1

They had killed Jonathan, their first and only captain until then. They had killed him all together, even those who had not been present, with their silence. Letting events take their inevitable course.

They had killed him because otherwise he would kill them, indirectly, leading them to destruction. It was just as if he had been driven by steering the ship against a cliff, finally losing his head.

But the reasons didn't matter.

It didn't even matter that he had risen from the dead shortly thereafter.

After that, Leonard, his right-hand man, had taken over by default. Disaster had been averted because this was someone everyone could accept. Rather, "can't be avoided," that kind of feeling.

And then Leonard had abandoned them.

To throw himself into Jonathan's arms and take his punishment. The right hand had lost his head, too. And soon it would literally be true, if it hadn't already happened to him.

But that didn't matter either.

When Leonard left, he thought the crew would be killing each other, fighting for power. That the disaster that had only been averted by Leonard's involvement would be unleashed.

It hadn't happened, though.

Perhaps they were closer than he thought. In any case, they had gone on their way, without exactly having a captain. A new leader. They discussed every move among themselves and maybe that was enough. For the time being.

Maybe they could recover from this.

Would it turn out to be one of the many things he had been wrong about recently?

Maybe it was stupid. A pirate should live day by day, rather than taking anything for granted. But Roland had hope for the future.

Almost but not quite two weeks after Leonard left them, they came upon a ship that looked abandoned in the middle of the waters. There was no one on deck, nothing to be seen or heard.

The ship showed no battle damage, but had most likely been plundered and emptied. Only it had not been burned, reduced to ashes carried by the current and the sea wind, as was the custom.

Still, they agreed to take a look instead of passing by. Just in case.

After all, pirates were carnivores by nature.

Roland didn't have a bad feeling. He wasn't expecting anything. It was a day like any other. Once his feet were on the other ship, as he looked around and the others descended to the lower deck, he began to think there was something strange about this.

"What are you thinking about?" August asked, patting him on the shoulder. Roland tensed.

Yes, he was too tense. No concrete reason. Just that...

"Isn't this the boat Leonard left on?"

August looked around. Clearly puzzled. He wouldn't say it, but like he was crazy. Roland clicked his tongue. If there was one thing he hated above all shit in this disgusting world, it was people not taking him seriously.

He was a nobody, but at least he had a right to be taken seriously.

"You're not overthinking this, buddy? We saw that boat for a minute at most. And it's not like there was anything special about it. No?"

Something distinctive. Something that stood out.

No, he couldn't say that that boat had anything like that. But he couldn't get it out of his head, anyway.

Roland shook his head.

"Maybe you're right. I don't know. I'm tired."

"We all are."

"What do you mean by that?"

"I understand. That's all."

Yes. Maybe it was just that and nothing more. Sometimes he jumped to conclusions. Life as a pirate hadn't exactly taught him to be patient. On the contrary, life was short and you had to make the most of it at all costs.

No matter—

The screams.

He heard blood"chilling screams from the lower deck.

Screams that were soon cut off.

What's going on?

Leonard couldn't have waited here just to try to kill them all, could he? First, it wasn't a fight he could win. It was a matter of numbers.

But he'd had many better chances, besides, and they hadn't parted on bad terms....

It didn't matter.

They were in danger. That was all he needed to know. Roland reached for his sword, drawing it. Along with others on deck, frightened, they approached the doors. What bound them, holding them together, wasn't warm things like family or friendship. It was survival. It sounded funny, but that's why they were moving forward instead of following natural instinct and running away, Roland thought.

Because they all knew, consciously or unconsciously, that none of them could survive whatever was on the lower deck alone.

That this was their only chance.

Still, Roland was in no hurry, not exactly the first to descend those stairs. Traces of a slaughter quickly came into view. Lines of blood on the walls, entrails hanging from the ceiling. A hellish scene everywhere he looked.

And the screams. Even if one died, there were others rising steadily.

His hands were shaking.

Roland couldn't help but wonder if this was worth it, though something told him he would have even less chance of survival if he turned and ran, as his heart was screaming for him to do.

Finally, all the screaming stopped. Ceased before they saw anything. And they saw it, yes, they finally got to the source of the noises, they finally saw something more than traces.

