Jhon stepped forward, boots crunching against broken bones and shattered weapons. Ghur'Zir whimpered beneath him, dragging his crippled body forward inch by inch. But Jhon wasn't in the mood for mercy.
With a sharp stomp, he drove his heel into the goblin king's back, forcing him to the ground. Ghur'Zir let out a choked cry, his twisted fingers clawing at the dirt.
"Still trying to run?" Jhon sneered, leaning down, his voice dripping with mockery. "Pathetic. You were a king once, weren't you? Look at you now. Nothing but a crawling insect."
Ghur'Zir spat a curse in his native tongue, but the defiance in his eyes was dimming, replaced by sheer, naked fear.
Khaltar stepped closer, looming over the broken goblin. "End it, Jhon." His voice was firm, carrying the weight of command. "He doesn't deserve another breath."
But Jhon only smiled, shaking his head. "No." He bent down, grabbing Ghur'Zir by the scruff of his tattered cloak, forcing him to look up. "He doesn't deserve a quick death. Let him crawl. Let him suffer."
Khaltar exhaled sharply but didn't argue. He knew Jhon's kind of justice. Cruel, poetic, and fitting.
As they stood there, a Silver Axes warrior approached, blood still fresh on his armor. He saluted briefly before speaking. "We found something, my lords. A cave, tucked away in the ruins. And inside..." He hesitated, as if the words refused to come. "You should see for yourselves."
Jhon and Khaltar exchanged a glance before following the warrior toward the cave. The air grew thick with something unnatural, something wrong.
At the entrance, the stench of blood and decay hit them like a wave. But what lay beyond was worse. Three creatures. Shackled. Twisted. Once men, now something else.
In the dim torchlight, Ismara the Veil shifted, her form no longer entirely human. She had become a shadowy desert wolf, her sleek, spectral body flickering like a mirage, as though reality itself struggled to contain her presence. Her eyes, still sharp, still aware, locked onto them with an unreadable expression.
Beside her, Vekram the Stormcaller laughed—a hyena-like beast, massive and crackling with raw energy. His fur sparked with electric currents, his laughter distorted, unnatural, tinged with madness. His chains rattled as he moved, but even bound, he seemed to revel in some private joke.
And then there was Dhalmok the Black Brand. A monstrous sand-colored mastiff, hulking and scarred. The runes carved into his flesh pulsed faintly, glowing with a cursed light that sent shivers down Jhon's spine. His breath was slow, measured, the last remnants of his humanity flickering like dying embers.
Khaltar exhaled, taking a step forward. "By the gods…" He looked at their chains, at the torment in their eyes. "They were pets. Captains of the Sand Surfers, reduced to this."
Jhon clenched his jaw. They had seen too much suffering today. This... this was too much. "No more." Jhon reached for his axe.
Khaltar nodded. "No more."
With a swift strike, the chains fell away. The three creatures stood still for a long moment. Then, Ismara lifted her head to the sky and howled—a haunting, mournful sound. Vekram chuckled darkly, shaking out his fur, sparks flying in all directions. Dhalmok merely lowered his head, breathing deeply, free for the first time in gods knew how long.
As Jhon and Khaltar stepped back, the three turned to face them. The shifting came slow, painful. The sounds of cracking bones and stretching flesh filled the cave as Dhalmok and Vekram shed their monstrous forms. The transformation left them kneeling, breathless, their bodies slick with sweat. Even in human form, scars and burns marred their skin—permanent reminders of their torment.
Dhalmok, tall and broad, his once-inked skin now covered in faded runic scars, rubbed his wrists where the chains had bitten deep. Vekram, always the thinner, wiry one, brushed a hand through his tangled hair, static energy still crackling along his fingers.
Dhalmok exhaled sharply. "You saved us." His voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. "Though it seems meaningless now."
Jhon frowned. "Meaningless?"
Vekram scoffed, shaking his head. "The Sand Surfers are gone." He clenched his jaw, his usual smirk absent. "Every last one. Our men, our mutants, all of them slaughtered by orcs. And we…" His fingers twitched, his tone bitter. "We were left alive, not as warriors, but as pets."
A long silence followed. Then Khaltar spoke, stepping forward. "A warrior without a people is still a warrior. Join us." His voice was steady, commanding. "You're free now. Fight beside us. Let your vengeance have meaning."
Dhalmok and Vekram exchanged glances. The weight of their loss was heavy, but the fire in their eyes wasn't entirely gone.
But before they could answer, Jhon's gaze drifted to the back of the cave. Ismara. She had not shifted back.
Her spectral form lingered in the shadows, her body still that of a sleek, shadowy desert wolf. But she was trembling, ears pinned back, her luminous eyes darting between them. Fear. Shame. Something else.
Jhon took a slow step forward. Then another. He crouched, his voice soft but firm. "It's done, Ismara. You're free."
She stepped backward. Jhon paused. He had seen warriors broken before, but this was different. This wasn't just pain. This was something deeper.
Behind him, Dhalmok exhaled sharply. "Jhon. A word."
Jhon hesitated, then rose and followed Dhalmok to the side.
When they were out of earshot, Dhalmok spoke in a hushed whisper."She… she is ashamed." He swallowed, glancing toward Ismara, who remained still in the darkness. "She regrets everything. She won't shift back because she doesn't want to face you. Face us." He hesitated before continuing. "She's pregnant."
