Chapter 142: Skull Lords’ Pirates [1]

A satisfactory, calculating smile spread across Craig’s face at Annie’s affirmation.

His grand design to forcibly transform this luxurious passenger vessel into a bloody battlefield the exact moment it breached the territorial boundaries of the Creptun Ocean had officially been set into motion.

He knew the geopolitical reality of the world all too well: no pirate clan, no matter how bold, would ever dare launch an assault on a warship actively regulated and patrolled by the Rynchester Duchy while it remained within the heavily fortified waters of the Northern Ire Sea.

The open expanse of the Creptun Ocean, however, was an entirely different nightmare.

It was a lawless, untamed aquatic frontier. Geographically, there were a total of four massive oceans across the world map, and the Creptun Ocean held the unique, highly strategic distinction of being the sole oceanic highway that directly linked the southern landmasses to the Northern Continent.

Because of its sheer, impossible size, it was completely unmanaged by any single sovereign superpower, leaving its churning waters heavily dominated, extorted, and carved up by ruthless pirate factions.

Letting out a soft, contemplative sigh, Craig stepped closer to the trembling girl and gently patted Annie’s dark hair, offering a reassuring gesture to calm her frayed nerves.

"You did exceptionally well," Craig praised softly.

He paused, lowering his tone as he shifted the topic to her internal growth. "Tell me... are you actively preparing yourself mentally and spiritually for your upcoming ascension ritual?

The arduous trial required to finally break your bottleneck and ascend into the full Mana Master class?"

Annie swallowed hard, her shoulders stiffening.

She gave a slow, hesitant nod, her voice dropping to a fragile whisper. "I am trying, My Lord... but I am terrified. I have read the archival records of what the trial entails. I... I do not want to die. The psychological erosion sounds like a waking hell."

Hearing those shivering, fearful words, Ser Damian’s face instantly fell.

Standing nearby, the young enforcer abruptly clenched both fists so tightly that his knuckles turned stark white, and his teeth bit down hard against his lower lip until a thin bead of blood threatened to break.

Damian felt a suffocating wave of bitter helplessness wash over him; he knew, with agonizing certainty, that there was absolutely nothing he could do to shield her.

A Spirit Mage’s ascension was a deeply personal, spiritual crucible.

Annie had to face the terror entirely on her own.

Seeing the heavy despair weighing down his companions, Craig offered a calm, steady smile, injecting absolute confidence into his voice.

"Do not let fear cloud your focus, Annie," Craig comforted smoothly, his emerald eyes locking onto hers. "When the time comes, you will not walk into the dark alone. Once we reach our destination at the lawless city of Oman and stabilize our footing, I will personally step in and provide whatever arcane assistance and spiritual anchoring you need to survive the trial."

He straightened up, his demeanor snapping back from gentle mentor to cold tactician. "For now, that matter can wait. We must prepare ourselves for the unwanted visitors who will soon be knocking at our hull."

His lips curled upward into a dark, predatory grin as he uttered those chilling words.

Craig did not care in the slightest about the lives of the random civilian passengers packed into the lower decks, nor did he lose any sleep over the safety of the ship enforcers.

To him, they were nothing more than temporary props on a stage.

His absolute, singular focus remained fixed on a single objective: figuring out the true identity of Andres Mogulis and unmasking the clandestine organization pulling his strings.

If Andres was proven to belong to the ruthless tentacles of Hydra, Craig intended to subject him to a brutal, unyielding interrogation to strip every secret from his mind.

But if Andres was merely a disposable pawn tied to the Black Winter syndicate, Craig would kill him outright without a second thought, as the Black Winter were nothing more than targets on his eventual extermination list.

As evening descended, the massive black warship continued its silent, concealed voyage, cutting steadily through the calm, silvery waves of the Northern Ire Sea under the shroud of the First Layer Mage’s illusionary veil.

Inside Room 500, Craig sat alone in a sturdy wooden armchair, his legs crossed comfortably at the ankles.

The interior was quiet, lit only by a single glowing arcane crystal on the desk.

His gaze was entirely glued to the ancient, weathered parchment pages of the Soaring Sword Art manual resting in his lap.

He was already making steady, profound progress, slowly grasping the intricate, fluid mechanics of the manual’s first form.

If he could successfully master both the brutal offensive power of the Beast Blade Art and the hyper-mobile, ethereal grace of the Soaring Sword Art, his combat potential would skyrocket, granting him a terrifying arsenal of overlapping martial talents at his disposal.

Outside the heavy oak door, stationed as an unyielding sentinel in the corridor, stood Ser Hughway, making absolute certain that no passing crewman or disruptive passenger dared disturb his master’s concentration.

Meanwhile, Damian and Annie remained safely settled in the adjoining quarters of Room 501.

***

Far away from the tranquil northern waters, down across the baking, sun-scorched expanse of the Southern Gulf, a very different reality reigned supreme.

Deep within a hidden maritime pocket sat a terrifying expanse known as the home of the Skull Lords Pirates.

A sprawling, jagged island that struck dread into the heart of every merchant captain across the southern hemisphere.

The island itself was a nightmare carved out of black volcanic rock and choked by a dense, suffocating jungle of twisted, dark-leafed tropical trees.

Armed pirate sentries—men bearing jagged scars, crude tattoos, and missing limbs—patrolled the perimeter in aggressive packs, carrying blood-stained cutlasses and crude firearms.