Roland wished he hadn't. He wished the room was dark enough to see nothing.

Unfortunately, a torch in the corner offered more than enough illumination.

Over the pile of corpses to one side, many in pieces, though it wasn't such a chaotic mix that he couldn't make out too much. More than enough to make his guts churn. To make the soul scream.

Roland saw someone's brains spilling out of a crack in the head. He saw someone so disfigured that he was impossible to recognize; where his nose had once been there were now only two holes, and blood was running unabated.

He saw one who almost appeared to be smiling there, and he was missing a few teeth.

He saw an arm broken in two, a head at the end of a thick trail of blood, staring at the ground with wide eyes. As if his death had come too quickly for him to feel anything more than shock and awe.

The torch also shone its light on the corpses at the feet of the person, no, the monster in the center of the room.

On the poor bastard he had by the head, cracked like a melon against the wall.

Over not one but two people impaled on his sword.

The whole thing was an image straight out of hell itself.

Ronald was no good man. He was used to death: to dispense it, to witness it and to feel it pass close by. That was what his life was all about.

Yet, watching this, he practically felt his sanity slipping away.

And the perpetrator of this massacre, the center of this disaster, was...

"Captain?" Someone dared to cut through the silence, finally, it must have only been a few seconds since they had entered the room, but it had taken forever.

Whoever spoke wasn't referring to Leonard, of course.

But the man they had betrayed months ago. Jonathan, the one who hadn't let even death stand in his path of revenge.

Numerical advantage had been of no use to dozens before them. And it wouldn't do them any good now either.

It was a fight they had been unable to win from the start.

You can't beat someone who couldn't die. So it was over. Not even the desire to survive could bind them now, quite the contrary. This was too much.

Ronald turned and ran, screaming at the top of his lungs.

As if he had been waiting for a signal, Jonathan sprang into action. He didn't look back to check with his own eyes, he wasn't that crazy, but he heard enough. His sword slicing through the air, the impaled men, sure enough, flying along with another good spurt of blood created as the blades exited their bodies.

Hearing it was enough for him. He didn't want to see any more of this nightmare.

It had all been a mistake. A terrible mistake.

Not just today, from the beginning, everything had been a mistake. They should never have...

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Ronald reached the main deck, out of breath. He hadn't run that far, but he couldn't breathe properly. Fear was holding him back. They were like pincers, squeezing his ribs against his lungs, his heart.

He was barely able to stand it.

Ronald doubled over hard, ready to vomit. But the contents of his stomach stayed where they were. He simply felt sick.

He had gone out on deck, but that didn't mean he was safe.

He had to get back to the Red Eagle. And...

And he felt sorry for the others, but they had no choice but to leave them behind and get the hell out of there. Otherwise not one of them would survive. Not one.

He couldn't breathe, that was all he could think about as he climbed over the railing and jumped to the other ship. To his boat.

Not very well, though.

The boats were a little too far away, or else it hadn't gone well because of the panic, either way, he didn't make it to the other side like he wanted to. But at least he landed on the hull of the ship and clung on where he could. Now he just had to climb.

Find handholds and footholds.

The gunports on the lower deck were just about the only place he could support himself, in this position.

And not even very well. If only they had pulled the cannons out, but the windows were still closed. A mistake. Nothing but a mistake. He kept repeating the same thing over and over again inside. And Jonathan didn't care about that. One mistake is enough. There's no going back.

"Help me! For the love of the Gods, I'm here, you've got to help me!"

Why was it so... so... so...?

Try as he might, he seemed to be making no progress. The deck wouldn't come an inch closer. He knew how to climb. Any pirate had to know how. This should be a piece of cake, so why wasn't he able to get close?

And why weren't they helping him? Why were they just standing there, watching?

"Help me! Please, somebody give me a hand! I don't want to die!"

Why were they just watching?

Why couldn't he, no matter how hard he tried...?

Someone gave him a hand.

Wait, no. No one had grabbed his hand, but he felt... a pressure on his... ankle... Rather, that fact finally penetrated the haze of his panic. He hadn't noticed. He hadn't wanted to notice.

He looked down.

There was something there.