Jhon felt his chest tighten. A slow, sickening realization settled over him. Khadag. That bastard. Jhon's fists clenched, his breathing slow and measured. "He turned her into a slave."
Dhalmok nodded grimly. "For days." His voice held no emotion, only quiet acceptance of the horror they had all endured. "She carries his child."
Jhon turned, looking at Ismara once more. Still in her wolf form, still unwilling to face them. He understood now. To her, this was not freedom. This was just another kind of cage.
The horizon stretched endlessly, a wasteland of death and silence. The stench of rot hung thick in the air, carried by the wind across the battlefield littered with corpses—orcs, goblins, Silver Axes, all turned into lifeless remnants of war.
Jhon exhaled, his breath heavy. This was no victory. It was survival. Turning to Khaltar, he spoke, his voice quiet but firm. "Regroup. We head back to Sol-Minora."
It didn't take long. What once had been a proud, unstoppable force of 23,500 warriors had been reduced to 83.
Eighty-three battle-worn Silver Axes, men too stubborn to die, too hardened to mourn—yet.
They moved in silence, gathering what little remained. There were no songs of triumph, no cries of celebration. Only the hollow sound of boots on scorched earth.
At the shore, Leviathan awaited. The mighty warship, once part of a grand fleet, now carried the last of them. The other ships, abandoned, left behind in Sol-Mayora—remnants of a force that would never sail again.
Standing at the docks, Dhalmok, Vekram, and Ismara watched them go. They had chosen to stay behind, guarding what little remained of this cursed land.
Jhon looked at them one last time. No words were spoken. There was nothing left to say. He raised a hand in farewell. Then, from the shore, a long, haunting howl rose into the sky.
Vekram. Then Dhalmok joined. Then Ismara—her spectral form still lingering, her voice a ghostly echo across the sea.
The Silver Axes did not weep. They did not bow their heads. But as Leviathan drifted away, carried by the waves back to Sol-Minora, their silence held the weight of everything they had lost.
Jhon sat at the edge of the ship, his boots hanging just above the shifting waters below. The sea stretched endlessly, its surface a mirror reflecting the bloodstained sky. His eyes drifted upward, lost in the vastness above—the stars, the clouds, the empty sky that had watched them kill and die.
A shadow loomed beside him as Khaltar and Yaraq lowered themselves onto the deck, settling beside him. For a while, none of them spoke, just staring at the horizon where the sea met the void.
Then, Khaltar broke the silence. "What are you thinking about?"
Jhon smirked, a tired, almost amused expression crossing his face. "I don't know." He exhaled, shaking his head. "I even lost count of the days."
Yaraq let out a low chuckle, his voice rough from age and battle. "Then perhaps it is time to start counting again."
Jhon scoffed, rubbing his face with his hands. Did it even matter?
Khaltar leaned back against the railing, his gaze fixed on the dark horizon. "Sol-Minora will be different when we return. We left as warriors. We return as ghosts."
Jhon didn't answer. He simply looked up again, at the sky that held no answers. For a moment, there was only silence. The wind howled through the sails, the sea whispered against the hull, and the weight of everything they'd lost hung heavy in the air.
Then, Jhon suddenly straightened. He turned toward Yaraq, his eyes alight with something unreadable. "This ship… does it have a lifeboat?"
Yaraq raised a bushy brow, caught off guard by the question. "Only a small one," he muttered. "Inside the left-wing deck."
Before anyone could react, Jhon shot to his feet and sprinted across the deck.
"Jhon!" Khaltar barked, his stomach twisting in panic. "You can't be serious!"
But it was already too late. From the left wing of the Leviathan, a lifeboat launched forward, splashing into the dark waters below.
And there, standing atop it like a madman, was Jhon Rackham—his coat whipping in the wind, his laughter ringing out over the waves. He gripped the rope of the sail, his wild grin gleaming under the starlight. "This is the adventure I wanted!" he roared, his voice carrying through the salty air.
Then, with a deep breath, he threw one arm forward, as if commanding the sea itself. "Because I am Captain Jhon Rackham!"
The Leviathan drifted onward, but Jhon's tiny lifeboat veered off into the unknown, carried by the restless tides. Khaltar could only watch, a mix of frustration and admiration burning in his chest.
Yaraq sighed, shaking his head. "Damn fool."
But even he couldn't help the small smirk that tugged at his lips.
Yaraq stood at the edge of the Leviathan's deck, his gaze locked on the small lifeboat fading into the vast horizon. The sea swallowed its shape little by little, until it was nothing more than a speck against the restless waves.
He exhaled sharply, rubbing his jaw. "Where the hell does he think he's going?"
Khaltar, standing beside him, watched in silence. For a moment, it seemed like he wouldn't answer. Then, with a small, knowing smirk, he muttered, "Who knows?"
He crossed his arms, his eyes never leaving the spot where Jhon had vanished. "Maybe he's going back home. Maybe he'll end up stranded on some faraway land, just like he did in Sol-Mayora in the first place."
Khaltar let out a short chuckle, shaking his head. "Perhaps he'll never stop at all. After all…" He turned to Yaraq, his smirk deepening. "Who could say where an adventurer like Jhon Rackham might be stopped?"
The wind howled around them, carrying Khaltar's words into the endless sea. And somewhere beyond the waves, Captain Jhon Rackham sailed toward his next great story.