldn't help but let out a low, breathless chuckle. "Gods be damned…"
The sheer power of these creatures, the monstrous majesty they radiated—this was something beyond human craftsmanship. This was warfare made primal.
Kalthar stepped forward, resting a hand on the thick, armored hide of the nearest Shal'Thuun. The beast let out a low, guttural growl, as if acknowledging its master.
"Now," Kalthar said, turning to Jhon, "do you still wish to sail to war?"
Jhon grinned, his blood boiling with anticipation. "No," he said. "I wish to ride it."