It certainly couldn't be described as someone. It had once been a human being, but here and now half of its face was gone, and yet it was still moving forward.

It was grabbing his ankle, pulling him down into the depths of the sea. And it was not alone.

From the waters more and more things emerged, each bearing fatal wounds in different places. Some more obvious than others, but all of them shouldn't even be able to move, let alone climb the hull.

So it's true, he thought with extra calm. Jonathan has an army of dead. And if I die, right here, right now....

Until he was done using and destroying him, he'd be such a thing, without spirit or will. That thought destroyed the strange calm that had gripped him, which was as if he were suddenly watching this situation from far away: a dream, or something that had nothing to do with him.

Death was very real.

And not being able to know peace even after death... it was unthinkably terrifying, but the truth was staring him in the eye, now.

"By the gods, help me! Whoever! I'll pay! I'll pay, I don't want to die like this!"

Finally someone took a step forward. He held out a hand to him, standing on tiptoe and bending over the railing. Not taking too many chances. So his fingers couldn't reach him. But at least he'd made the attempt, and he was almost there, just a little more and his hands would come together and he could pull him, just a little more and....

Pain.

Pain on a scale he'd never known before.

Nor would he ever know again.

Before he knew it, he was in the water.

Surrounded.

He couldn't go anywhere.

Leg...there was nothing left, from ankle to knee.

It was in the mouth of a person he knew. Being crushed.

He remembered his face, but the name escaped him.

He couldn't think.

The pain was too much to think of anything.

Surrounded.

Surrounded by beings that weren't human.

Without even remembering his name, he wished he could die before he was caught, to escape the pain.

He wasn't so lucky.

He was devoured and his blood fed the water.

2

Jonathan emerged onto the deck.

His army of dead hadn't doubled in size, but it had still grown considerably along the way. And he felt good.

In fact, he felt like he was on top of the world.

Full of energy. Of power.

His power seemed to grow with every person he killed and joined his ranks. He didn't care if he was intoxicated with the high of revenge after months of seeking it or if it was a real feeling after all. It made no difference at that moment.

The important thing was...

That it wasn't over.

The survivors, of which there couldn't have been many, were trying to flee in the Red Eagle. Jonathan had come all this way, looking for them, to finish what they had started. For revenge. And for the soldiers.

All that was true.

But also for the ship.

He wouldn't let them take it.

He ran.

Jonathan climbed over the railing, still running, and jumped. The boats were so far away that the ones he had left behind would not be able to follow him. But he was all right.

He could manage on his own, if he had to.

But he wasn't alone.

He'd left a few underwater. Waiting for the right moment. They didn't need to breathe, after all. He landed on the deck of his ship, the ship he had called home for so many years and the crew he had seen as a kind of family.

Who knew that, in the end, he would be the one to destroy it all with his own hands.

Though he supposed it made sense.

Jonathan had raised them, after all. Who else had the right to tear it all down?

While he was in his own world, someone ran a sword through him. He looked back at him. Jonathan recognized his face, even his name. He always made sure to learn the names and faces of his crew, after all. He believed it was the least a good captain had to do.

But what did it matter, what difference did it make what his face or what his name was?

Jonathan smiled sweetly.

Then he reached out a hand. Brushing his cheeks. Down to his neck...

Which he snapped, turning it a hundred and eighty degrees with a casual movement. The corpse fell and the sword in his already stiff hands fell with it as well.

Jonathan pulled the sword out of his body with the same hand with which he had broken its wielder's neck.

Who was already rising, like the others.

"Please... Please, captain! What did you want us to do? You're alive. You're alive, so..."

He cut off the head of whoever had dared to speak.

No. Beg.

And, like everyone else, he added him to his army. Of course. He had lost his head, but he had but to bend down and pick it up, putting it back on his shoulders.

In that instant, he began to grow flesh, sinew, even skin, everything he needed. Everything fell back into place.

So easy. So fast.

What had he been saying before he killed him?

Ah, yes. What could they have done?

No one seemed to understand that he knew... and he didn't care, because it didn't change anything. However, if he killed them all and added them to his army, then he could forgive them. All would be well again.

A clean slate.

Besides, they couldn't betray him again. So why not forgive them?

