The news of the fourth commander's fall spread across the Land of Fire like a raging storm.
Shock turned into anger.
Pirates who once stood with pride now roared with fury. Weapons were drawn, voices rose, and chaos threatened to consume the island. The loss of the fourth commander was not just the fall of a leader—it was the fall of a symbol.
Then—
A deep, echoing sound cut through the noise.
The horn.
Long. Heavy. Commanding.
It silenced everything.
Every pirate knew what it meant.
The captain had spoken.
Without hesitation, the pirates began to gather at the fortress that stood at the heart of the island. Its towering walls cast long shadows as men filled the grounds below, their anger now replaced with anticipation.
All eyes turned upward.
There, standing upon the balcony, was the captain of the Fire Pirates.
He was a man built like a fortress himself—broad, imposing, and unmoving. A deep red coat draped over his shoulders, and beneath it stood a figure that radiated raw authority. His thick black mustache framed a face hardened by countless battles.
He did not shout.
He did not need to.
"The Pirates of Blood," he said, his voice carrying across the crowd, "have crossed the line."
A pause.
Then—
"It is time… to take revenge."
That was all.
But it was enough.
The crowd erupted.
What was once anger became purpose. Pirates rushed toward the docks, their movements driven by a single goal. Ships were prepared, weapons gathered, and within moments, the island transformed into a force of war.
The third commander, left behind to guard the island, took control with sharp efficiency.
And so, the war began.
A fleet of fifty ships set sail, cutting through the waters with deadly intent. The sea itself seemed to tremble beneath them.
They did not have to search for their enemy.
The first cannon fired before they even reached full formation.
It came from the horizon.
From the Pirates of Blood.
The attack was sudden and precise.
Explosions tore through the water as cannonballs struck their targets. Ships shook violently as the enemy fleet emerged, already prepared, already positioned.
They had planned this.
The battle erupted instantly.
Cannons roared. Guns fired. Steel clashed against steel as ships closed the distance. The sea turned into a battlefield of fire and chaos. Bodies fell into the water as cries echoed across the waves.
The third commander led from the front.
With overwhelming force, he tore through an enemy ship, his presence alone shifting the tide of battle. But even his strength was not enough to guarantee victory.
The Pirates of Blood were ready.
Their weapons were stronger. Their formations tighter. Their attacks relentless.
Slowly—
The Fire Pirates began to falter.
The enemy had chosen their moment perfectly. Dr. Deloom was nowhere to be seen. The fourth commander was gone. The balance had shifted.
Victory seemed within the Blood Pirates' grasp.
Then—
From the far edge of the horizon—
Something appeared.
A ship.
Dark. Silent. Unmoving.
It did not rush forward.
It did not fire.
It simply… arrived.
A ripple passed through both fleets.
Dr. Deloom.
The moment his presence was recognized, the battle began to slow. Cannons fell silent. Blades lowered.
No command was shouted.
Yet the war… stopped.
As if the sea itself obeyed him.
The ship remained at a distance, untouched by the chaos it had silenced.
Time passed.
The wounded were treated. The dead were counted. But no side dared to make a move.
Days turned into nights.
And still, the ship did not move.
Ten days.
Ten days of silence under the shadow of one man.
The captain of the Blood Pirates could no longer endure it.
"This is madness," he growled.
To stop now… was to lose everything.
Ignoring the unspoken command, he stepped out, ready to resume the attack—even if it meant defying Dr. Deloom himself.
But the moment he did—
His expression changed.
The sea had shifted.
Ships.
Dozens of them.
They surrounded the battlefield from every side.
The reinforcements had arrived.
The Second Commander.
The Fifth Commander.
And their fleets.
The Fire Pirates were no longer weakened.
They were overwhelming.
For the first time, hesitation appeared on the face of the Blood Pirates' captain.
Then—
"Retreat."
The order came, heavy and unwilling.
One by one, the ships of the Blood Pirates began to withdraw, disappearing into the horizon from which they came.
The war had ended.
Not with victory.
Not with defeat.
But with fear.
And at the center of it all—
A single unmoving ship, Dr. Deloom.
During this crisis, Henry too fought his best. He had no connections to these pirates, but stil something sparked him to fight.