The salt spray kissed my face, a familiar sting that always dragged me back. Back to the screams, the flames, the day the black sails stole my childhood. Six years old. A lifetime ago, yet the phantom scent of burning wood still clung to my memories.
The laughter of my friends… gone. The smell of Mama's cooking… gone. The gentle lullaby of the waves… replaced by the guttural roars of those… those monsters.
I remember the terror, a cold fist clenching my small heart. The black flags, skull and crossbones mocking the clear morning sky as they grew larger, closer.
"Papa, what are those?" I had asked, tugging at his worn fishing tunic, pointing a trembling finger.
His smile had vanished, replaced by a grim line around his mouth. "Pirates, Lazarus. Go inside, now. Go to your mother."
His voice, usually so warm and comforting, was tight with fear. I didn't understand then, not really. Pirates were just stories, weren't they? Scary tales to make children behave.
But they weren't stories. They were real. And they were here.
The chaos erupted like a storm unleashed. Shouts ripped through the peaceful air, the clash of steel a horrifying symphony. Our wooden gates splintered under the force of their attack. I huddled with Mama behind the flimsy table, her arms wrapped tightly around me, her body trembling.
"It's going to be alright, Lazarus," she whispered, her voice shaking, tears welling in her eyes. But her gaze held a fierce protectiveness, a mother's unwavering love even in the face of death.
Then, the door burst open. A hulking figure stood silhouetted against the fiery glow outside, a rusty cutlass dripping crimson in his hand. His eyes, wild and greedy, swept over us.
"Well, well, what have we here?" he growled, a cruel smile twisting his lips.
That face… I still see it in my nightmares. The glint of his gold tooth, the scar that bisected his left eyebrow…
Mama screamed, pushing me behind her. "Leave us alone! We have nothing!"
He laughed, a harsh, grating sound. "Everyone has something, little woman. And we'll take it."
I squeezed my eyes shut, burying my face in Mama's skirt, the scent of her familiar perfume a last vestige of safety. Then, a sharp cry, a sickening thud. The warmth of her embrace vanished.
No… Mama…
I don't remember much after that. Just the screams, the flames licking at everything, the overwhelming smell of blood and smoke. I was running, stumbling through the burning wreckage of my home, the faces of my neighbors – old Man Alex, little Tilea with her bright ribbons – flashing before my eyes, contorted in pain.
Then, strong arms lifted me. A gruff voice, edged with authority, cut through the din. "Marine here! Secure the perimeter! Is anyone else alive?"
I clung to the blue uniform, my small body wracked with sobs, unable to speak, unable to comprehend the enormity of what had happened.
"Poor lad," another voice murmured, gentler this time. "He's seen too much."
I was taken aboard their ship, away from the burning remnants of my life. Away from everything I knew.
The orphanage was a cold place, despite the well-meaning intentions of the Marines. Rows of identical cots, the air thick with unspoken grief. Children with hollow eyes, mirroring the emptiness in my own chest.
"Another one?" a wiry boy with a bandaged arm asked, his voice flat.
A kind-faced woman with tired eyes nodded. "This is Lazarus. He… he lost his village."
The boy just stared at me, his gaze knowing, understanding. "Pirates?"
I could only nod, a lump forming in my throat. What words could describe the horror?
He knew. They all knew. Each child here carried their own invisible scars, their own tales of loss and terror.
I saw a little girl huddled in a corner, clutching a tattered doll, her eyes vacant. They said pirates had taken her entire family as slaves. A younger boy flinched violently when a door slammed, a raw wound on his cheek a permanent reminder of a pirate's blade.
One evening, as we sat in silence during a meager meal, the wiry boy spoke again. "They… they killed my father. Took everything we had." His small fists clenched on the wooden table.
"They burned our farm," a girl with tear-stained cheeks whispered. "My mother… she tried to fight them…" Her voice trailed off, choked with emotion.
Their pain… it was a mirror reflecting my own. But it was also something more. It was a shared burden, a collective wound inflicted by the same cruel hand.
That night, lying on my hard cot, staring at the ceiling, the vow formed. It wasn't a shout, but a silent, steely resolve hardening within me.
I will not let this be for nothing. Their deaths… my loss… it cannot end here. I will find them. All of them. Every single pirate. And I will kill them all.
I closed my eyes, the faces of the orphaned children filling my mind. The vacant stare of the little girl, the flinch of the scarred boy, the tear-streaked cheeks of the farmer's daughter.
I swear… I will find every last one of them. Every single pirate who preys on the weak, who steals innocence and leaves only ashes behind. I will hunt them down. And I will kill them all.
The years that followed were shaped by that vow. I trained with the Marines, their drills harsh, their discipline unyielding. But my own inner drive was fiercer. Every push-up, every sword swing, every lesson in strategy was fueled by the burning memory of that day and the unwavering promise I made.
"You've got fire in your eyes, Lazarus," a grizzled Marine captain once remarked, watching me during a particularly grueling training session. "What drives you so hard?"
I didn't tell him about the screams, the flames, the faces of the dead. I simply said, my voice low, "I will make the seas safe, sir. I will kill every pirate I find so no one else should suffer like… like they have."
This isn't just about revenge anymore. It's about them. It's about the children in the orphanage, their stolen futures. It's about the countless others who have fallen victim to these monsters. I will be their sword, and that sword will taste pirate blood.
The salt spray still stings, but now it's not just a reminder of loss. It's a call to action. The black sails may still appear on the horizon, but one day, they will be met with a force that will not yield, a force driven by the ghosts of the past and the burning desire to extinguish every single pirate life. My name is Lazarus, and I will not rest until every pirate draws their last breath.