"There's no need to be afraid," Jonathan said. "None of you will die. You'll just be... in the middle."

But there was only shouting, more protests.

They didn't understand. Well, it wasn't as if he had expected them to stand still and let themselves be killed. Once they opened their eyes with a new life, all would be clear. By force.

Jonathan brandished his sword again.

3

Jonathan climbed the small stairs to the platform and turned to face the crowd. Normally, this place was used for speeches or executions.

Today it would be employed for both.

He allowed himself to look around, for a few moments.

It hadn't been that long since he had discovered what Adam had done and set off in search of the island. A few months, just a few months. Yet he barely knew Ils, his hometown, anymore.

As if he had been away for long years.

As if it had time to change somehow. His mind recognized that everything was more or less in place, but his heart felt like a stranger, walking these streets.

At least there was something that bonded him to the people of this city. And that was why he had come here.

From the square, the center of town, on a day when the market was full, he would send his message. Jonathan stretched his arms out to the sides.

"Attention!"

And so they did. He made himself heard even above the din.

But it wasn't just ordinary citizens who paid attention to him.

"Hey, get down from there!"

The city guard wasn't going to stand still, but that was okay. He hadn't come this far without a plan.

"My name is Jonathan. Jonathan Harker. Some of you may know me as a pirate, a dirty criminal. And that's true. But I'm also like you. A victim."

"I told you to get down from there!"

Jonathan looked at him, as he approached the platform.

"Shut your mouth. Right now."

One of his soldiers came up behind him, holding a knife to the guard's throat. Holding him back.

The rest of his soldiers, scattered around the square and mixed in the crowd, also revealed themselves to hold back the city guard. Until reinforcements arrived. But how would they arrive if they couldn't ask for them, if they couldn't even raise their voices without risking losing their necks?

Silence came quickly.

Now people were looking at him as if they were rats trapped in a cage.

It was inevitable that some would run away and others would follow suit, having broken their paralysis. But those to whom his message was addressed would not flee. They would not lift a finger. Of that he was sure.

Because he knew them.

"No... I'm not a victim. But my family... The Count tortured them, killed them and threw them at the pyre. Like so many of you. You have lost someone and you are angry, desperate. But I tell you, you don't have to bow your heads and accept that you aren't strong enough. You can take revenge. Whoever wants revenge only has to step forward... and die for me."

Jonathan raised a hand, the sign engraved on it glowing brightly. Predictably, someone broke into a run, fleeing in complete silence. A couple more screamed as they ran, fear blinding them to the point that they hit everything in their path, staggering.

"Of course, it's not a real death. I will raise you to join my army, which I will lead against the Count. I will give you the power to fight. And I can kill him. Because I am like him."

"That's not possible," stammered one of those closest to the platform.

That's why he could see in her eyes that she wanted to believe it.

Jonathan smiled.

And he unsheathed his sword. He didn't point it at the crowd, however, but turned it around. And raised it to the level of his chest.

"Let me prove it to you."

He plunged the sword into his own heart. If it could kill him, on the principle that only immortals could kill immortals, then the Count would have died centuries ago. He would surely have attempted suicide countless times.

Still, he supposed he was mad to do this himself, instead of looking for a safer alternative, such as having one of his own soldiers shoot him.

Jonathan died.

And, a short time later, he opened his eyes again. As if nothing had happened.

After awakening from the sleep of death, he found himself kneeling over a pool of his own blood. Jonathan pulled the sword from his chest, the wound closing quickly.

He raised his head, still smiling.

So many others had fled while he was dead.

But there were still so many left.

So many who were now looking at him in a completely different way. So many in whose eyes there was no longer the shadow of fear, but something that had nothing to do with it.

Jonathan stood up.

Soon after, a woman in the crowd took a step forward. The first person to do so. But not the last, he was sure. Too tempting.

He knew them well.

Because he had been them. And Jonathan was what they wanted to be.

"I'm already dead, anyway," the woman said, closing her eyes, putting herself at his mercy.

He stabbed her with the same sword he had killed himself with, and made her join his army. In full view of everyone.

Including the guards, still trapped.

"Together, we can kill that monster. We can put an end to that plague. Do you understand?"