Chapter 8: The Chain That Binds the Sea
...
Grayport was calm in the early morning, its streets painted in gold by the rising sun. The fog that usually clung to the harbor had lifted, revealing a coastline lined with anchored trade ships and the creaking wood of marine patrol vessels. The air was filled with the distant clank of cargo and the occasional call of gulls.
Rylan Graves leaned against the stone balcony of the second-floor inn, watching the harbor come alive. His new boots were scuffed, his jacket loose, and a thin cut ran across his cheek from the last job. A reminder.
Behind him, Esdeath stood quietly, brushing her long hair with rhythmic grace.
"I've been thinking," Rylan said without turning around, "we're not going to get better chasing 20,000-berry drunks forever."
She didn't reply, not immediately. Then: "So you're ready to move up."
He nodded slowly. "The registry listed one yesterday. Muran Slate. Mid-tier pirate. Smuggling, harbor extortion, minor slave trade connections. Bounty's gone up to 85,000."
Esdeath's eyes narrowed faintly. "That's a step up. He has a crew. Trained, armed, smart enough to hold a territory."
Rylan turned. "That's exactly why we go for him."
They spent the morning gathering intel.
Slate had been seen near Harv's Landing, a fishing outpost about two hours south of Grayport by foot. He ran a racket there—extorting local fishermen, threatening small docks, using speedboats to move illegal goods between coves. He wasn't loud. He wasn't famous. But he was consistent. And that made him dangerous.
At a map shop, Esdeath circled a red mark near a coastline path. "He hides near a natural inlet. Easy to defend. Difficult to approach without being seen."
Rylan looked at the narrow road. "We go at dusk. Watch. Learn. Don't engage until I say so."
She gave him a single approving nod. "Now you're thinking like a hunter."
That afternoon, Rylan approached the registry again—this time not to turn in a bounty, but to update his own hunter profile.
The young clerk from last time glanced at him and frowned.
"You again."
"Don't look so disappointed," Rylan replied dryly.
The clerk adjusted his spectacles. "You're on the board now. Rank C, Tier 3. Still green, but people are noticing. Especially after Nix and Blacktooth."
Rylan leaned on the counter. "I need an update on Muran Slate."
The clerk hesitated. "Why him?"
"Because he's next."
With a reluctant sigh, the clerk handed him a dossier.
Target: Muran Slate
Crimes: Harbor extortion, smuggling, threatening Marine supply lines
Confirmed Kill Count: 4
Bounty: 85,000 Berries
Crew Size: Approx. 12
Last Known Location: Harv's Landing Coastal Inlet
Rylan tucked the paper into his coat and left without another word.
They left at sundown.
The road south was uneven, lined with tall weeds and jagged rock. By the time the stars blinked into view overhead, they were halfway up a rocky ridge overlooking the sea.
From their perch, they spotted it: Slate's small makeshift port, half-hidden behind a wall of dark trees. Torches flickered. Men patrolled the paths. A few boats bobbed in the shallow tide, each marked with a faded red slash on the bow.
"They're guarding the dock," Rylan said, using his spyglass. "Five men near the boats. Two at the watchtower. More inside that warehouse."
"Too many to take head-on," Esdeath replied. "But if we can bait them out…"
"I go down the main road. You cut off their exit. I'll pull them toward the crates."
"You'll be outnumbered."
"I've been outnumbered since day one."
She didn't smile. But her expression softened.
"Then let's begin."
The ambush unfolded fast.
Rylan stepped into view just beyond the torchlight, sword drawn. He shouted just loud enough to get attention—but not too loud to draw all of them.
"You boys charging tolls on fishermen now?" he said. "Pretty bold for cowards."
The guards cursed, sprinted after him.
Rylan ran—not far, just around a crate stack where the shadows deepened. He let the first attacker swing wide, dodged, elbowed the second, ducked, and used his blade's hilt to slam into a third's jaw.
That's when the air chilled.
Esdeath struck from the back, cutting off their retreat. A wall of ice burst up behind the dock. Water sloshed. A lookout shouted. More rushed in.
Slate himself appeared then—medium height, lean, with a face full of scars and a serrated machete.
"You again?" he growled. "You're the punk who took out Blacktooth?"
Rylan raised his blade. "No. I'm the guy who put him down."
Slate rushed him.
The fight wasn't graceful. Slate was vicious, relying on brute force and dirty strikes. Rylan barely blocked the first slash, took a shallow cut on his arm, and had to duck a wide hook.
Then he slid low, swept Slate's legs, and drove a shoulder into his ribs.
They rolled, slammed into a crate. Slate raised his blade—only to have it frozen solid by Esdeath's ice.
Rylan knocked him out with one clean strike to the head.
Hours later, Slate was dropped in front of the registry.
Unconscious.
Tied.
Cold.
The clerk stared down, stunned.
"You're... serious. You just brought in Slate?"
Rylan handed over the bounty report.
[Bounty Complete: Muran Slate]
[Reward: 85,000 Berries]
[EXP +220 | Gacha Token +1]
His name was moved again—now under Tier 2.
That night, Rylan sat on the windowsill again, cleaning his blade while Esdeath dried her boots beside the hearth. The storm outside had started just as they returned—nature applauding their timing with thunder and rain.
He spoke without looking up.
"I'm not trying to be famous."
"I know," she replied.
"I just want to be strong enough to survive. Make my own way. Prove that I belong here."
Esdeath's voice was quieter. "And yet... you are becoming known. Slate's capture will travel."
"Good."
He turned to her. "I want Gravik next. He's at 130,000 now, isn't he?"
"Yes. And dangerous. But not out of reach."
Rylan grinned, tired but focused.
"We hunt. We rise. One target at a time."
She stood. Walked toward him. Brushed the blood from his cheek with her thumb.
Then, softly:
"I'll always walk beside you."
And with that, the storm raged on—outside the window, and within Rylan's heart.
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