Dobbs entered the captain's cabin and noticed a man absentmindedly scribbling with a pencil and feathered ink, while the captain had his leg propped up on the table, engrossed in a book.

"We completed a thorough search of the hold and found eight more casks of whale oil," Dobbs reported.

The man wearing old and rotting glasses glanced up at Dobbs, his annoyance evident. "Is that all? Our overall haul amounts to 500, and that's only if we manage to sell the cotton. Cameron has a broken arm, and Duffy got shot in the leg. Once we settle the injury compensations, each man will receive just under eight silver," he stated.

"Eight silver?" Dobbs replied somberly. "The crew won't be pleased."

"When are they ever?" remarked the man with his legs on the table.

Dobbs exchanged a glance with the accountant and let out a sigh as he approached the man. "Their discontent will increase if their rewards are meagre," he said.

The man removed his legs from the table, a hint of a smirk on his face. "Here, take a look," he said, handing Dobbs a book.

Dobbs examined the book, and his eyes gradually widened.

"Captain's log. It's all there," the man gloated, his smirk growing wider. "Andorra La Vella, Port Wisbech."

Dobbs stared at him, realization sinking in.

"I told you this was the ship," the man continued, now revelling in his triumph.

Dobbs discreetly glanced around, ensuring the accountant wasn't eavesdropping. "Where is the schedule?" he whispered.

"Minor setback," the man shrugged. "But we're getting closer."

Dobbs raised an eyebrow sceptically.

"Let me summarize this," he said in a hushed tone. "This is the fourth prize in a row from which the profits will barely exceed the expenses it took to win it. Simpleton's out there trying to convince your crew to torture that poor bastard of a captain simply 'cause he hasn't worked out how to get them to do it to you."

He paused, contemplating the situation. "But all is well because you've discovered that the elusive information we can't disclose exists on a page... that we currently don't have."

"Don't have yet," the man corrected.

Suddenly, the door swung open, interrupting their conversation. Dobbs and the man abruptly halted their discussion as a man wearing a brown, dirt-stained apron entered, holding bloody rags. "Mr Duffy is dead. I amputated his leg, but he lost too much blood," he announced solemnly.

A sombre atmosphere settled over everyone in the room as the man with the book, let out a sigh.

Everyone in the cabin was gripped by a heavy silence, the weight of the news settling upon them like a shroud. The man with the book ran a hand through his silky black hair, weariness etched on his face.

"We've lost another one," he muttered, his voice tinged with sorrow.

Just then a bell rang.

"Sail!" men shouted "Sail!".

The man and Dobbs rushed out of the cabin, as the man with silky hair pulled out his Nautical spyglass.

"Man-o'-war". Dobbs declared grimly.

"Royal Navy". The man replied "The Scarborough".

Dobbs whipped his head looking at the man, not the ship."Scarborough ports in Sacntum." he protested.

"Not today she doesn't, she's got the wind of us. Cut us loose. Get us underway."

The ship grew increasingly rowdy as Tommy Bones finished his tasks, leading Marcellus to a dark corner where an old man with scraggly grey hair sat, petting a cat.

Marcellus could hear the man whispering to a cat, "My Betsy."

Tommy approached the cat man and said, "Marco, we've brought on a new cook." He gestured toward Marcellus, who attempted a wave and a feeble smile.

Marco simply stared at Marcellus and Tommy bones, his eyes very faint.

"Marco, we were clear that this job was temporary, there's still plenty for you to do," Tommy said, exasperation lacing his voice.

Silently, Marco picked up a knife and began cutting something with exaggerated movements.

Tommy sighed, turning to Marcel.

"He'll be all right," he reassured him.

Marcellus's lips twitched, and he wanted to retort, It didn't seem like he was taking it well. It sounds like he's far from all right. I'd hate to wake up with a knife at my throat. However, he kept his thoughts to himself.

The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

"So both watches mess together at six bells. Don't be late. For any supplies you need, see Dobbs. He'll fund you out of the ship's maintenance account. One more thing. No one gets any special treatment from you of any kind; extra rations, no preferences in cuts of meat. Not for me, not for the quartermaster, not for the captain. Here, every man is equal." Tommy instructed, reciting the basic rules.

"All right?". he asked.

"Even him?" Marcellus attempted to lighten the tense mood with a hint of humour as he pointed towards Marco.

What happened next caught Marcellus completely off guard.

A sharp jab struck his jaw, rattling his brain, and he found himself on the floor. The pain was searing, but what astonished him, even more, was the disorienting nature of the blow.

It felt like the punch could have come from any direction, making him unsure if Tommy was the one who had hit him, despite knowing that Tommy had just thrown the punch.

Tommy Bones squatted down, bringing himself to Marcellus's eye level.

He spoke slowly, each word delivered with a deliberate charisma. "Marco was the ship's boatswain before he was nearly beaten to death during a prize capture. He lost his sanity, but not our loyalty. We trust Marco." He paused, the weight of his words hanging in the air.

"As for you, we'll see," Tommy continued, getting up as if about to leave, but then pausing.

"What is your name?" Tommy asked, his voice taking on a softer tone.