Dozens of small, lightning-fast raiding ships and heavy galleys were crammed tightly into the natural stone harbor at the base of the island, their hulls stained with the dried blood of past pillaging.

Flapping heavily in the humid sea breeze above the fortified stone entrance of the island was the dreaded emblem of the syndicate: a crudely painted flag depicting a white human skull dripping with black blood over crossed cutlasses.

Everything about the sanctuary radiated a raw, visceral aura of dread and lawlessness.

Lining the primary jungle paths were rows of tall wooden poles, each one topped with human skulls picked clean by carrion birds, serving as a grisly warning to trespassers.

Down near the docks, newly captured prisoners—unfortunate merchants and sailors dragged ashore in heavy iron handcuffs from one of the incoming pirate raids—were being whipped and beaten mercilessly as they were dragged deeper into the island’s slave pens.

Dozens of powerful Superhumans were scattered haphazardly across the pirate encampment, drinking, brawling, and boasting of their kills.

Thick plumes of cheap, pungent tobacco smoke hung heavily in the humid air, mixing with the stench of cheap rum, roasted meat, and unwashed bodies.

Loud, obnoxious laughter echoed across the clearing, where a group of heavily tattooed pirates had dragged several captive women ashore from the Southern Continent, forcing them into crude wooden buildings to endure hours of horrific abuse.

Deep within the heart of the island, rising above the jungle canopy, stood a towering, foreboding stone-and-timber fortress that served as the inner sanctum of the pirate lords.

A young blonde woman dressed entirely in tight, sleek black leather was currently making her way through the damp, torch-lit corridors of the subterranean underground level.

As she walked, she was repeatedly subjected to the crude, hostile behavior of the roving pirate enforcers whose bodies were completely covered from neck to toe in intimidating tribal tattoos.

Some of the passing thugs smirked lewdly as she walked past; one reached out roughly to fondle her heavy, prominent breasts, while another slapped her tightly rounded ass with a heavy, calloused hand as she walked by.

Yet, despite the brazen harassment, the blonde woman’s expression remained utterly stone-cold and indifferent, as if she were walking through a room of lifeless statues.

Her physical assets were undeniable—possessing an exceptionally voluptuous figure with a sharp, lethal waist, heavy breasts, and a curvaceous lower half—but she treated the marauders with absolute disdain.

Ignoring their jeers, she navigated the winding subterranean stone corridors until she reached the heavily reinforced iron door of the inner command chamber.

Guarding the entrance stood two colossal, hefty brute enforcers wielding massive double-bitted battleaxes, their faces scarred and devoid of humanity.

The guards crossed their axes, blocking her path. One of them grunted roughly, staring down at her.

"Halt. State your business. Why are you disturbing the boss in the middle of his evening leisure?"

The blonde woman didn’t blink.

Her voice was flat, calm, and utterly devoid of fear. "I carry urgent intelligence straight from the outer maritime networks. I need to report directly to the boss."

The two brute guards exchanged a brief, skeptical glance before nodding slowly.

They pulled their heavy battleaxes apart and shoved the creaking iron doors open.

Stepping past the threshold, the blonde woman entered a massive, smoke-filled chamber lit by dim, flickering wall sconces.

Seated sprawling across a spacious, crimson-velvet sofa at the far end of the room was the undisputed tyrant of the Skull Lords—their infamous supreme boss.

Pirate Admiral Jinjutu Medvadas.

He was a menacing, heavily muscled brute with brown, unkempt hair and a thick, jagged leather eye-patch strapped tightly over his left eye, concealing a horrific combat scar.

Jinjutu wasn’t alone; the warlord was currently amusing himself, surrounded by four captive women from the southern lands.

One woman sat directly on his lap, giggling drunkenly; another draped herself over his right shoulder; a third massaged his left arm; while a fourth knelt on the floor between his boots, gently massaging his calloused legs.

Hearing the heavy doors shut behind the intruder, the one-eyed pirate lord slowly tilted his head.

He cast a sharp, deeply skeptical, and bloodshot gaze toward the blonde woman standing near the entrance, his good eye narrowing in annoyance at having his pleasurable evening interrupted.

"What is the meaning of this?" the Skull Lords boss growled, his voice rumbling like grinding stones as he shoved the woman off his lap with a rough backhand.

"Who gave you permission to barge in here and ruin my good time?" Jinjutu questioned.

The blonde woman didn’t flinch under his murderous glare. She maintained her icy composure, stepping forward and bowing slightly.

"Forgive the intrusion, Boss," she reported smoothly, her voice cutting through the thick haze of tobacco smoke. "I received an urgent, encrypted intelligence dispatch relayed from our scouting networks along the outer edges of the Northern Ire Sea."

The pirate lord grunted, resting his heavy hand on the pommel of a broadsword leaning against the sofa. "Speak. What kind of dispatch is important enough to interrupt my night?"

"A high-value prize has just slipped out of the northern ports," the blonde woman declared, a sharp gleam entering her eyes.

"A massive, concealed merchant warship carrying an illegal, unregistered cargo manifest of ten thousand barrels of refined alchemical oil is currently crossing the Creptun Ocean and heading straight toward the Kortyr Sea."

She delivered the final, intoxicating detail with absolute clarity:

"Their final stated destination is the lawless city of Oman. The shipping lanes are wide open... and the prize is ripe for the taking."