"I am Marcellus," Marcellus replied weakly, his head throbbing from the impact of the punch.

"I can tell that's your real name, but a pirate needs a pirate name. I'll call you Blackeye." Marcellus thought he detected a hint of a smile in Tommy's voice as he walked away.

Marcellus slowly picked himself up from the floor, and Marco handed him a potato along with a knife, sniffling softly.

Marcellus gingerly accepted the potato and the knife, observing Marco's teary-eyed expression. It was clear that Marco's mind had been affected by his past ordeal, leaving him trapped in a world of confusion and pain.

"Thank you, Marco," Marcellus murmured.

As Marcellus began peeling the potato, he couldn't help but reflect on his life and decisions. he wanted to head to The war to render merit and make something of himself, The boon was not a cause for this he had always had this plan. The 'dream' was just a catalyst.

The pirate name "Blackeye" given to him by Tommy Bones was a reminder of the realities he now faced—where violence and conflict could erupt at any moment. It was a name that would serve as a constant reminder to stay on guard, to remain vigilant and resilient.

As the last peel fell from the potato, Marcellus's thoughts returned to the crew. He silently acknowledged that he had overestimated his current capabilities.

The knight breathing technique he had acquired in his dream while empowering, would have been futile in a confrontation with these battle-hardened men. After all, he thought, these men fight for a living.

Marcellus acknowledged his current standing with a sense of realism, "I am still a second-rate warrior, after all."

He understood that the divide between a second-rate and a first-rate warrior often boiled down to a combination of skill and fighting spirit.

While he possessed the skill with a sword comparable to a first-rate warrior, he lacked the fighting spirit of a first-rate warrior or sword master.

He knew that a first-rate sword master could not only effortlessly don his battle aura but also have it manifest more robustly and tangibly, a testament to their higher level of mastery.

Naturally, this didn't mean he was not up to the task of fighting a first-rate warrior. Even in the stories of The knights and his squires, the knight wasn't always a knight; he had started as a squire too but was knighted after defeating a second-rate warrior.

In the Empire, tales of valour and chivalry were woven into the very fabric of society. Among these anthology stories, one stood out—the journey of a humble squire named Alaric, who would eventually serve under Ser Ansgar, a knight of unparalleled honour and renown.

Alaric began his days as a squire to Ser Ansgar, a seasoned female knight admired for her unwavering courage and dedication. Unlike some of her peers who sought personal gain, fame, or carnal satisfaction, Ser Ansgar was motivated solely by her lord's will and the duty to protect her people. Her commitment to honor and integrity set her apart in the knightly order.

Though Alaric lacked the experience and renown of his mentor, his heart brimmed with determination. He trained tirelessly, honing his skills with the sword and learning the codes of honor that defined knighthood.

One fateful day, a challenge arose that would test Alaric's mettle. A second-rate warrior named Borin had been causing unrest in a nearby village, his brashness leading to unnecessary conflicts. The villagers, desperate for peace, sought the intervention of the knights.

Ser Ansgar accepted the task; her lord's territory was neighbouring and sent her as a favour. Confident in her abilities and motivated by her duty to maintain peace, she set out to quell the disturbance. However, fate had other plans. During a skirmish with Borin, Ser Ansgar was gravely injured, leaving Alaric to face Borin alone. The young squire felt a surge of fear but remembered the teachings of his mentor. With steadfast resolve, he confronted Borin.

The duel was fierce. Borin's experience gave him an early advantage, but Alaric's determination and agility began to tip the scales. As the battle raged, Alaric saw an opening and disarmed Borin with a swift, precise strike. The disgruntled warrior lay defeated, his aggression quelled by Alaric's honor and skill.

Ser Ansgar did not survive her injuries due to the lack of proper medical care.

Word of Alaric's bravery spread quickly. The villagers celebrated his victory, and the ruling lord himself took notice. Recognizing the young man's courage and potential, the lord knighted Alaric on the spot, bestowing upon him the title of Sir Alaric.

From that day forward, Sir Alaric became a beacon of hope. His journey from squire to knight served as an inspiration to many, proving that true knighthood was not just about prowess in battle but also about the strength of character and the willingness to rise to the occasion.

However, as Sir Alaric's reputation grew, so did the attention and offers he received from the villages and nearby merchants. Some offered their wives and daughters, hoping he would teach their sons to fight as well as he did. Although his mentor Ser Ansgar was virtuous, she did not live long enough to guide him properly, leading Alaric into deeper vices. He would go on to become a legend remembered not only for his bravery but also for his lustful ways. It was even speculated that he only followed Ser Ansgar because he was attracted to her.

So it is that Alaric became a symbol of both bravery and lust.

However, Marcellus, a young "knight-in-training" needed to understand the true essence of bravery.

Even as a child Marcellus often pondered old stories to grasp the fundamental qualities that distinguished a true knight, a true warrior. this evening, rubbing his head he thought

> "In order to challenge a stronger foe, you have to be brave. It is a must—the very basic, non-negotiable for such ambition was bravery. But what is bravery, truly?"

From the back of his mind he heard a voice grunt "Bravery is the heart of the beast".

> The Heart of the beast.